Category: The Call Box

How things were back in the day. Ed Meckle of LAPD, retired, shares fascinating stories.

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The Call Box

The Call Box: Not Miami Vice

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

Let me start with a disclaimer. I never watched the show. But it was impossible not to know of its existence. I did not own either a lavender or peach colored sport coat, white slacks (give me a break), loafers with no socks (nope), I did not live on a boat, have an alligator for a pet nor drive a Maserati. I do like Glen Fry and The Eagles, though. Oh, and I can count on one hand the extended gun battles I had with drug lords. To be really honest, I can’t remember any. I never understood the “vice” part. They never busted any hookers or bookmakers or even crap games. I guess it just sounded sexy. “Miami Vice.” That’s Hollywood for you. I was now a member of “University Vice.”

 

Frank Isbell and I had been promoted to vice from our beloved radio car. Frank to the “Prostitute Squad” and me to “Gambling.”

 

A little background: Home was the small ugly building attached to the east end of the station house. We had some battered desks, chairs and filing cabinets. Years before, the place had been a hamburger joint and the smell of old cooking oil was ever present. We had two old and tired cars. That might as well have “police” painted on the side in large red letters. 

 

The boss was Sergeant Bob Ryan. He worked days did all the sergeant-type stuff, you are supposed to do, books/paperwork, etc. He looked like your rumpled old uncle or the guy behind the deli counter. Even though he was not expected to make arrests, he was deadly as a john or trick when busting prostitutes. He did not have the “cop look.” Working for him on day shift, were two teams (2 men each) chasing bookmakers.

 

 

 

Now, making book was a felony and these teams busted their butts making cases only to have the courts treat it as a misdemeanor and levy a small fine.

 

Frustrating.                                         

Before I go on I should mention the “3 C’s:” commercial, conspicuous and complained of. Tradition says any city with a blatant or conspicuous vice problem is a “corrupt” city. We were guided by the 3 C’s: commercial—the dice and card games took a piece of the action, prostitutes— ‘nuff said. Conspicuous—gambling, no, but the ladies? Well, what can I say?  Complained of—irate wives with no paychecks and rivals would rat out the games and everybody, and I mean everybody (except the tricks), complained about the hookers—

  

                                                                                             more to follow next week

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The Call Box

The Call Box: Who Am I?

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

I am male/female or any gender. I belong to all ethnic groups. I am early to mid-20’s. About 5’6” to 5’10”, proportionate weight. Excellent health and faculties. I was active in high-school sports, probably a scout and possibly a veteran.

I am a police officer.

 

I am remembered from school as a “nice” person, pleasant personality, polite and helpful. Some might use the adjectives caring, respectful and a good kid. I am smarter, more diverse and better equipped than my counterparts of a generation ago. I am better armed both weapons and technology; I have a higher level of education and am probably bi-lingual. I am more prepared to fulfill the duties of an officer than my predecessors. And I am much more likely to be killed or injured. I am more likely to face a gun /knife/rock/bottle/be kicked/punched or assaulted by various means.

I am a police officer.

 

I am chameleon like in my ability to change personalities to deal with any variety of situations that I encounter. I am friend, confidant, confessor, inquisitor, father-figure and any roles that may be needed.

I am a police officer.

 

The only time I am called “officer” is when I ask for your license and registration, or you need help or I am in court. Otherwise, I am a pig, the man, five-oh, Mountie, the fuzz, party-killer or any of hundreds of others. I work all hours, in all weather. I work holidays and weekends and don’t make long range plans. I do things others wouldn’t or couldn’t.

I am a police officer.

 

 

I am expected to counsel persons old enough to be my parents or grandparents, I advise on marital problems and I am single. I am called upon to do distasteful tasks. I must tell a mother or wife that her child or husband is not coming home. I must tell the victim that I will do my best to catch the person who did this to them knowing even if caught the bad guy will escape any “real” punishment.

I am a police officer.

 

When asked why I became a police officer I might offer the stock answer “to help people” or “job security,” but actually, remembering that character, an “old beat cop,” from one of my favorite novels, Signal Thirty-Two by MacKinlay Kantor, tells his rookie partner, “police work is like having a front row seat to the greatest show in the world.” Let the quote sink in and read the line a second time. My God, how true, how succinct and how very well put. A reviewer reported “you will find a world you never knew existed that makes a police officer a breed apart, this world exists right next to your own but as far out of sight as if it were in another dimension.” It can’t be said any better.

