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BETRAYED
BY THE BADGE
By James Rodrigo Retana
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The
Los Angeles Police Department has the most recognizable badge
in the country. The city hall and the city seal, symbolic representations
of the city's rich Spanish and Mexican heritage, are presented
on its face. The officers who carry this squeaky clean icon represent
“LA’s Finest.” As a Mexican-American officer, I was a minority
within a minority in a world only another cop could understand.
I was teamed with officers of all races, but we all had one thing
in common: the badge.
On
a cold, windless October night in 1985, in the Los Feliz area
of Los Angeles, my brother William would unknowingly show me the
dark side of my badge. This story is a journey into that discovery.
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Under
my bed, a journal hides inside a cracked leather briefcase. I
haven't read it in years, but I pass it everyday. Over time my
briefcase grows arms; today it reaches out and grabs me by the
throat, choking my neck with a vise like grip. “Open it,” the
voice is deafening. I remove the journal and turn to the first
page. It is like thumbing through a family album after a funeral.
The old ghosts are returning. I resist the urge to drop it and
run. I sit down and begin to read.
I
was excited as hell as I ran up the concrete steps into the fort-like
structure known as The Los Angeles Police Academy. This was a
dream come true. I stopped to read my civil service notice, “You
have been selected by competitive examination as one of the relatively
few who are now eligible for appointment to a position of: Police
Officer.” I was a raw recruit in the academy class of 11-73. Reading
it again, I looked up and sprinted towards an inspection line
that had just finished forming. “Man, this is going to be great,”
I thought to myself.
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| “What's
the matter Retana?” shouted the impish, red haired squad advisor.
“Did you forget to wind your castanets this morning?” Standing as
stiff as a starched shirt, I felt my face flush. I did not reply.
“Don't take it personally,” I told myself. I figured it was some
kind of a test. As the squad advisor moved down the line, dressing
down the next recruit for sporting a mustache, little did I realize
that my last day on the job would be worse than my first. I was
born in Boyle Heights, and raised in government housing known as
the Pico Gardens Projects. My best friend was stabbed to death as
a teenager, but somehow I survived this East L.A. barrio. Most of
my academy classmates were from rural areas, like Hemet and Bakersfield,
or from Northern California Cities; some were ex-policeman from
small towns and a handful came from out of state. Everyone felt
it was an honor to belong to the LAPD, the finest police department
in the universe. |
I
knew it was true, above the hallway door next to the locker room
was a sign that read “Through These Halls Walk the World’s Finest
Police Officers.” Damn right. During my first month at the academy
I learned three things. First, don’t be a standout, just blend into
the group. Second, don’t be a know-it-all. And lastly, never give
up. If you were any of the three, you were singled out, hammered
by the academy staff, and later asked to voluntarily resign, which
most would do. I came to realize this was another test to weed out
quitters. I was raised to be humble, had no prior police experience,
and learned about survival of the fittest from fistfights on project
playgrounds. I discovered the secret to completing the five month
academy training was an inspiring motto displayed above the Physical
Training Office: “The More You Sweat Here, The Less You
Bleed on the Street.” |
| There
were only three Mexican-American recruit officers in my class of
seventy-five. One was an ex-marine, four inches shorter than me,
who had just made the height requirement for this job. On one hot
summer day, after a exceptionally long run through the Elysian Park
Hills, the military veteran needed a cold one, but we had been warned
that the Academy Lounge was off limits to recruits. This was an
unofficial, official rule. Being determined to immediately quench
his thirst, he was seen soaking suds inside the lounge by our squad
advisor and told to “never come in here again.” He was perplexed
when he told me this story the next day, “It didn't make sense to
treat an ex-marine corps veteran like one of the wet behind the
ears recruits.” I sure admired his sense of confidence, he had challenged
the rules. Something I would have never done. |
| After
graduating from Catholic schools, Dolores Mission Grammar School
and Salesian High School, and having trained as an altar boy I had
become accustomed to being under the thumb of some nun, Irish brother,
or priest. I was trained to respect the rules and anyone in any
position of authority. I had been groomed for this quasi-military
department. There was another Mexican-American officer I remember
during my academy days. He walked into the academy restaurant in
uniform with brand new sergeant’s chevrons. A tall, lanky fellow
with a dark, swarthy complexion, his face looked familiar. I stopped
eating my “range burger” and tried recalling where I had seen him
before. Then it hit me. He was a student at California State University
at Los Angeles (CSULA) just before I graduated in the early seventies.
