Tag: Hollywood

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings-Misc 2, featuring Childhood Revenge

 

By Hal Collier

 

 

The following stories are true. These are tidbits of things that happened during my career. I was recently asked why I write these stories. Whenever you get three or more cops together, they talk about the good old days. The more alcohol consumed the better the stories. All cops have stories of their experiences. They love listening to a cop’s story and then tell their version of the incident. Some of the replies I get of an incident confirm that my memory is still good. Hopefully, I can put off having my name and address written in my underwear for a few more years.

 

These stories are sort of my memoirs of my career. I always said that good police work was 75% luck. That’s being in the right place at the right time. It’s 25% knowing what to do with the luck when it drops in your lap. Being a cop is rewarding as well as frustrating. Cops rely on instincts due to their training and experience. Now days, lawyers call it profiling. The first story still bugs me to this day. I missed a big one.

 

I’m working A.M. Watch—it’s about 4 A.M. I’m driving in the Whitley Heights area of Hollywood. That’s a nice residential area above Hollywood Boulevard. It’s where movie stars first moved to in the 30’s, 40’s, and 50’s. I see this car driving toward me. It’s a beat up clunker, one head light out. As he passes me, the driver has that ‘oh shit’ look on his face. Even my new probationer partner remarks that guy doesn’t fit this neighborhood.police traffic stop

 

We stop him to investigate. He identifies himself as Roman Jason Elliott III. He says he’s from New York and begins to compliment us on our professional appearance. Ok, I’ve been snowed before, but most attempts were by a female traffic violator. As I question him, I’m thinking he was in that neighborhood to commit a crime or was leaving after committing a crime. His story has so many holes that even the ACLU would be suspicious. His car was registered to a female—he claimed was his girlfriend’s car registered in Kansas. We checked him and the car for warrants and neither was wanted. He gave me permission to search his car. Nothing in the interior, the trunk was locked and he insisted his girlfriend had the key. I tried to figure out a way to get into the trunk. I’ve got that nagging feeling that something is wrong, but I can’t arrest him on hunches. I sent Roman on his way.

 

I’m off for the next two days and when I return, I’m sitting in Roll Call. They pass out a wanted flier for a Roman Jason Elliot III. Wanted for murder. It seems Roman strangled his girlfriend when she refused to be a prostitute and put her in the trunk of her car. He was looking for a place to dump her body. I’ve got that sick feeling in my stomach. I had him and let him slip away. He was later arrested in Florida and convicted. His girlfriend was a farm girl from Kansas. Roman convinced her that he would take her to Hollywood and make her a star. Yea, she was in the trunk when we stopped him. Win some, lose some and I lost a big one.

 

I found an interesting article dated Oct. 25, 1998 in the Lehigh (Pennsylvania) Valley newspaper. This wasn’t the only time Roman met the police. There’s even a line indicating he later had a murder conviction in California. Sadly, this is similar to what happened with Sonoma County Sheriff’s Deputies during the Polly Klaas abduction investigation. It’s one of those times when the law dictates what a cop can do–and can’t. If there was no consent to search the trunk in either case, the officer cannot lawfully do it. this is an example of cops doing their jobs to the best of their ability within the law. Unfortunately, the outcome wasn’t satisfactory in either case, although both men were convicted of murder.  –Thonie

 

OK, on a brighter note, Cliff and I are patrolling a rear parking lot of businesses behind Hollywood Boulevard. As we drive through the parking lot, we see a man come from the back of a business. We grab him and figure we caught us a business burglar. As we question him, I notice a hippy dog with a handkerchief tied around his neck, running around the parking lot. This guy’s story is also full of holes. We handcuff him and put him in the back seat of our patrol car. I leave Cliff to watch over our new friend, while I check which building this guy broke into.

 

I see that damn dog again.

 

As I look for a crime, Cliff calls out to me, “Hal, we got a problem.” I return to our car. That dog belonged to our bad guy. He entered our police car through an open front door and jumped into the back seat next to our suspect. The dog is barking at us and showing an impressive set of canines. The dog won’t let us approach our own police car.viciousmuttdog1200

 

I can just hear the guys laughing at us and imagine the comments and practical jokes.

 

“Hal, why didn’t you just let the dog drive your suspect to the station?”

 

“Hal, are you applying for a K-9 job?”

 

I need time to think.