I am a police officer.

 

I have been chosen. I am no longer citizen or civilian. I speak in measured tones and remain calm in the face of adversity. I remain in control and control every situation or it will control me. I am no longer a face in the crowd asking “what happened?” I am out front. I am in charge and whatever happens depends on me. Good, bad, or indifferent, it is my responsibility and, God, do I love it.

I chase the person as he runs at night throwing items into the hedge. We enter the open back door of a deserted building and skate on the blood, vomit and whatever until I catch him. I must then wait years for nine elderly persons with a combined age to rival Methuselah, split 5-4 to tell me I did something wrong.

I am a police officer.

 

I read the news or watch it on TV and not recognize the reported version of events even though I was there. Most of you coppers reading this will hopefully identify with some of my words, but there are some who never “got it” and spent their entire careers making themselves and the public miserable. Despite all this, the “great seduction” slowly begins as “the job” becomes all.

 

I am a police officer and will be one until the day I die.

 

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The Call Box

The Call Box: My Shadow World

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

As I write this I realize I live in a world that no longer exists. It is bits and pieces, fragments of memories and dreams, half-forgotten, half-remembered, faded photos of friends and events, of people and places of long ago, of adventures lived, tales told and experiences shared. It is of lives loved and lost, of friends long gone, the sights and sounds of a city, vanished. It is of sacrifices great and small, some known, most unseen. We marvel at where we have been, what we have done and who we have become.

 

The nights were dark and home to the unknowns. Only we stood at the gates. We shared the companionship of the finest people on this earth. I live with the knowledge that there may not be tangible proof of my efforts or even of my existence, but I rest knowing that I left something much greater behind. My service to my fellow man but mostly to my companions. I left it better than I found it. I was part of a select group to take part in a great venture that most never experience or even know exists.

 

I had a front row seat to the greatest show in the world. Who was I? A member of the world’s finest…

 

…the Los Angeles Police Department.

 

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The Call Box

The Call Box: The Man From the Kremlin

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

Every word of what you about to read is true. I was not present but verified the facts from two people who were.

 

Edmund M. Lutes was a sergeant working with me in O.C.I.D. [Organized Crime Intelligence Division] when this occurred. Ed was fluent in German and Russian and was occasionally called upon to translate. On this occasion he was contacted by divisional detectives and asked if he could speak to a Ukrainian, who professed not to speak English. Ed told the detectives that the Ukrainian probably spoke Russian, so yes he could. He was briefed that the Ukrainian was in the hospital jail ward recovering from wounds he received in a gunfight with an L.A.P.D sergeant who was also wounded. The foreign man was also believed to be a deserter from the Soviet Army and was wanted for questioning regarding a murder in Canada. Ed was asked to obtain some basic information but under no circumstances mention the Canadian homicide.

 

Ed entered the jail ward while several other detectives were present but did not

acknowledge them nor even look in their direction. Ed wore a three button suit all done up with a small red star in his lapel looking for all the world like Hollywood’s version of a KGB agent. He did not introduce himself to the Ukrainian but produced a fingerprint kit and rolled the prisoners prints [the prisoner had, of course, been printed days before].  Ed then filled out the written portion of the card in Russian, allowing the prisoner to see it. Ed obtained he information the detectives needed and then told the Ukrainian, “Do not concern yourself with these petty charges brought by the Americans. Remember you are still a Soviet solder and you belong to Mother Russia.”

With not a word to the detectives nor the Ukrainian, Ed left.

 

Several hours later, Ed got a phone call back at the office from the lead detective. “What in the hell did you say to the prisoner? After you left he had an epiphany and suddenly realized he spoke English he also volunteered a statement about the Canadian homicide.”

 

The prisoner was later extradited to Canada and convicted of killing a man during a robbery. When Ed testified during the trial and identified himself as a police sergeant, the prisoner put his head down on the table realizing he had been the victim of an expert flim-flam.

 

Ed Lutes served 23 years with the L.A.P.D., passed the state bar exam and served another 27 years as a Deputy District Attorney for a total of 50 years in law enforcement.

 

Ed was a true renaissance man. He knew a lot of things about a lot of things; he was a graduate engineer he attended Penn State and V.M.I., and served in the U.S.M.C. [Semper Fi]. I was his friend from the day we met in 1962. He went E.O.W. (End of Watch) on 6-24-16.

