Mickey was now hard-pressed for cash. The government had frozen access to the various safety deposit boxes he'd opened (under various aliases) across town. Worse, Mickey had to demonstrate to the court that the money for his defense was coming from legitimate sources. So Cohen sought out Marvin Newman, auctioneer to the stars, who in turn placed an ad in the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times trumpeting, "The Year's Most Interesting Auction... furnishings from the home of Mr. and Mrs. Mickey Cohen, Nationally Prominent Personality ..." More than ten thousand people showed up for the preview. The auction itself was something of a dud. Tuffy's mahogany bed sold for just $35. trumpeting, "The Year's Most Interesting Auction... furnishings from the home of Mr. and Mrs. Mickey Cohen, Nationally Prominent Personality ..." More than ten thousand people showed up for the preview. The auction itself was something of a dud. Tuffy's mahogany bed sold for just $35.

In truth, Cohen was in desperate shape. Sam Rummel, Cohen's longtime attorney who had delivered him from every previous legal sc.r.a.pe, was dead. Rummel's partner, Vernon Ferguson, was dying of brain cancer. Harry Sackman, Mickey's longtime accountant, had turned state's witness (though he did die suddenly of a [natural] heart attack before the trial began). In short, Cohen was going to trial utterly unprepared.

The trial began on June 4, with the prosecution a.s.serting that it would show that Cohen had spent some $340,000 between 1946 and 1948. To the press, Mickey displayed the old bravado, confidently predicting at the end of the trial's first day that he would "beat the rap." Perhaps he really was confident. But this time, Mickey misunderstood the odds. In previous cases, such as the one recently brought against Cohen and his minions in connection with the beating of the widow-robbing radio repairman Al Pearson, Cohen had been able to present himself as something of a Robin Hood (or plead self-defense). This time, his lavish lifestyle was on trial. To secure a conviction, all the U.S. Attorney's Office had to do was persuade jurors that Cohen had "willfully" avoided paying his taxes.

The prosecution's strategy for doing this was simple: parading witnesses before the grand jury to testify about Cohen's profligate spending in the late 1940s. All told, more than a hundred people were called. Furrier A. Lispey recounted delivering a $3,000 mink and a $2,400 marten cape to LaVonne. A maitre d' was brought in to recount a $600 tip. An Italian shoemaker was brought in to tell the jury about how he custom-made "two or three" pairs of shoes a week for Mr. Cohen at a cost of $65 a pair (and up). Bail bondsman Louis Gla.s.ser testified that Cohen's house and lot in Brentwood was worth a quarter of a million dollars. John O'Rourke, whose testimony in Miami before the Kefauver Committee had done so much to put Mickey in the feds' crosshairs, was also brought in to testify. He now claimed that Mickey had won between $60,000 and $70,000 from him in the past three years.

Perhaps the hardest to bear of all, though, was the prosecution's final witness-LaVonne's interior decorator. "This woman," Cohen would later rant, "who many claim robbed me of $40,000 or $50,000, got on the stand and finished me off exactly as the prosecution wanted the job done."

At the end of each witness's testimony, prosecutors added to a running chart of Cohen's spending. As the numbers climbed higher-Cohen's spending for 1947 added up to $180,000, a figure considerably higher than the $27,000 declared on his taxes-Mickey could feel the jury turning against him. His new attorneys seemed unable to stop the bleeding. Mickey tried to say that he'd lost large sums to O'Rourke in Miami as well, but O'Rourke denied it. He insisted that he never won more than a thousand dollars or so from Cohen. Attempts to a.s.sert that other expenditures had been reimbursed (and thus should not count as expenses that pointed to a large undeclared income) were likewise unsuccessful. Meanwhile, the prosecution produced evidence that Cohen had safety deposit boxes registered under fake names and stuffed with cash all over the city, Prosecutors portrayed them as further evidence of willful tax avoidance. Things were going so poorly for the defense that one day a reporter pulled Cohen aside and asked him if he knew what he was doing. The impression from the gallery, the reporter said, was that Mickey "was being thrown to the lions."

Cohen's mood darkened. His behavior became more erratic. The following day, a bailiff had to restrain Cohen when he lunged toward a Bureau of Internal Revenue agent. At other times, such as when he lingered to autograph copies of his old friend Jimmy Vaus's new book, Why I Quit... Syndicated Crime Why I Quit... Syndicated Crime (which Mickey had written the preface to), he was the preening Hollywood celebrity. (which Mickey had written the preface to), he was the preening Hollywood celebrity.

The smoking gun, however, came in the form of a net worth statement, signed by Mickey himself, that stated he had earned $244,163.15 in taxable income over a three-year period. Cohen felt blindsided. He'd never understood or paid attention to such things. Keeping him clean was Sackman's job. Instead, by getting Mickey to sign this statement, Sackman had virtually ensured a conviction. On June 20, the court reached their verdict. Cohen was found guilty of three charges of income tax evasion and on one charge of falsifying a Bureau of Internal Revenue net worth statement. A sentencing date was set for early July. Cohen's fate was now in Judge Ben Harrison's hands.

Three weeks later, Cohen returned to court. Judge Harrison began his remarks on a remarkably mild note. "Los Angeles must take part of the responsibility for what has happened to [Cohen]," the judge began. "He was permitted to operate here as a betting commissioner with what I think was the virtual acquiescence of law enforcement officials."

The judge then expounded on the "questionable environment" in which the "personable" gambler had been raised. He also noted the many letters he had received testifying to Mickey's good side, prompting the exasperated a.s.sistant U.S. attorney to interject that the proceedings risked becoming "a society for the admiration of the good qualities of Mickey Cohen." While acknowledging that Mickey had "been a good son to his mother," the prosecutor reminded the judge that "he is here for the bad things he did."

Judge Harrison shifted course, saying that he saw no prospect of Cohen resisting the temptation of easy money.

Mickey interjected. "Right now, I could go into the drugstore business in Arizona if the authorities hadn't stopped me," he said pleadingly. But Judge Harrison brushed this aside. Instead, he sentenced Cohen to a five-year prison term, to be served at the McNeil Island federal penitentiary off the coast of Washington State in the Puget Sound. He also fined Mickey $40,000 and ordered him to pay the government the $156,000 he owed in back taxes for the years 1946-1948, plus the cost of the trial itself, another $100,000.