He had attended our Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan (MECHA)
meetings, Chicano studies classes, and off campus gatherings. He
was an undercover police officer who had been spying on Chicano
students--he was an infiltrator. My range burger was cold by the
time I stopped thinking about it. He sat down across from me and
nodded. Suddenly I felt chills dance down my spine. |
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Did
he recognize me as a former MECHA member? Was I to be called into
the staff office and interrogated by superiors on my involvement
in MECHA, or worst, accused of being a MECHA infiltrator trying
to obtain LAPD secrets? I left my half eaten hamburger on the
plate and walked out. Heading to the shooting range, there was
something else bothering me. That officer was a reminder of what
my ex-MECHA buddies had accused me of becoming: a vendido. A sellout.
But I felt as a police officer I could make a difference. On weekends
I put in extra time studying and training to improve my time on
the obstacle course. Sunday nights were spent shining my gear
and my badge. While learning the official rules and regulations
of the department, practicing shooting skills, self-defense, and
street survival, those inspiring mottos would keep me hanging
in all those tough, long grueling months of pure harassment, stress,
and greasy range burgers.
The
day of my graduation from the academy was the proudest day of
my life. I wore a tailor made dark blue wool “class A” uniform,
with four silver metal buttons and a matching hat with a plastic
brim, shining brightly from many coats of Vaseline. Attached to
the top of my hat was a “policeman” badge hat piece. A “clip-on”
matching colored tie centered the uniform and a silver metal tie
clip crossed its path. My shoes and Sam Browne gun belt were spit
shined. I carefully placed my .38 caliber Smith and Wesson, department
issued revolver into the holster. My weapon had never been cleaner.
The Chief of Police would be reviewing our class of thirty-five
today and would more than likely inspect a handful of revolvers
while we stood at the “present arms” command. I prayed he wouldn't
inspect mine. I just wanted to blend in as I had been
trained to do.
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| I
removed my badge from my wallet. Just holding it made me nervous.
Pinning on my badge, my heart jumped. I was about to become a full-fledged
peace officer, “Through These Halls Walk…” Today, we weren’t brown,
yellow, black, or white--we were LAPD blue. My family was seated
in the front row: brothers, sisters, mother, and father on this,
the most important day in my life. “Welcome,” shouted the Chief
of Police, “to our LAPD Family.” My first assignment after graduation
was at “shootin Newton” Division. A veteran training officer took
me under his wings and offered me this advice, “Forget all that
crap you learned at the police academy, there are just three things
you have to remember: booze--drink only good booze, women--they
love the uniform, so enjoy it while you can, and most importantly,
make sure you go home each night the same way you came - in one
piece.” |
| But
the funny thing was the academy instructors had told us the opposite--the
three B's: booze, broads, and bills are what get many a policeman
in trouble. I figured my training officer left out the part about
getting in debt because we still needed to buy our toys, such as
guns, sports cars, motorcycles, and anything else we could chase
down with booze. Like junkies who needed a fix, it was a way to
maintain our adrenaline rush from the job. During my first week
at Newton I was ordered to report to the Public Disorder and Intelligence
Division of the Department (PDID). I thought my worst fear was coming
true: the Chicano officer at the academy had recognized me and I
was going to be interrogated, then fired, for being an undercover
MECHA infiltrator. The trip to PDID seemed like I was driving to
the gallows to watch an execution--mine. |
| At
PDID, I was offered a position in the unit. My assignment was to
infiltrate MECHA at CSULA. My cover was to appear as a disgruntled,
ex-police officer who had quit and was returning to college. I informed
him that I still knew many students on campus and no one would buy
that story. Then he suggested California State University Northridge
(CSUN). I told him I knew CSUN students as well. He promised to
call me back, but never did. He knew my heart wouldn't be in this
type of work. He was right. The assignment had advancement written
all over it. It was a fast track promotion to detective. My ex-MECHA
buddies would never know that I had turned down a prestigious position.