I shall miss him.

 

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The Call Box

The Call Box: Doin’ Hard Time, part 2 At the Gray Bar Grill

by Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

The Gray Bar Grill, as I mentioned, was our in-house restaurant. It did a big daytime business due to all the court personnel but was quiet at night. It was the only place to get a sandwich, soup or salad as the area was pretty isolated. The chef was of course a trustee who was selected by the officer in charge of placing prisoners in the right jobs. The fare was average at best but cheap (very cheap) but there were bright moments. Whenever the Department of Fish and Game made a seizure of illegal lobster, venison or whatever game, it was donated to the jail system. How about lobster bisque or lobster salad or tender venison for $1.50? Abalone anyone?          

Speaking of trustees, they ran the place. You heard right, they ran the place. All were lifelong alcoholics who spent most of their life behind bars. Some, when arrested and asked their occupation had it printed on their booking slip— “trustee, 3rd floor.” Each floor usually had only one or two officers but six-eight trustees, who knew the system, right down to the forms to fill out—which they did. I had an elderly trustee (all were in their 50s to 60s) who claimed to have done time in San Quentin with Caryl Chessman, the notorious “Red Light Bandit.” He also claimed to have secretly typed the manuscript for his novel Cell 2455, Death Row. His name was Knudsen and he was missing two fingers on one hand and typed as fast as anyone I have ever seen, all on a manual typewriter.

 

The first floor also contained the receiving section where busloads of misdemeanor prisoners arrived on a regular basis. They were placed in huge holding areas and then appeared in arraignment court (Division 30 and 31) They came through by the hundreds. Everybody knew their job and everything moved smoothly until…

 

A couple of officers on the AM shift thought it would be funny to hold court themselves. They opened the courtroom. One donned the robes. And they took guilty pleas and sentenced some of the bleary eyed drunks. It would have gone unnoticed until one prisoner the next morning objected to his real sentence of thirty days, claiming the judge last night only gave him fifteen days.

As you can imagine some tail feathers got burned on that one.

I did less than a year until I got a transfer to patrol. Looking back it wasn’t as bad as I made it sound. It sort of eased me into dealing with the “public,” so to speak.

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The Call Box

The Call Box: Doin’ Hard Time

 

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

It is July and I have just turned 22. I am a recent graduate of the Los Angeles Police Academy, a highly trained law enforcement officer, a former marine and I can run forever and I am assigned to the Lincoln Heights Jail—operating an elevator.

First let me tell you about the Lincoln Heights or Main Jail. Built in 1931 in Art deco style (whatever that means). It is five stories of cement in Lincoln Heights, an area just north and over the river from downtown LA. Railroad tracks were squeezed between the jail and river (just barely). At night when the trains went by they usually sound their whistle. It was sort of, “I’m out here and you’re not.”

 

The first floor is given over to administration, two very large courtrooms (division 30 and 31), the “Gray Bar Grill” (our in-house restaurant), the front desk information section together with the bail bond windows. Actually, I only got stuck with the elevator job a couple of times but I just wanted to bitch.

Floors 2, 3, and 4 are cell blocks for those serving time, generally short sentences of 30-60 days etc. Floor 5 is the Women’s Section, the only place in the entire city where you can book a female.

The front or information desk was where the action was, it was busy enough that usually four or five officers were assigned to answer the phones and handle the public. We maintained the index for all prisoners in the city and we stayed busy. This was before computers.

My first brush with celebrity

Even working nights, we stayed busy. One night, standing at the counter was Broderick Crawford (Academy Award winner for “All the King’s Men”) together with some studio functionary. He had just begun a new series ”Highway Patrol” and looked every inch the movie star—camel hair overcoat with up turned collar, fedora with down turned brim, dark glasses (indoors at night) and it would not have surprised me if there was an ascot under the coat. The functionary inquired about a prisoner, “Yes, we have him.”

“Where is the car he was driving?”

I gave him the information and they left. I later found out Crawford had been arrested for DUI so many times he lost his license, so the studio supplied him with car and driver. The driver later was arrested for—you guessed it—DUI. All they wanted was the car, forget the driver. Sort of “Leave the gun, bring the cannoli.”

I never did figure why Crawford was there. He never spoke a word….