Cohen was stunned. It was, he would later claim, "the only crime in my whole life of which I can say I am absolutely innocent."

A request for bail was denied. Instead, Cohen was sent immediately to the county jail. A game of cat and mouse began. Cohen's attorneys filed a series of motions requesting that their client be allowed to post bail pending a decision on his appeals request. In November, a federal judge ordered Cohen released on bail. But before he could be released, prosecutors succeeded in winning an injunction and then in overturning the order. If Cohen wanted to persist in appealing his conviction, he would do so from jail. In an effort to dissuade him from doing so, law enforcement authorities set out to make Cohen's life behind bars as miserable as possible. Federal authorities insisted that Cohen be held in isolation and denied access to any visitors other than LaVonne and his attorneys. Only one exception was made to the no-visitors rule and that was for the Rev. Billy Graham, who stood by the little gangster.

"I am praying that after Mickey Cohen has paid his debt to society, he will give his heart and life to Christ," Graham told Time Time magazine that summer. "He has the making of one of the greatest gospel preachers of all time." magazine that summer. "He has the making of one of the greatest gospel preachers of all time."

The feds' unsavory strategy to convince Mickey to drop his appeal request should have worked. To someone like Mickey, whose normal routine involved rising around noon, showering for an hour or so, and then changing into fresh (if not new) new) clothes and shoes, imprisonment wasn't just an ordeal; it was torture. At least, it should have been. But the feds had a problem: head jailer Charles Fitzgerald, whom Mickey would later describe as "a very good friend." Fitzgerald was a humanitarian. Under his supervision, Mickey had a way of gaining access to certain indulgences-multiple baths a day instead of just one a week, ready access to a good barber, fresh clothes, and food from outside. Cohen also found ways to exercise his innate talents: Rumor had it that he was running a variety of gambling rackets from the inside. clothes and shoes, imprisonment wasn't just an ordeal; it was torture. At least, it should have been. But the feds had a problem: head jailer Charles Fitzgerald, whom Mickey would later describe as "a very good friend." Fitzgerald was a humanitarian. Under his supervision, Mickey had a way of gaining access to certain indulgences-multiple baths a day instead of just one a week, ready access to a good barber, fresh clothes, and food from outside. Cohen also found ways to exercise his innate talents: Rumor had it that he was running a variety of gambling rackets from the inside.

Eventually, the newspapers got wind of these indulgences and started reporting on Cohen's behind-bars shenanigans. In response, the federal government dispatched an investigator to Los Angeles to tighten controls. Care packages from LaVonne and the multiple baths a day were ended. Greatly stressed, Fitzgerald retired, and a new jailer was appointed. He immediately summoned Cohen to his office and "in a very excited manner that also carried an apologetic tone" informed Mickey that measures would have to be taken to knock down the rumors in the papers. Mickey replied calmly that there was no satisfying the press: If he was put into solitary confinement on the roof, he told his new jailer, some newspaper would surely report it was penthouse living. Little did Mickey know that his life was about to take a turn for the worse.

One day in early 1952, soon after Mickey's awkward interview with the new warden, Cohen was rudely awakened at five in the morning and, without even being given a chance to put on his socks or shoes, brought into the chief jailer's office. There he found the Justice Department representative and two U.S. marshals waiting for him, along with an order to transfer him immediately to the city-run Lincoln Heights Jail. Mickey Cohen was about to enter the domain of Chief William H. Parker.

Cohen was placed in solitary confinement. His cell had no windows or furniture, only a toilet and a concrete slab. No toilet paper was provided. Mickey's request to take a shower was denied. No outside food was permitted. He was not allowed to shave or to see a barber. In order to ensure that no friends on the force did him any favors, Parker and Hamilton inst.i.tuted rules that barred any officer from interacting with Cohen in any way without having a lieutenant and a third officer present. When his wife, LaVonne, arrived for a visit, she was allowed four minutes-and forced to speak to Cohen through a speaking tube. Even newspapers were restricted, lest someone try to communicate with Mickey through code.

On the fourth day of his confinement, chief U.S. marshal James Boyle came to visit. He professed to be shocked (shocked!) by Cohen's conditions.

"Mickey, my G.o.d, why don't you let me make arrangements to get you out of here and send you on your way to McNeil Island Penitentiary, where you will at least get some fresh air occasionally and some exercise," Boyle said, with faux sympathy.

Four days in the hands of the LAPD seemed to have done the trick. "I had to get out of the clutches of certain vultures in the LAPD," concluded Cohen. His attorney was summoned and (with a police officer present as a witness), he agreed that if Mickey couldn't take these conditions anymore, he should go ahead and request removal to McNeil Island. So Mickey did so. The next day, on March 13, Cohen was flown to Tacoma to begin serving his federal prison term.

Although their client was absent, Cohen's attorneys went forward with their appeal. It was rejected. Cohen's incarceration was now official. He would be eligible for parole in twenty-two months.

LaVonne escaped conviction, after the prosecution decided to drop their unprecedented attempt to go after a mob spouse for her husband's misdeeds. But Mickey's incarceration left her in a difficult position. His gang had largely been dismantled; his rivals were ascendant; his a.s.sets were scattered (or hidden). The guests who had flocked to Mickey's table now drifted away. One of the few people who didn't forget her was Billy Graham. Knowing that LaVonne was probably hard up for money, Graham allegedly arranged for a $5,000 gift to tide her over while Mickey was in prison. He also occasionally sent a car over to pick her up for dinner. On one occasion, soon after he'd had a chance to exchange a few words with Mickey, Graham appealed to LaVonne to turn to the Lord.

"Mickey is in a terrible frame of mind-very bitter, LaVonne," Graham said, consolingly. "Why don't you accept Christianity?"

"I am a Christian girl," said LaVonne. "A Catholic or something-I think."

Graham pressed on, confident, no doubt, that nothing less than a full-scale born again experience would suffice to save the Cohens.

"You have to give your life to the Lord," he insisted.

"The only way I would do that is if Mickey would come with me," LaVonne replied.

So far, at least, he wouldn't. But the ordeal of McNeil Island was still to come.