But I knew. Although MECHA members had written me off as a sellout,
I could not bring myself to spy on a bunch of Chicano college students
who were being labeled as radicals. The only radical thing about
this group was the MECHA name, which is Spanish for match. Because
of the low number of Hispanics attending undergraduate schools,
MECHA’s mission was to recruit students into college to provide
them with equal opportunities. We were also known to throw parties
every now and then, just like the fraternity and sorority houses
on campus. Besides, there wasn't any crime happening on campus,
and I figured I was needed more on the streets. |
My
first weekend at Newton Division, I responded to a “415, family
dispute...man assaulting a woman” radio call. We informed the young
woman that she should sign a crime report and arrest her husband
for battery. “Just warn him officer,” she replied. “That's all I
want.” We did and then angrily left. I wondered why she wouldn’t
leave or file a report against a man who had committed a crime.
I wrote in my daily police log, “415-family--advised-Q&R--did not
want report.” “Write NHI on the log,” my partner said. “What?” I
asked. “Yeah, no humans involved.”
We both laughed. |
| Near
the end of our PM shift, we received a burglary in progress call.
My Adrenaline began pumping as I leaned forward to grab the mike
and acknowledge the “459, there now” call on San Pedro Street. My
partner floored the accelerator and shouted “It's a burglary at
the market, they pop for us.” I was thrust back into my seat as
we screamed at 60 miles per hour down San Pedro Street. We glided
into the rear parking lot with our lights out. We jumped out of
our vehicle and ran towards a smashed out rear store window. Inside
other officers had located the suspect who was found hiding in the
rear storage area of the store. I hustled inside and what I saw
shocked me: six uniformed officers were kicking and stomping on
a young teenage boy who was curled up, squirming on the floor, crying.
The officer closest to me, who had just gotten a kick in himself,
stared at me and said “Street justice, man, the courts won't do
anything to him . . . so we do it out here.” I was frozen with disgust.
I didn't observe any police officers at the scene, just six angry
men who were looking at me to see if I was with them or against
them. |
| I
walked back to my patrol car thinking about what I had witnessed.
It was wrong, but what would I do about it? As long as I didn't
say anything, I would be accepted by my new family and familia takes
care of each other. These were my brother officers and we would
depend on each other for our lives. No officer had ever been killed
in the line of duty at Newton Division. That meant something. Everything.
I thought about our prior call. Wouldn't it have been easy to take
the same advice I had just given the young woman who had been battered
by her husband? Should I leave the Department or make a report?
Before we drove away, I placed my baton in its holder, which was
attached to the door of the police car with the words “to protect
and to serve” facing the street. |
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Later,
I worked with a Mexican-American officer who had “beefed” his
Hispanic partner for excessive force against a Latino gang member.
The gang member/victim never showed up at the accused officer's
Trial Board and the charges were dismissed. The officer who betrayed
his partner requested a transfer out of the division because no
one wanted to work with a cop they couldn't trust. One of my Training
Officers at Newton was awarded a Medal of Valor for rescuing a
citizen being held at gunpoint by a robbery suspect. He had to
take a life to save a life. The day after receiving his medal,
he failed a divisional inspection and was disciplined by department
brass for wearing a thread-bare uniform and
unkempt shoes.
Over
the course of my career, I would encounter different types of
police personalities. Most were loyal, dedicated and hard working
officers, but some were badge heavy, with something to prove,
mostly to themselves. Others were dangerously fun and “by the
book” types. “He's retired,” meant an officer wasn't a gun fighter
anymore, and “shaky” meant you wouldn't trust him in a tough situation.
Hell, we even had guys claiming to be “born again” for promotional
reasons. One officer, who trained me, died of a heroin overdose.
After the department outlawed the chokehold and issued side handle
metal batons, street cops created their own motto: “Don't choke
em, smoke em.”
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| We
weren't prejudiced, we hated everyone. However, I noticed that officer’s
tended to be harder on their own race. I recall taping a bumper
sticker from the ‘60s to my locker, “If you don't like cops, the
next time you need help call a hippie.” It was us, against them.
As gun fighters we knew if we ever took a bullet, we would bleed
LAPD blue. While assigned to Northeast Division I learned late one
sticky summer day that no training at the police academy had prepared
me to take a man's life. I was about to search a narcotics suspect
when I was knocked to the ground. The suspect grabbed my baton and
began to strike me with it as I lay on a dirt path. My partner was
injured attempting to disarm the suspect. In self-defense I fired
my .38 caliber LAPD issued revolver at the man trying to kill me
with my own weapon. The suspect later died as a result of the gun
shot wounds. I was lucky; it very well could have gone the other
way. My brother officers were indeed proud of me and even hinted
that the elite Metro Division would probably come to recruit me.