Part 2 on Wednesday, September 21, 2016

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The Call Box

The Call Box: Welcome to the 19th Century, part 3

 

 

 

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

Ward transferred to a staff job and Hal went to the day watch. Years later he would become one of the first helicopter pilots when “air support division” was formed. [see The Call Box August 16th for more on Ward Fitzgerald and Hal Brasher].  

 

3A15 was now “my” car [see The Call Box August 24th for more on 3A15].  George Flanders soon transferred to motors, and Frank (Isbell) and I worked with a succession of newbies. When we were together though, we were the perfect partners. Frank was a year or two older and from Corpus Christi, Texas, a former Marine (as was I) and an all-around good guy. He had a good sense of humor and was smart as a whip (he made captain before retiring). We developed an easy relationship when on the street.

 

Eye contact with each other was important because a certain facial expression conveyed a message. We had code words to pass information without alerting the person or persons we were talking to. Just a look conveyed a message. He was a great street cop and a great partner.

 

The police unit or patrol car

All cars in our division were two- or three-year-old four door Fords, Chevys or Plymouths. All were standard transmission. They actually had one unit with automatic transmission. The officers assigned had to do a report every week to see if it was suitable for police work. Honest.

 

At age two or three they had been on the street 24 hours a day unless pulled for service. And they were tired. They were the most inexpensive cars the city could buy. They also did not have seat belts. I think oversized springs was the only concession to street work.

 

The emergency lights were two round non-flashers mounted on the roof with a siren between them. Both were activated by pulling two buttons on the dash then operating the siren with the horn ring. The car was so under powered that as the pitch of the siren went up the car slowed down.

 

Again, honest.

 

 

Most of the cars had a string tied to the dash buttons running to the shift lever so they could be activated by pulling on the strings. Hi-tech. The “hot sheet” which was the list of stolen vehicles, was displayed by bending a paper clip and hanging it from the dash, where it swung freely.

 

Frank used to envision something like a TV screen in the cars that would give us up to date information. Yeah, right!!

 

This was when computers were in their infancy. After we left patrol we worked together several more times but that is for future stories.

 

As to the mystery building glued to the east end of the station, I never could find anyone to explain it. It was made of faux logs, was approximately 20’ by 20’, painted a bilious yellow, and it had once been a hamburger stand. It now served as the office for the Vice Squad.

 

More on that later…

 

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The Call Box: Welcome to the 19th Century, part 2

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

Ward Fitzgerald and Hal Brasher were both WWII vets. Ward served with the Navy in the Pacific while Hal piloted B-26 Martin Marauder bombers in North Africa. They were both laid back, calm, quiet and had seen it all. Each old enough to be my father and they took the time and patience to teach me how to be a street cop. They knew everybody in their area and everybody knew them.

 

Normally, three officers would be assigned to each unit [car]. With one usually day off, etc, the other two partnered up. When all three of us were working, I was assigned to another unit. When that happened, I got to know the other guys on the watch and see different parts of the division. I recall one night, pulling up to the gas pumps prior to going on patrol with a new partner when I saw him hugging a trustee [each station was assigned jail trustees to shine shoes, clean the coffee room, pump gas, or whatever].

 

I gave him a questioning look and he told me the trustee was his father doing time for DUI and that his mother asked him to keep an eye on dad [shades of Mayberry].  My regular unit with Ward or Hal was “3 A 1 5.” The “three” being the designation for university, the “a” for a two-man patrol unit, and the “1 5” was us. There were a lot of other “3 As” but we were the only “1 5.” Our patrol area was the north west portion of the division. An area known then as now known as the Normandie/Adams area. In the late 1800s and very early 1900s the area was [slightly] elevated was populated by grand mansions inhabited by the rich and famous. It became known as “Sugar Hill.”

 

 

We were the Sugar Hill car. By now however, the area had fallen on hard times and some of the mansions sat vacant while others had been converted to boarding houses or “flop houses.” Some stood as though in a pose of embarrassment, resembling elderly matrons ashamed of themselves and their surroundings. We were a night watch unit and the division came alive with a different persona at dusk.

 

I was taught to slowly drive the darkened side streets with lights off and windows down. We cruised back alleys and sometimes would stop and just listen. I learned the difference between “looking” and “seeing” and “listening” and “hearing.” I learned how to talk to people, to read body language so it became second nature to me to “see” and “hear” things.  I was quizzed on things we had just done, and sometimes to see if I had picked up on the subtleties of something that we had encountered. I grew confident until the powers that be decided I should work with two younger guys. Thus Frank Isbell and George Flanders came into my life.