I go back to checking out the businesses for a crime. Nothing, our suspect might have gone back there to pee or we just caught him too soon.

 

I’ve stalled enough. What do I do with that dog? I get as close as I can to my police car. I tell my suspect if he loves that dog, he had better control him. I even threaten to shoot the dog if he bites me. The guy gets his dog to calm down. We release the guy and the dog, we saved ourselves a bunch of embarrassment. Since then I’ve hated hippy dogs with handkerchiefs tied around their necks.

 

 

I grew up in Eagle Rock and we lived in the hills. Our street was on a hill with the top somewhat level. That’s were all the kids played ball, rode our bikes, played freeze tag and dreaded when the street lights come on, because that’s when we had to go home.

 

At the level spot of our street, lived a man, Mr. Melman, the scrooge of our block. I’ll bet every kid growing up had a Mr. Melman living in their neighborhood. If our ball landed in his yard, he would run out, grab it, and make one of our parents go get it back. If we were just starting a football game he would back his car out of the driveway and park it on our 50-yard line. He just hated kids, but then come to think of it the parents didn’t like him either. Well, growing up you learn to deal with adults.

 

Flash forward fifteen years, I’m a cop patrolling Hollywood Boulevard. My partner observes this guy who resembles a wanted suspect. We stop him and ask for identification. I look at his driver’s license and my mouth drops open. It’s Mr. Melman from my street. I didn’t recognize him and he didn’t recognize me. He wasn’t our wanted suspect but he did have a bunch of unpaid traffic tickets that had gone to warrant. I don’t think I ever enjoyed booking a warrant suspect more. I just wish I could have shared my joy with the kids I grew up with. Most had moved away and I lost touch with them.

 

I still get a warm feeling when I think of sweet childhood revenge.

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Driving part 3 of probably 4

By Hal Collier

I’ll bet that all the non-police that read this Ramblings never gave much thought to what it takes to drive a police car. Trust me, it’s more than leaving the police station and driving to the local donut shop. Most cops can relate to what I’m about to say. Let’s talk about checking out your police car before starting your shift. I’ve found a half-eaten chilidog under the front seat; it would have made a great junior high science project after being there for three days. I once found a WWII hand grenade on my front seat, left by officers of the previous shift. You have to make sure that any dented fenders were reported or you get the blame and maybe days off without pay.

Ok, you hit the streets. You’re looking for trouble. Take for example a simple traffic ticket. Say the driver is late for work and trying to make up a few minutes. He runs that red light by just by a second or two. The cop who sees the driver run that red light will commit three traffic violations just to catch him and give him a ticket. Even worse, he gets the lecture on how dangerous your driving was. Hint: don’t use that as an excuse in traffic court. Judges will still find you guilty! By the way, did you thank that cop for risking his life to give you that ticket? I didn’t think so and his parents probably are married.

Here’s an oxymoron for you. An officer gives you a ticket for talking or texting on your cell phone while driving. Look in his car and you’ll see a computer sitting next to the driver’s seat. I learned to drive, type and read messages all while driving on Hollywood streets. Quite a few officers have run into parked cars while driving and typing. By the way, some cops get days off, without pay, for traffic accidents that were their fault.

Another hazard is patrol! Yea, you’re driving around and looking for that arrest that will make your captain forget you missed court last month. You see an individual you think is wanted. You turn to look at him and don’t see that traffic in front of you has stopped. I had two of those in my career! At least I wasn’t looking at some underdressed woman when I rear-ended a car, honest.

Ok, let’s get down to real police driving-getting there in a hurry. I’m talking, the adrenaline pumping, heart in your throat; did I bring another pair of underwear? It’s not always a high-speed pursuit as depicted on TV.

lapd 69 plym BelvedereOne night I was driving a 1969 Plymouth—the finest police car ever made. My longtime friend Jim Moody was the passenger. A “shots fired” call came out on the very east end of the division. I was driving down Hollywood Boulevard—ok, I was speeding. We wanted to be first on scene. A car pulls out from a side street in front of me. No problem, I’ll turn the steering wheel to the right and tap the brakes, just as I was taught in driving school. Next thing I know the ass end of my police car is in front of my engine. Our police cruiser stops with the rear bumper ten feet from a closed bar. I look at Moody; his knuckles are white as he grips the dash. Our car has stalled, I think the car is amazed that we didn’t hit anything. I finally get it started and arrive last at the call. No shots fired. I learned a lesson that night.