FOR CHIEF PARKER, the incarceration of Mickey Cohen should have been a moment to savor. But no sooner had Cohen been locked up, than Parker found himself caught in a series of scandals that threatened his job. The first came on October 7, when a police reserve officer shot and killed an unarmed eighteen-year-old college student, James Woodson Henry, whose only apparent offense was sitting in his car late at night. Henry's slaying and the poignant newspaper accounts of his parents' reaction caused a public furor. Parker responded, testily, that he could hardly dispense with the reserves when he was trying to police a city of two million people with a mere 4,189 officers, nearly 2,000 officers short of the police-to-civilian ratio suggested by most policing experts. While this was probably true, the tone of Parker's rejoinder sparked more attacks on the chief. Chastened, Parker decided to strip the reserves of their firearms. That just angered the people who had originally supported him.

L.A.'s African American community was upset with Parker too, thanks to the California Eagle's California Eagle's reporting on an incident of police brutality that it claimed was "unsurpa.s.sed by the most vicious in the deep South." The case, which had come to public attention one month earlier, involved twenty-three-year-old George Hunter. Hunter had been waiting for the last Watts car at a Pacific Electric station when a detective allegedly accosted him. After demanding to know why he was there, the detective then insisted that he was drunk. Hunter denied it, but the detective returned with uniformed backup and arrested him. The men shoved him into a small room. There, from 3 a.m. until 7:30 a.m., he was allegedly beaten and slugged unmercifully about the head, face, and body "while being cursed, berated, and reviled with obscene language." reporting on an incident of police brutality that it claimed was "unsurpa.s.sed by the most vicious in the deep South." The case, which had come to public attention one month earlier, involved twenty-three-year-old George Hunter. Hunter had been waiting for the last Watts car at a Pacific Electric station when a detective allegedly accosted him. After demanding to know why he was there, the detective then insisted that he was drunk. Hunter denied it, but the detective returned with uniformed backup and arrested him. The men shoved him into a small room. There, from 3 a.m. until 7:30 a.m., he was allegedly beaten and slugged unmercifully about the head, face, and body "while being cursed, berated, and reviled with obscene language."

During the course of the beating, Hunter's real offense came out. Wrote the Eagle Eagle reporter, "Repeatedly, the officer blurted out, 'I'll teach you, whenever you address an officer, to say 'sir.'" reporter, "Repeatedly, the officer blurted out, 'I'll teach you, whenever you address an officer, to say 'sir.'"*

White parents were fearful. The black community was indignant. One major ethnic group remained to be angered-Mexican Americans. But they didn't have to wait long. A barroom brawl between LAPD officers and a handful of young Latino men was about to explode into the greatest crisis of Chief Parker's brief tenure.

* To bolster the impression that Bowron was in the underworld's pocket, Mickey Cohen adorned his Cadillac with a giant sign trumpeting his support for the mayor. To bolster the impression that Bowron was in the underworld's pocket, Mickey Cohen adorned his Cadillac with a giant sign trumpeting his support for the mayor.* He was right. After turning state's witness in 1978, Fratianno confessed to killing the two Tonys. (Demoris, He was right. After turning state's witness in 1978, Fratianno confessed to killing the two Tonys. (Demoris, The Last Mafioso The Last Mafioso, 54.)* Complaints from the African American community about disrespectful stops and brutal treatment were so commonplace that the Complaints from the African American community about disrespectful stops and brutal treatment were so commonplace that the Los Angeles Tribune Los Angeles Tribune, the city's other leading black paper, sarcastically teased General Worton when he first became chief for taking them seriously: "So naive is this new chief... that he veritably pounced on a police stenographer... to make a note of the complaints ... as if something was going to be done about them!!!" (Los Angeles Tribune (Los Angeles Tribune, July 14, 1949.)

16.

Dragnet.

"When any function of government, national or local, gets out of civilian control, it becomes totalitarian."-Los Angeles Daily News editorial, March 4, 1952 editorial, March 4, 1952 THE TROUBLE ARRIVED on Christmas Eve 1951, when police received a call about several young men-possibly minors-drinking a bit too heavily at the s...o...b..at Bar, a little joint on Riverside Drive northeast of downtown. Two officers were dispatched to respond. When they arrived, they found a group of seven young men. Five of the men were Latinos-Danny and Elias Rodela, Raymond Marquez, Manuel Hernandez, and Eddie Nora. The other two-Jack and William Wilson-were Anglos. The officers asked to see some ID. The men produced it. None were underage. Nonetheless, the two police officers asked the men to finish their drinks and disperse. That's when the trouble started.

Exactly what touched off the brawl is unclear. One of the revelers, Jack Wilson, would later say that before he could comply with the officers' request, he was put in a hammerlock and dragged outside. His friends followed. One accosted one of the officers; a melee broke out. Wilson's friends would later claim that the scuffle began when they tried to prevent one of the officers from hitting a member of their party with his blackjack; the police insisted they were attacked when they asked one of the men to leave. Despite making free use of their blackjacks, the police officers got the worst of it. One officer got a black eye when one of the men got him into a headlock and punched him. The fight ended when a neighbor with a rifle broke things up. Meanwhile, someone inside the bar had called the police department for backup.

It was just after 2 a.m., Christmas morning.

From the perspective of law enforcement, a.s.saults on police officers were unacceptable, no matter what the circ.u.mstances. So the police went back to look for the a.s.sailants. Most were picked up immediately and taken to Central Division for booking. Police kicked in the door of the last drinker involved in the brawl, Danny Rodela, at about 4 a.m. They dragged him out of bed, away from his screaming, pregnant wife, all the while hitting him with a blackjack. Unfortunately, the men who were now in custody weren't the only people who'd been out drinking. So had a great many police officers in the city of Los Angeles.

Christmas was a special holiday for the officers of the LAPD, particularly for those in Central Division. Christmas was tribute day. Dance hall operators, B-girl bar proprietors, and tavern keepers literally put bottles of whiskey out on the corner for their local patrolmen to pick up-an annual ritual of fealty that not even Chief Parker had been able to suppress. Not all of that booze went straight home. A fair amount made its way to an impromptu Christmas party at Central Division. More than a hundred officers were still there, drinking, when rumors started circulating that two officers had gotten roughed up while trying to arrest a group of Mexicans-and that one of the officers had lost an eye. By the time the prisoners were hauled in, an angry mob of officers-more than fifty strong-was ready to teach the prisoners a lesson in respect.