I was glad to go home in one piece, but I was neither proud nor
ashamed of my actions. I cried, but didn't know why. I would never
tell anyone. |
| Months
later, while at Cal State L.A. jogging with my younger brother William,
I ran into an old MECHA member. After exchanging “ola’s,” he looked
at me rather stoically and said, “I heard you killed a Latino who
wasn’t doing anything wrong, that's the word around here.” I explained
exactly what happened, that his facts were incorrect. He gave me
a doubtful expression and left. I wrote him off as a professional
student still living in his ivory tower. I was now unofficially
deposed from MECHA. Who needed it? Besides, I had my police brothers.
“I believe you, Jimmy,” William said, sympathetically. “Someone
was trying to kill you. That’s why you carry a pistol. You were
doing your job.” Most everyone misunderstood police officers, but
William always seemed to understand. This was the bond between brothers
and brother officers; we understood each other. William listened
intently as I told him a fresh war story, then we ran, and ran,
and ran. |
| In
the late weeks of October 1985 I was again working out of Northeast
Division when I introduced myself to a mental patient with a bad
attitude. The suspect had been threatening citizens with a knife.
I was walking towards him to get his attention, when suddenly all
hell broke loose. He plunged a knife into my chest and the fight
was on. My partner, another officer, and myself subdued the suspect
with our batons, knocking him to the ground. One officer drew his
weapon, aiming it at the downed suspect, and started to squeeze
the trigger, but my partner talked him down. The suspect was transported
to the station by other officers. I would find out later that they
beat him bad for stabbing a brother officer. My partners at the
scene were bad mouthed for not having gone far enough. Other officers
felt the suspect should have been shot. But I was proud of my partners.
I was taken to Glendale Adventist Hospital, stitched up, and sent
home to recover. I never would. |
| Two
days later, while at home still hurting from the knife wound, the
telephone rang. It was two o’clock in the morning. The telephone
never sounded as loud as it did that Saturday. My father was on
the phone. He said that my brother had been taken to the hospital
after an incident with police officers. I then telephoned Northeast
Police Station. A sergeant explained what he knew at the moment.
I refused to believe it. It was fuzzy, then it became clear. My
brother William, only twenty-six, was in grave condition as a result
of a blow from a police baton to his head. He had been taken to
an emergency hospital. The incident occurred in the Los Feliz area,
in the Northeast Division--where I was assigned. I was paralyzed
with the dread of having to relay the information I had just received
to my family. The nightmare had just begun. While at the hospital,
my captain pulled me aside from my family and gave it to me straight.
“He's not going to make it, Jim, the doctors just told me. I’m sorry.”
I wanted to know who the officers were that were so damn out of
control they would beat someone this bad. The captain’s reply was
that the officers were all on loan from other divisions, including
the supervisor who was a friend. |
| A
tidal wave of emotions hit me when I looked at what my brother officers
had done to my brother. His head was so swollen he was literally
unrecognizable. A brain specialist compared his injuries to that
of a person landing head first after a fall from a three story building.
