The LAPD arrived at its diversified force after decades of social unrest.
The Watts riots of 1965 left 34 people dead and shocked the nation. The commission assigned by the governor to research the roots of the violence identified a need to improve relations between the black community and police — but no significant effort was made.
Then in the 1970s, the Center for Law in the Public Interest and the U.S. Justice Department filed employment discrimination lawsuits against the LAPD on behalf of women and minorities. To settle the suits, the department entered federal consent decrees promising to bring its ranks in line with the ethnic makeup of the city's labor force, with at least 20% of the department being female.
The force steadily diversified through the 1980s, but that did not bring the sensitivity that reformers had hoped for. A study by the Claremont Graduate School in 1990 found that officers were remarkably uniform in the how they thought and acted.
"Bringing all these women and minorities onto the force has not made any significant change in the way the police perform," George T. Felkenes, a criminal justice professor who led the project, said at the time. "Once they get in the department, they're shaped and molded into what the department wants them to be."
Riots and Rampart as catalysts for change
The turning point for Los Angeles and the LAPD came after the 1991 beating of Rodney G. King. Riots followed the acquittal of four officers tried for assault; three of them were white, one Latino.
Mac Shorty said he was among those out robbing and looting. A young black man, he was furious about the acquittal, furious about sitting on the curb, over and over, hands on top of his head, shoes off, cops looking in his socks for crack cocaine.
"They'd just plain old harass," recalled Shorty, who now sits on the Watts Neighborhood Council. "There'd be days where two or three times a day, they would bump you up."
An independent investigative panel led by future U.S. Secretary of State Warren Christopher found that "too many patrol officers view citizens with resentment and hostility." It pushed for an overhaul of the department's disciplinary system, a shift toward community policing and the resignation of the militaristic Chief Gates.
Gates did step down, and the department gradually implemented reforms. But, seven years after the Christopher Commission report, the Rampart scandal exploded.
Gang officers in the predominantly Latino area west of downtown were accused of covering up bad shootings, beating suspects, planting evidence, stealing drugs and lying in court. The allegations spread to other gang units. More than a dozen officers left the force: Some were fired; others resigned amid investigations. More than 100 criminal convictions were overturned, and the city had to pay more than $70 million to victims.
The federal government threatened to sue to take control of the LAPD. Under a new consent decree imposed in 2001, the department agreed to scores of measures that overhauled the way it took complaints from citizens, used confidential informants, ran gang units, investigated uses of force by officers and audited itself.
In the 12 years it took for the department to be released from the decree, policing in Los Angeles went through a metamorphosis.
These days, Shorty, the rioter turned community leader, calls LAPD captains by their first names and nicknames. Phil Tingirides is Capt. T., an affable presence at neighborhood meetings and events. He has helped start a youth football team in Watts, a track team, a tutoring program and a college scholarship program.
At a recent community meeting, residents were grumbling over whether having officers wear body cameras would really curb misbehavior. Shorty stood up and pointed to Capt. T, who is white. "Him and I don't always agree with each other, but at the end of the day, we have a working relationship," he said. "He's still my friend."
Shorty's neighbors listened, then continued grumbling — suggesting that some relationships are built slowly.
On a recent day, Officers Joe Chacon and Dan Rios made a house call off South Gless Street in the Pico Gardens housing project. They are two of nearly 50 officers who grew up in the Hollenbeck Division on the Eastside and now patrol it.
When Chacon, who has logged more than a quarter-century with the department, knocked on the apartment door, an elderly Latina gave him a warm greeting and a hug. They talked quietly about a gang member she said was causing trouble — hanging around outside at 2 a.m., selling drugs, making noise.
They chatted in Spanish, and she asked whether the officers planned to attend her friend's funeral. Of course, they said.
"I am going to come back and haunt you if you don't," she said, teasing.
Chacon would be there — on his day off.
He knows what the neighborhood used to be like, when the gangs were in control; what it was like to be raised by immigrant parents.
Capt. Martin Baeza, who grew up in nearby Glassell Park, said officers who were raised in Hollenbeck and attended Roosevelt or Garfield high schools are lining up to work in the area. When officers understand the language and culture of the community, he believes, the public is less likely to read sinister intentions into their actions.
After reforms, progress yet lingering distrust
A 2009 Harvard University study found public opinions of the police to be much more positive since the reforms of the last consent decree were implemented, with 83% of residents saying the LAPD was doing a good or excellent job. Still, the study found pockets of distrust among black and Latino residents. When asked whether police treat all racial and ethnic groups fairly, 23% of black respondents said "almost never," compared with 14% of Latinos and 10% of whites.
Lee Sprewell, 28, a black FedEx driver, said he remains distrustful of the LAPD. He cited several incidents, including one last summer when two white officers pulled him over in his new Dodge Charger while he returned from a night out.
He said that they demanded to know whether he was on probation or whether there was a warrant out for his arrest. When he asked why they had stopped him, he recalled, the officers noted that he had paper plates and said that they wanted to check his registration. Then, according to Sprewell, the officers claimed they smelled marijuana.
Sprewell told them that he did not smoke and that his employer conducts routine drug tests.
Whether they are white, black or Latino, Sprewell said, officers act the same way. "They all have the same mind-set," he said.
Sgt. Jim Baker, who is black, is trying to break that image. Growing up in segregated Jackson, Miss., during the civil rights movement, Baker went to protests with his mother, who "showed me what was right and what was wrong," he said. Baker said he decided to become a police officer to protect people's rights.
Now 62 and approaching 30 years on the force, he is working for the Special Events Unit, which handles downtown protests and demonstrations.
The day before Thanksgiving, Baker was standing outside LAPD headquarters, keeping an eye on protesters who had gathered to rally against the Missouri grand jury's decision not to indict the officer who shot Michael Brown. A young woman came up to Baker. The woman, he said, told him that his work as a police officer made him racist and called him an "Uncle Tom."
"You are a black man," she said, pointing a finger at Baker. "You are kept down by your race, even if you won't accept it. That is a fact."
"That's opinion," Baker replied, before adding: "I respect your opinion."