The prisoners were taken into an interrogation room and told to a.s.sume a spread-eagled position. Then they were kicked and beaten. The injuries the men suffered speak to the brutality of the police attack. One young man was worked over until his bladder burst. One of the victims was kicked so hard in his temples that his face was partially paralyzed. Another man's cheekbone was smashed. Frenzied officers slipped and slid across the b.l.o.o.d.y floor, struggling to land a fist or foot on the prisoners. Some even fought with each other. Onlookers yelled "cop killer," "get out of the country," and "Merry Christmas" at the men their fellow officers were pummeling. Between fifteen and fifty officers took part in the attack. Another hundred officers were in the building and had direct knowledge of the a.s.sault. When the prisoners were taken to the Lincoln Heights Jail, they were a.s.saulted again. The prisoners were then sent to the Lincoln Heights receiving hospital. Danny Rodela arrived later, when the rumors circulating among the police were even more fantastical. He was beaten so badly that one of his kidneys was punctured. If not for three emergency blood transfusions at the old French hospital, he might well have died. After being treated, the men were returned to jail. Later, on Christmas Day, they were finally bailed out.

No one breathed a word about what had happened. The entire incident might never have come to light but for the beating of Anthony Rios.

Two months after the Christmas beatings, Rios and a friend saw two men, who appeared to be drunk, beating a third man in the parking lot of a cafe at First and Soto Streets in East Los Angeles. Rios attempted to intervene. The two a.s.sailants identified themselves as plainclothes officers. Rios demanded their badge numbers-and was promptly threatened with death. Then Rios and his a.s.sociate were arrested for interfering with police officers. After being booked at Hollenbeck station, Rios was badly beaten. But the LAPD had messed with the wrong Chicano. Rios was an influential member of the Latino community and a Democratic County Central Committee member. He promptly sued Chief Parker and the department for $150,000. (The case was eventually dismissed.) News of his arrest and mistreatment infuriated newly elected city councilman Edward Roybal, L.A.'s first Latino councilman. Nonetheless, prosecutors in the city attorney's office insisted on prosecuting Rios. As Rios's February 27 trial date approached, other stories about police brutality and misconduct vis-a-vis Latinos began to come to light.

Parker's initial response to the Rios "incident" was ham-handed. First, he dismissed accusations of police brutality as "unwarranted." He warned that unsubstantiated complaints of police brutality were "wrecking the police department." He wouldn't even meet with the department's critics. When Councilman Roybal and a group of concerned citizens sought a meeting with Parker, he referred them to the Police Commission instead. It was in this explosive atmosphere that prosecutors announced plans to bring charges of "battery" and "disturbing the peace" against six of the seven men who had been beaten on Christmas morning by drunken police officers at Central Division station and the Lincoln Heights Jail.

The liberal Daily News Daily News and the and the Mirror Mirror, the Chandler-owned tabloid that competed with Hearst's Herald-Express Herald-Express, started digging. They soon located the victims of the attack and presented their account of events of the evening. The jury impaneled to prosecute the case shared these newspapers' skepticism about the official version of events. On March 12, it found only two of the six defendants guilty (on two counts of battery and one of disturbing the peace). From the bench, an irate Judge Joseph Call denounced "lawless law enforcement" and announced that "all the perfume in Arabia" would not be enough to "eliminate the stench" of police brutality. The officers involved in the beating, continued the judge, were in his estimation guilty of "a.s.sault, battery, a.s.sault with a deadly weapon, and five violations of the penal code."

"The grand jury must end this sort of thing," the judge concluded. "This should be the first order of business. And indictments should be rendered!"

Local Democrats unanimously pa.s.sed a resolution condemning the "indifference of city officials... toward brutal police methods against citizens and minority groups." They also demanded that state attorney general Edmund (Pat) Brown initiate an inquiry into "the person and office of Chief of Police William H. Parker, the Police Commission, and other responsible officials." Stung, Chief Parker responded by announcing that he had "no objection" to a grand jury investigation. He also belatedly appointed a board of inquiry to investigate the allegations and review the report. This did little to appease his critics. On March 14, the Federal Bureau of Investigation announced that at the direction of the Justice Department it was opening an investigation into charges of police brutality against the department.

Belatedly, Parker recognized the magnitude of his problem. He abruptly changed tack. The chief now revealed that at the same time he had been publicly complaining of "unfair accusations," privately, the Bureau of Internal Affairs had been conducting a top-secret, ultrathorough investigation of its own into the beatings. In an unprecedented concession, Parker then turned a 204-page report by Internal Affairs over to the city attorney.

But Parker's story had some strange holes. When he was asked when the department's internal investigation had begun, Parker claimed that Internal Affairs had launched a vigorous investigation on December 27. He neglected to mention that many of the officers involved had in fact refused to talk to Internal Affairs.

On March 18, the county grand jury began its own investigation into the incident. Its discoveries quickly found their way into the press.

"Boys Tell Police Beating," cried the Citizen-News Citizen-News's banner. "Jurors Told of Slugging on Christmas," announced the lead article. "Wild Party by 100 Police Described, Youth Tells of Beating at Police Yule Party," shouted the Examiner Examiner. Photos of bruised backs, blackened eyes, and smashed noses filled the papers. Jury foreman Raymond Thompson insisted (and DA Roll agreed) that officers who were suspects be summoned in for a lineup so the seven youths could identify their a.s.sailants. This was bitter medicine for Parker. The chief was further embarra.s.sed when details of the initial Internal Affairs report leaked out. Its conclusion-"that none of the prisoners was physically abused in the manner alleged, if at all, while in city jail"-seemed hard to square with the photos of the men's injuries or with injuries some police officers suffered that night.

Meanwhile, more reports of police brutality were surfacing. A complement of eighteen G-men had moved into the department, requesting access to files and questioning department officials about other allegations of abuse. Parker bitterly criticized the FBI's investigation, intimating that it was an unwarranted Political vendetta orchestrated by local Democrats and the Truman administration. On March 25, Councilman Roybal announced that his office had received more than fifty complaints of police brutality (ranging from "mere slappings-around" to "hospitalization of the victims with internal injuries") in the past three months alone and that he was convinced that many of these complaints had merit. Parker's appearance before the grand jury did little to quiet his critics. One source told the Daily News Daily News that the chief's testimony was marked by "a tendency to make windy speeches in response to simple questions." that the chief's testimony was marked by "a tendency to make windy speeches in response to simple questions."