Next Wednesday, August 31st will post the last installment of Welcome to the 19th Century by Ed Meckle

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The Call Box

The Call Box: Welcome to the 19th Century

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

After slightly less than a year at the jail, I had the opportunity to transfer to “University Division.” A division in L.A.P.D. terms is a designated geographic area containing a police station and providing all manner of law enforcement. Back east it would be a precinct. I had no idea what/who or where the university was, but I soon found out. The area was due south of downtown L.A. and was approximately 45 blocks north to south and about 60-65 blocks east to west. It was a low income area with a very high crime rate. Smack in the middle of this morass, sat two gleaming islands—the Memorial Coliseum and the campus of the University of Southern California.

 

 

The station house on Jefferson Boulevard looked to have been built in the latter half of the 19th century. Judging by the architecture it had the stone fortress look.  The interior contained all manner of gee-gaws and jim-cracks common to the time period. The building had as the saying goes “seen better days” and was “on its last legs.” The building itself was two stories tall and took up one half of  a block with the balance given over to the parking lot. For some unknown reason there was a former hamburger stand glued on to one end of the building [more on that later]. Rumor had it the building was sinking into a subterranean cavern. This was partially borne out by the fact that most of the interior doors would not close properly. Round objects such as pencils rolled off desks and the elaborate and ornate interior stairway had separated from the wall about half way between floors, leaving a gap of about 4-6 inches and giving the stairs the appearance of “floating in mid air.” The department of building and safety however was “Johnny on the spot” putting up a barricade at the separated place with signs warning users to use the outer edge of the stairs only. It was like that when I arrived and like that when it left two and a half years later. I thought however, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen because finally I was on the street and going to learn how to become a police officer.

 

Except for a few youngsters such as myself most of the uniforms and detectives were WWII vets who had “been there” and seen it all. I was lucky; I had been assigned with two of the best.

Check in next Wednesday, August 24th for the next of three installments.

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The Call Box: I’ve Seen the Elephant

By Ed Meckle, Retired LAPD

During the Civil War, 1861-1865, most of the combatants were very young, many just teen   agers, low in social status, and poorly educated. Most had never been away from home when they were thrust unprepared into the bloodiest conflict this country has ever seen. They took part in battles where hundreds if not thousands died in a single day; an experience that changed that person forever. This encounter was referred to as “having been to see the elephant.” It meant seeing and living through things they never imagined and being witness to the depravity one person can visit on another.

Being a police officer is, of course, not so severe but as my colleague, Hal Collier so eloquently put it, “there are things you can’t unsee.” Think about that for a moment. You become a player in situations that no person could even dream of, no less become a party to. That can consume you and, in a way, define who you are.

 

Police officers are a clannish lot probably because we know how that person we are with will react in certain circumstances. We have experienced the same things and share an unspoken bond. We “have seen the elephant.”

Except for the military, you do not see retirees—some driving hundreds of miles—sit down for lunch with other retirees to relive, if only briefly, ”the experience.”

I recently attended my academy class reunion. Conversations were quiet and subdued as we sat in almost reverential. Silence as though marveling at where we had been, what we had done, and who we had become. The camaraderie and sense of nostalgia was almost palpable as I read the names of those gone before and we drank a toast to their memory.

For his play, “Henry V,” Shakespeare gave his lead character (prior to the battle) the line, “Oh we band of brothers,” used again by Rear Admiral Horatio Nelson referring to his captains. Then of course to the TV series of the same name. “Band of Brothers.” It has a certain ring to it, succinct, descriptive, and with an air of boldness and bravado.

 

 

What motivates a man or woman to take up badge and gun to do a task that other wouldn’t or more importantly—couldn’t? To look at the job as almost a “calling” much like the priesthood, to take such pleasure and joy from doing a task perhaps no one will ever know of. What is it that as others scream and run at the sound of gunfire, causes him/her to run toward the sound? I never knew an officer who did not bust his/her butt to get to a “Shots fired” or “Man with a gun call.”

We all bleed a little when our brothers fall. Too many taps, too many pipers on too many hills, Amazing Grace and the Missing Man Fly Over—with I fear more to come.

 

We are light years from Norman Rockwell’s whimsical Saturday Evening Post magazine covers but we will persevere—because we are “..a band of brothers who have been to see the elephant.”