William's skull had been fractured from one side to the next. We
prayed for a miracle. It was not to be. The injuries were so massive
they proved to be fatal. How could this have happened? William was
working two jobs and in the U.S. Air Force Reserves. He had dreams
for the future. We had always worried about my brother John while
he was in Vietnam until he returned home with the Bronze Star and
Purple Heart. The same Purple Heart would be pinned on William’s
uniform two weeks later at the funeral by John who was a Staff Sergeant
in the U.S. Air Force Reserves. William Roy Retana was promoted
to the rank of Staff Sergeant, U.S. Air Force Reserve on the day
his skull was shattered. |
A
handful of my brother officers sent flowers and a card of sympathy
to me. I gave it to my parents saying it was for them from my fellow
officers. The same officers called to ask if it would be okay to
attend the funeral. I told them it would be inappropriate. I called
the office of the chief of police and made one request: I wanted
to know the truth. La verdad. What really happened? The investigation
into William’s death by Robbery/Homicide Division read like a standard
press release. The officer “struck Retana on the left shoulder with
his monadnock baton. The blow glanced off Retana's shoulder, striking
him on the left side of the head just above the ear.” However, according
to a newspaper article, a confidential report prepared by investigating
detectives to the chief of police said, “The officer missed Retana's
shoulder and hit his head.” Further noting, on the day the press
release was issued, “The officer was uncertain weather his baton
had contacted William's shoulder at all.” At the hospital, I took
photographs of William’s shoulders noting the lack
of bruises or marks. |
| The
press release also used the standard buzz words to describe William’s
behavior, “resisting arrest,” “hostile manner.” The fact was William
never touched or hit any officer. The detectives interviewed William
’s ex-girlfriend and asked a series of leading questions. The last
question they asked was, “You don't think the officers did anything
wrong, do you?” She began to cry as she replied, “They didn't have
to kill him.” After being asked pointed questions by my family,
I searched for answers. I questioned my brother's ex-girlfriend,
reviewed documents, and questioned the homicide detectives and the
District Attorney’s office. Because I never stopped asking questions
I began to piece together what had occurred. After all, I was one
of their own. William was at his ex-girlfriends house, talking with
her though the front door. She asked him to leave, but he wanted
to talk. She then phoned the police to report a burglar at her house,
knowing it would become a high priority call. |
The
first officer to arrive was a uniformed sergeant. As the sergeant
waited for other officers to respond, William's ex-girlfriend exited
her house and began a conversation with William on the front sidewalk.
Two uniformed officers arrived and approached the pair, still talking
to one another. The sergeant did not say a word to the officers.
No one bothered to ask if they knew each other. The sergeant moved
behind William. One officer drew his gun and pointed it at William.
The sergeant ordered the officer to put his weapon away, saying
William was not armed. The officer holstered his gun and drew his
baton. The sergeant then began to strike William on his back and
rear legs. The officer then delivered one fatal “power stroke” to
the right side of William’s head. “Boom, boom, boom, legs, back,
head, it all happened so fast,” a witness would later say. William
immediately collapsed to the ground. The blow to William's head
was heard by another witness across the street. He was not armed
and he was never charged with any crime. The death report originally
listed the cause of death as “Accident,” it was later quietly
changed to “Homicide.” |
| My
family filed a wrongful death lawsuit against the city. During the
pre-trial depositions one officer changed his testimony and two
pages of an original Robbery/Homicide Report were “lost.” The District
Attorney never filed any charges against the officers and the officers
were never disciplined by the department. The Internal Affairs Unit
of LAPD would call me at home to say everything that occurred was
appropriate. Yet, a police spokesman would say, “Training does not
include hitting someone in the head.” I was shocked, angry and confused.
I felt betrayed. The LAPD had one unofficial, official rule I did
not know about: the Department put symbols ahead of human lives.
My damn squeaky clean badge, which separated us from them, was covered
with blood, my brother’s blood . . . my blood. It was a self-serving
icon. |
| My
parent's difficult decision to settle a lawsuit out of court with
the city was due to an illness in the family. I supported them knowing
that a lengthy and emotional court struggle could prove to be too
stressful for them. No amount of money could bring their son, my
brother, back. The following year I found it difficult to perform
my job as a police officer. I requested a transfer to Rampart, a
faster paced division. I didn't hate anyone anymore, except now
I was beginning to dislike my brother officers and their shopworn
jokes and attitudes, especially those damn mottos. My shooting,
stabbing, and brother's death soon began to appear in the form of
nightmares. |
The
Chicano movement had become stale during these times. Many of my
former MECHA brothers, having graduated from law schools and graduate
schools, were in the main stream of their bureaucratic careers,
some as parole agents and probation officers. I was near the end
of my career. In February of 1987 I failed my partner, as well as
myself. I did not search a suspect who was armed with a gun; we
both could have been killed. My partner said, “Don't worry about
it, I won't tell anyone, they won't know.” But I knew. That was
my last day behind the badge. The last entry in my journal reads,
“William's only dream was to become a police officer, but not just
any police officer.
‘Through These Halls Walk . . .” |
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I
set down my journal, walk to my closet, and run my fingers along
the lapel of William's air force uniform, feeling the thick wool
against my skin. His military uniform still hangs next to my dust-ridden
LAPD “class A.” They both should have been thrown out years ago.
Closing the closet door, I recall having asked every possible
question about William’s death and my career, but one: Had I been
a peace officer or just another pistolero?
James
R. Retana is retired from the LAPD
and has completed a novel based on this story.
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