Parker's job was in danger. The Herald-Express Herald-Express quoted "well-informed politicians" saying that taking potshots at Parker had become the favorite Los Angeles sport-"They're shooting at him." The quoted "well-informed politicians" saying that taking potshots at Parker had become the favorite Los Angeles sport-"They're shooting at him." The Mirror Mirror insisted that it was "time to get to the bottom of these ugly rumblings of sadism and abuse of authority" (although it also carefully hedged its bets by not entirely dismissing "the possibility that Communist Party liners are fomenting antipolice prejudice"). Other papers noted that the average tenure for an LAPD chief was two years-and that Parker had been in office for nineteen months. insisted that it was "time to get to the bottom of these ugly rumblings of sadism and abuse of authority" (although it also carefully hedged its bets by not entirely dismissing "the possibility that Communist Party liners are fomenting antipolice prejudice"). Other papers noted that the average tenure for an LAPD chief was two years-and that Parker had been in office for nineteen months.

It wasn't just Parker's job that was in danger. So too was the department's ability to function autonomously. The first threat to the power and autonomy of the police chief had come just before Parker was made chief, during the scandalous summer of 1949, when the county grand jury took the logical step of examining how well the Police Commission oversaw the department. Its conclusion was that the Police Commission "is virtually nothing more than a licensing agency and cannot take action against officers." Newspapers such as Hearst's morning Examiner Examiner also took up the cry against "an autonomous, star-chamber court for the police" and a Police Commission that "has no power whatever in the internal affairs of the department." In time, these demands faded, in part because Parker himself seemed like such a straight arrow. But with what the press now called "b.l.o.o.d.y Christmas," the old concerns returned. also took up the cry against "an autonomous, star-chamber court for the police" and a Police Commission that "has no power whatever in the internal affairs of the department." In time, these demands faded, in part because Parker himself seemed like such a straight arrow. But with what the press now called "b.l.o.o.d.y Christmas," the old concerns returned.

Of course, Chief Parker was not without allies. He continued to command support from the city's many Legionnaires, from Los Angeles's Catholic hierarchy, and, now that he was defending it, from the force itself. Defenders pointed to the accomplishments of his traffic bureau, which had reduced vehicular homicides by half in nine years and made Los Angeles the safest big city in the world to drive in. The chamber of commerce applauded his reorganization of the department and the cost-saving innovations of the new research and planning bureau. The Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times was also warming to the new chief. At a (supposedly) off-the-record meeting of civic and business leaders at the California Club (called so that Chief Parker could present his perspective on the current controversy), Parker complained that the allegations of unchecked police brutality were the result of the liberal was also warming to the new chief. At a (supposedly) off-the-record meeting of civic and business leaders at the California Club (called so that Chief Parker could present his perspective on the current controversy), Parker complained that the allegations of unchecked police brutality were the result of the liberal Daily News Daily News's vendetta against him.

But the most potent defense of the LAPD did not come from the city's business establishment or its dominant newspaper. It came from Hollywood, in the form of a fledgling new television show called Dragnet Dragnet.

DEAD BODIES, distressed dames, and dangerous games. Bombsh.e.l.l blondes and wisecracking private eyes. High heels, handguns, and homicide. Lonely days, rainy nights, and "streets that were dark with something more than night." During the 1920s and '30s, magazines such as Black Mask, Dime Detective Black Mask, Dime Detective, and Gun Molls Gun Molls created a new genre of writing-pulp fiction (so named after the cheap pulp paper on which the magazines were printed). Schlocky and shocking, full of stock characters and lurid tales, the pulps quickly attracted big readerships. Surprisingly, they also attracted gifted writers, among them Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and James M. Cain, who, in the 1930s, penned great books that in the 1940s became even greater movies-for example, created a new genre of writing-pulp fiction (so named after the cheap pulp paper on which the magazines were printed). Schlocky and shocking, full of stock characters and lurid tales, the pulps quickly attracted big readerships. Surprisingly, they also attracted gifted writers, among them Dashiell Hammett, Raymond Chandler, and James M. Cain, who, in the 1930s, penned great books that in the 1940s became even greater movies-for example, The Maltese Falcon; Double Indemnity; Farewell, My Lovely; The Postman Always Rings Twice The Maltese Falcon; Double Indemnity; Farewell, My Lovely; The Postman Always Rings Twice. In 1946, French film critic Nino Frank gave this style of filmmaking a name-"film noir."

Then there was the noir radio drama Pat Novak for Hire Pat Novak for Hire.

Pat Novak took the cla.s.sic private investigator formula to the nth degree. Set on the San Francisco waterfront, it featured a world-weary boat captain with a weakness for corny quips and a knack for getting involved in other people's affairs. The show's opening lines set the blase, world-weary tone: "Sure, I'm Pat Novak, for hire ..." the show began, to the sound of foghorns on the waterfront. Invariably, Novak would agree to investigate a minor case-which led straight to murder. The dialogue was pure camp. Streets were "as deserted as a warm bottle of beer." Dames who "made Cleopatra look like Apple Mary" appeared in Novak's office at dusk, and spoke in voices "hot and sticky-like a furnace full of marshmallows." What made it work was the tremulous, intimate voice of Pat Novak himself-a twenty-six-year-old voice actor named Jack Webb. took the cla.s.sic private investigator formula to the nth degree. Set on the San Francisco waterfront, it featured a world-weary boat captain with a weakness for corny quips and a knack for getting involved in other people's affairs. The show's opening lines set the blase, world-weary tone: "Sure, I'm Pat Novak, for hire ..." the show began, to the sound of foghorns on the waterfront. Invariably, Novak would agree to investigate a minor case-which led straight to murder. The dialogue was pure camp. Streets were "as deserted as a warm bottle of beer." Dames who "made Cleopatra look like Apple Mary" appeared in Novak's office at dusk, and spoke in voices "hot and sticky-like a furnace full of marshmallows." What made it work was the tremulous, intimate voice of Pat Novak himself-a twenty-six-year-old voice actor named Jack Webb.

Jack Webb had grown up poor, in the Bunker Hill neighborhood of Los Angeles. Early on he developed a pa.s.sion for jazz and the cinema. During the war, Webb worked as a clerk for the U.S. Army Air Force in Del Rio, Texas (though later press accounts made him a B-26 crew member). Afterward, he married a young singer/actress he'd met at a jazz club before the war, Julie London-the Julie London. (During the war, London was a popular pinup girl. None of Webb's comrades believed that the gangly, intense twenty-two-year-old knew her-until he produced a letter.) In 1946, Webb moved to San Francisco and landed a job as a disk jockey at a local ABC-affiliated radio station, KGO. There Webb and his writing partner, Richard Breen, created Julie London. (During the war, London was a popular pinup girl. None of Webb's comrades believed that the gangly, intense twenty-two-year-old knew her-until he produced a letter.) In 1946, Webb moved to San Francisco and landed a job as a disk jockey at a local ABC-affiliated radio station, KGO. There Webb and his writing partner, Richard Breen, created Pat Novak for Hire Pat Novak for Hire. The sensitive yet cynical PI and his extraordinarily kitschy dialogue quickly attracted a loyal following. However, Webb's big break came in 1948, when a Hollywood casting director heard one of Webb's "private-eye plays" and offered him a part in a new Eagle-Lion film, He Walked by Night He Walked by Night (1948). (1948).

Eagle-Lion was a little studio with dreams of becoming the next Warner Bros. He Walked by Night He Walked by Night was inspired by the recent murder of a California Highway patrolman. The film told the story of the LAPD's efforts to catch the burglar-turned-cop-killer; its highlight was an extended, real-time chase through the streets (and sewers) of Los Angeles. Webb's role was a minor one: He played the part of a technician in the crime investigation lab (in real life, Lt. Lee Jones). However, the movie shaped his career in two critical ways. The first influence was stylistic. was inspired by the recent murder of a California Highway patrolman. The film told the story of the LAPD's efforts to catch the burglar-turned-cop-killer; its highlight was an extended, real-time chase through the streets (and sewers) of Los Angeles. Webb's role was a minor one: He played the part of a technician in the crime investigation lab (in real life, Lt. Lee Jones). However, the movie shaped his career in two critical ways. The first influence was stylistic. He Walked by Night He Walked by Night began with an opening disclaimer: "The record is set down here factually-as it happened. Only the names are changed-to protect the innocent." Its opening shot was an aerial pan of the city, with a dramatic voice-over: "This is Los Angeles. Our Lady the Queen of the Angels, as the Spanish named her. The fastest growing city in the nation ..." The film also had a decidedly doc.u.mentary flavor. It presented its story as one "taken from the files of the detective division." All of these elements would later appear in Jack Webb's most famous creation. The second influence was LAPD Det. Sgt. Marty Wynn, whom Webb met on the set. began with an opening disclaimer: "The record is set down here factually-as it happened. Only the names are changed-to protect the innocent." Its opening shot was an aerial pan of the city, with a dramatic voice-over: "This is Los Angeles. Our Lady the Queen of the Angels, as the Spanish named her. The fastest growing city in the nation ..." The film also had a decidedly doc.u.mentary flavor. It presented its story as one "taken from the files of the detective division." All of these elements would later appear in Jack Webb's most famous creation. The second influence was LAPD Det. Sgt. Marty Wynn, whom Webb met on the set.

Wynn had been provided by the LAPD as a technical advisor to the producers (one of whom, ironically, was Johnny Roselli, the Chicago Outfit's liaison to Hollywood, who had recently been released from the federal penitentiary after a prison sentence was mysteriously commuted). Although Wynn was supposed to instruct the director in the fine points of police procedure, once the filming got under way, he didn't have much to do. Neither did Jack Webb. As a result, both men spent a lot of time in the commissary. There the two fell to talking. When Wynn found out that Webb was a radio actor who played the part of a private eye, he took to teasing him about the silliness of radio programs like Pat Novak Pat Novak.

"It makes every cop in the country laugh when they hear this nonsense on the radio," Wynn told Webb. "Why doesn't somebody show how detectives really break a crime?"

Wynn told Webb that he ought to do it right.

"I can arrange for you to have access to cases in the police files," he told the actor. "Maybe you could do something with them."

"I doubt it, Marty," Webb responded, noting that "the fiction shows have such high ratings." But the idea stuck with Webb. In fact, he had recently started sketching out another show about a lonely PI, tentatively t.i.tled Joe Joe Friday, Room Five Friday, Room Five. What if Friday became a police officer instead? The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. Several weeks later, Webb called Wynn and told him that he was thinking about starting a new kind of police drama, one that portrayed police work as it really was. Wynn was pleased and, true to his word, arranged for Webb to start spending some time with Wynn and his partner, Vance Brasher.

Webb's hunger for details and verisimilitude was voracious. "How do you frisk a suspect?" "How do you kick in a door?" "How do you clean your gun?" Jack Webb was a question a minute. He was soon spending all his free time at police department headquarters in City Hall. He got permission to start taking cla.s.ses at the police academy. He was learning what it meant to be a detective.

Now he needed a name. The Cop The Cop was quickly dismissed as disrespectful. was quickly dismissed as disrespectful. The Sergeant The Sergeant was too military. One day during a brainstorming session, writer Herb Ellis and Webb were talking about an earlier radio program, was too military. One day during a brainstorming session, writer Herb Ellis and Webb were talking about an earlier radio program, Calling All Cars Calling All Cars, when Ellis asked Webb, "What do they call it when cops go all out to catch a crook?"

"They put out a dragnet," Webb responded.

That was it. "Dragnet." Now Webb had to find a network that would broadcast his show.

His first choice, CBS, pa.s.sed. No blondes, no Humphrey Bogart-style Sam Spade, no audience was the network's prediction. Webb disagreed. Authenticity was what would make his show unique. Webb went to NBC. It was desperate for programming, having recently lost prized performers Bing Crosby, Jack Benny, and Amos 'n' Andy to CBS-so desperate it was willing to give a true-to-life police doc.u.mentary a go. There was just one condition: Webb had to have access to LAPD case files.

This was not necessarily an easy sell. Pat Novak for Hire Pat Novak for Hire had presented policemen in an almost uniformly bad light. (Nearly every episode featured a dumb, brutal police officer who hinders, threatens, and sometimes beats Novak as he attempts to solve the case.) So it was with some uncertainty that Wynn and Brasher took Webb to meet their captain, Jack Donahoe. They were fortunate in their choice. The good-natured Donahoe agreed to provide case notes to help Webb work up a pilot program that he could present to then-a.s.st. Chief Joe Reed. Webb was delighted when Reed p.r.o.nounced the pilot "good and accurate." The show then went to Chief Horrall, who informed Webb "he was on the right track, reflecting the day-to-day drudgery of police work." It wasn't exactly the reaction Webb was hoping for, but it got Webb what he needed-a departmental blessing and access to its case notes. In June 1949, the first episode of radio had presented policemen in an almost uniformly bad light. (Nearly every episode featured a dumb, brutal police officer who hinders, threatens, and sometimes beats Novak as he attempts to solve the case.) So it was with some uncertainty that Wynn and Brasher took Webb to meet their captain, Jack Donahoe. They were fortunate in their choice. The good-natured Donahoe agreed to provide case notes to help Webb work up a pilot program that he could present to then-a.s.st. Chief Joe Reed. Webb was delighted when Reed p.r.o.nounced the pilot "good and accurate." The show then went to Chief Horrall, who informed Webb "he was on the right track, reflecting the day-to-day drudgery of police work." It wasn't exactly the reaction Webb was hoping for, but it got Webb what he needed-a departmental blessing and access to its case notes. In June 1949, the first episode of radio Dragnet Dragnet went on the air, Friday evening at 10:00 p.m. went on the air, Friday evening at 10:00 p.m.

From the start, Webb was fanatical about getting the details right. Five soundmen were employed to create a range of more than three hundred special effects. Wherever possible, the program used actual recordings from the department. Soundmen staked out the City Hall garage to capture the roar of police cruisers speeding away; they also recorded the everyday background noise of City Hall. When a script called for a long-distance phone call from Los Angeles to Fountain Green, Utah, sound engineers placed a real call, and recorded the relay clicks and point-to-point operator comments. Terminology was precise and correct. A suggestion to replace "attention all units" with the more dramatic "calling all cars" was brushed aside. Understatement rather than the exaggerated accents, over-the-top sound effects, and histrionic acting that characterized most crime radio programs was the order of the day. The most important part of the new program, though, was its central character, played by Jack Webb himself, Sgt. Joe Friday.

In those days, your typical homicide detective had a very distinctive look. "His suits are not cheap, though they don't always look well pressed," wrote newspaperwoman Agnes Underwood, "and while not loud, would hardly be called dark, conservative business numbers." Their ties, however, "shout like a movie homicide detective."

If they are foppish about their ties, they are vainer in their searches to turn up the snazziest bands for their wrist watches.... The bands are dreams of matinee idols' jewelers: gold stretch, mesh, hand-tooled leather, or carved silver. If one of these lads keeps looking at his watch, he's not worried about the time, he's trying to display his newest bracelet to his a.s.sociates, even if he has to roll back his shirt cuff to guarantee they'll see it.

There was "nothing sissy about the bracelet compet.i.tions," Underwood continued, "for the bands bind brawny wrists, backing up tremendous fists, made more lethal by heavy rings on the third finger of the left hand. That's one reason they don't get beaten up like movie detectives; they know how to use those fists."

Joe Friday (as played by Jack Webb) was different. He was young, tall, and almost painfully slim. (Despite being six feet tall, he weighed a mere 165 pounds, just five pounds over the LAPD's minimum weight.) He dressed casually, in sports coats and a tie, but his demeanor was anything but casual. Friday was an organization man, professional through and through, courteous in his interactions with others, but determined to resolve the case before him. Contrary to the image that later emerged, Friday was not an emotionless automaton. In fact, his most famous phrase, "Just the facts, ma'am," is one he never uttered. Nor was the original Joe Friday the painfully square detective of the 1960 series who battled "killer reefer." Dragnet Dragnet was verite, like reality TV. At the same time, Joe Friday was the perfect noir hero, a jaded idealist, strangely single, who walked the mean streets of Los Angeles but who himself was "neither tarnished nor afraid." was verite, like reality TV. At the same time, Joe Friday was the perfect noir hero, a jaded idealist, strangely single, who walked the mean streets of Los Angeles but who himself was "neither tarnished nor afraid."

The radio program's success was modest. It had enough listeners to keep it on the air (it eventually settled in on Thursdays, at 10:30 p.m.) but not enough to make it a true hit. Nonetheless, its unorthodox depiction of orthodox police work attracted avid fans. Police officers were delighted; single women were enthralled. (Many seemed to view the unattached Friday as a desirable catch; Webb was deluged with proposals.) Dragnet Dragnet soon picked up a sponsor, the cigarette company Liggett & Myers, thus ensuring the program's survival. It also attracted the attention of the nation's self-styled number one lawman, FBI director J. Edgar Hoover. soon picked up a sponsor, the cigarette company Liggett & Myers, thus ensuring the program's survival. It also attracted the attention of the nation's self-styled number one lawman, FBI director J. Edgar Hoover.

In Dragnet Dragnet, the bureau saw a new opportunity to burnish its image. So the FBI spoke to Liggett & Myers. Just a month after it had picked up the radio program, the cigarette company presented Webb and NBC with an unexpected demand: Henceforth every program would end with a tribute to a graduate of the FBI's National Academy.

Webb, NBC, and the LAPD responded by raising h.e.l.l. Neither Webb nor NBC liked the idea of a sponsor dictating creative decisions. Moreover, the FBI's demand missed the point of the show. Dragnet Dragnet was all about the day-to-day work of an was all about the day-to-day work of an ordinary ordinary police sergeant. The FBI's National Academy was for high-ranking officers. Honoring only them would offend ordinary patrolmen. Moreover, everyone knew that the FBI already had its own radio program police sergeant. The FBI's National Academy was for high-ranking officers. Honoring only them would offend ordinary patrolmen. Moreover, everyone knew that the FBI already had its own radio program (This Is Your F.B.I.) (This Is Your F.B.I.). Rather than provoking a fight with the bureau, Webb and NBC decided to drop the tribute entirely.

Soon after the tribute disappeared, two agents appeared at NBC's L.A. studio and demanded to know what had happened to the idea of honoring an FBI Academy graduate. NBC blamed the LAPD. This was reported directly to Hoover. Worse, the memo to the director stated that the LAPD was talking trash about the bureau, telling the network that the FBI was "in bad repute with police departments across the country." The memo claimed that the LAPD had even threatened to cease cooperating with the program if the FBI was honored. Hoover was upset. He retaliated by ending FBI partic.i.p.ation in LAPD training and refusing to admit LAPD officers to the bureau's prestigious National Academy. Although the alleged slight to the bureau had occurred before Parker became chief, the freeze extended to Chief Parker's tenure, for reasons that are unclear. When Parker took office, he did not receive the customary letter of congratulations from the director.

Whether Parker knew about his department's transgressions or picked up on the terrible snub he had received from Hoover is also unclear. Pa.s.sing through Washington, D.C., in the fall of 1951, Parker was granted a personal meeting with Hoover. Later, according to the FBI's L.A. special agent in charge (whose responsibilities included relaying all gossip regarding the bureau to FBI headquarters in Washington), the new chief "was very flattering in his expressions toward the Director and for the leadership he provides in law enforcement." But Parker's deference was short lived. He and the LAPD were on the verge of a series of steps that would transform the director's frigidity into outright hostility.

BY 1951, both Webb and NBC were eager to expand the radio program into a new medium-television. That meant winning the support of Bill Parker. At first, Parker was hesitant. Truth be told, he didn't much like Hollywood. The new chief blamed movies like The Keystone Cops The Keystone Cops for propagating an image of policemen as nincomp.o.o.ps. In letters to his wife, Helen, during the Second World War, he complained about having to pay to watch Hollywood films abroad. However, he did appreciate how effective moving pictures could be. During his days at the traffic division, he'd been involved in making informational films intended to educate drivers about how to use the freeways that were beginning to crisscross the basin. He understood the power of the moving picture. But the experience that really brought home to Parker just how powerful an advertis.e.m.e.nt for propagating an image of policemen as nincomp.o.o.ps. In letters to his wife, Helen, during the Second World War, he complained about having to pay to watch Hollywood films abroad. However, he did appreciate how effective moving pictures could be. During his days at the traffic division, he'd been involved in making informational films intended to educate drivers about how to use the freeways that were beginning to crisscross the basin. He understood the power of the moving picture. But the experience that really brought home to Parker just how powerful an advertis.e.m.e.nt Dragnet Dragnet had become for the department came when he attended the International a.s.sociation of Chiefs of Police conference in Miami in the fall of 1951. Everywhere he went, people addressed him as "Friday." had become for the department came when he attended the International a.s.sociation of Chiefs of Police conference in Miami in the fall of 1951. Everywhere he went, people addressed him as "Friday."

Still, Parker hesitated. A radio program was one thing. A television show was another. It was hard to imagine one that would live up to his own high vision for the department. But Webb was ardent in making his case-and explicit in his promises. The department would review every script. Essentially, Parker would serve as a senior producer for the show. Total commitment to the highest ideals of police professionalism would be the program's goal. Eventually Parker relented and gave Webb permission to shoot the pilot in City Hall. The episode was pulled from one of the most dramatic radio programs, "The Case of the Human Bomb." Webb was not allowed to use the LAPD's modern badge, the Series 6, though. Instead, he was restricted to the old Eagle badge-in case things went wrong.

The episode aired on Sunday, December 16, 1951. First came the famous music: dum-da-dum-dum dum-da-dum-dum. Pause. Dum-da-dum-dum-DUM Dum-da-dum-dum-DUM. Then, as a picture of an LAPD sergeant's badge filled the screen, the voice-over: "Ladies and gentlemen, the story you are about to see is true. The names have been changed to protect the innocent." Several bars of music followed, then an aerial image of Los Angeles filled the screen-and the voice of Sgt. Joe Friday filled the air. "This is the city...Two million people. In my job, you get a chance to meet them all. I'm a cop." (How Webb managed to use the word "cop," which Parker strongly objected to, is unclear.) Parker was pleased by the dramatic story, in which Webb disarmed a bomber bent on toppling City Hall. The critics were impressed too. The New York Times New York Times praised the show's "terseness and understatement." Other critics hailed "the leisurely camera work, the restrained acting, and the crisp, sparing dialogue." Said the praised the show's "terseness and understatement." Other critics hailed "the leisurely camera work, the restrained acting, and the crisp, sparing dialogue." Said the Hollywood Reporter Hollywood Reporter, "Just about everything good that can be said about a TV film show can be said about Dragnet Dragnet. This series is going to do more to raise the rest of the country's opinion of Los Angeles than any other show of any kind." Webb was given permission to start using the department's modern badge.

On January 3, 1952, Dragnet Dragnet began appearing every other Thursday night on NBC. The radio drama continued as well, growing in popularity as the television show got established. To help review Webb's various and growing productions for accuracy, Parker reached down to one of the officers in his public relations bureau, Gene Roddenberry, who was paid $25 per script. Roddenberry was soon writing freelance scripts of his own for shows like began appearing every other Thursday night on NBC. The radio drama continued as well, growing in popularity as the television show got established. To help review Webb's various and growing productions for accuracy, Parker reached down to one of the officers in his public relations bureau, Gene Roddenberry, who was paid $25 per script. Roddenberry was soon writing freelance scripts of his own for shows like Mr. District Attorney Mr. District Attorney while also helping Chief Parker with his speeches. Then, just as while also helping Chief Parker with his speeches. Then, just as Dragnet's Dragnet's first run of fourteen episodes was coming to an end, the b.l.o.o.d.y Christmas scandal broke. The people of Los Angeles were about to experience a serious case of cognitive dissonance. Which was the truer face of the LAPD: the carefully controlled professionalism of Sgt. Joe Friday, or the brutal realities of the Lincoln Heights Jail on a drunken Christmas Eve night? first run of fourteen episodes was coming to an end, the b.l.o.o.d.y Christmas scandal broke. The people of Los Angeles were about to experience a serious case of cognitive dissonance. Which was the truer face of the LAPD: the carefully controlled professionalism of Sgt. Joe Friday, or the brutal realities of the Lincoln Heights Jail on a drunken Christmas Eve night?

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 a.s.sisting 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 "a.s.sault 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 ma.s.sive 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 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. 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 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 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 t.i.tle 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 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 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 Dragnet. Rather, The Thin Blue Line 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, 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 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 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 thri