North on La Cienega Blvd. flickr.com
North on La Cienega Blvd. flickr.com

Another time I was racing to a call on La Cienega. I was driving south from Sunset, traffic was light, and I’m sailing along. La Ciengega crosses Santa Monica—big deal, right? La Cienega is a very steep hill and levels off as it crosses Santa Monica then drops down again. That’s right my police car becomes airborne. If the tires are off the ground, the steering wheel and brakes are worthless. Again, I learned a valuable lesson—slow down and live to see retirement.

Next I’ll talk about pursuit driving, code 3 driving, and driving during buy/bust operations? Hal

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Ramblings by Hal

Police Burglars, epilog

by Hal Collier

Epilog to the Hollywood Police Burglar scandal:

After the smoke cleared and believe me this took years, I pieced together the following events of the Hollywood Burglaries. Ron Venegas made a deal and cooperated with investigators. He resigned from the LAPD and last I heard he was driving a truck for the movie studios. He was sentenced to probation and never did any jail time. Jack Myers died in an automobile accident shortly after his arrest. It was ruled accidental, most speculated he committed suicide or was run off the road by an unknown officer to silence him.

Twelve officers and supervisors were either charged criminally or administratively. One sergeant was actually tried in court. The judge found him not guilty. The only evidence was Venegas’s statements and the Judge said, “Venegas is an admitted criminal and I wouldn’t believe him if he said the sun will rise in the morning.” All resigned and were never charged, one other officer got probation. Those of us left behind were on probation for decades. In an earlier Ramblings, I described ugly partners who tarnished the badge. There wasn’t enough Brasso to clean my badge because of these officers.

Venegas, Myers and others were responsible for over 100 Hollywood business burglaries. Some resulted from taking property after a business was already broken into and others they went “shopping.” Shopping involved businesses that had something the officers wanted. The officers carried a slingshot and marbles. They would smash out a window and wait for the alarm call. They would then request backup officers to search the premises for suspects. When the uninvolved officers left, they would take whatever they needed.

Some of the businesses they broke into baffled me. Lido Cleaners, where we all cleaned our uniforms! They broke into the cleaners a couple of times. They not only took cash but their clean uniforms. Some of businesses were video stores and they took video players and video discs. They broke into a couple of pharmacies and took prescription drugs. Hardware stores, auto repair shops for batteries or tools. Strange but IA couldn’t find out if they sold anything or pawned it. A lot of the stolen property was piled up in their garages.

In an odd twist, one sergeant was suspected of being a burglar and his house was searched. Nothing was found and Internal Affairs returned a month later and wanted to search again. They didn’t have a search warrant and ordered the sergeant to give up his civil rights. The sergeant sued the department and won a million dollar settlement. We all have to play by the rules!

One of the officers was rumored to be involved with a prostitute on the west side. She was later found dead in a motel. Last I heard her murder is still unsolved!

All supervisors were transferred out of Hollywood. Captains, lieutenants, sergeants, even if you’d never supervised the involved officers. The department was cleaning house! To some, it was a blessing. Hollywood was not a fun place to work anymore. Most were given the division of their choice, closer to home. Of course, in their new division they were looked upon as guilty, just not caught. Think about it, you transferred out all the supervisors, now you have to replace them. We get a bunch of new Hollywood sergeants, who probably don’t want to work in a slowly decaying division. I’m wondering who to trust and I’m questioning my own judgments on a person’s character. The new Captain, Bob Smitson and my Lieutenant, Tom Elfmont, were hand-picked by the chief to clean up Hollywood Division.

I remember one sergeant, Doug Campbell, who befriended me. He seemed like a good guy, but I’ve been burned and not very trusting. Doug turned out to be a great guy, a good street cop in sergeants stripes, and still my friend today. He made the transition much easier.

Last few paragraphs, I promise. The Department’s conclusion was that poor supervision led to the burglaries. That’s partly true since a few supervisors were involved in the thefts. It was also suggested that some of the officers, although not involved, should have known. As I said before I was looking for burglars, I just wasn’t looking in my own yard! I have received many responses from former Hollywood officers. They saw patterns after the arrests that might have made us more suspicious of our co-workers.

Most of the involved officers moved on with their lives and put their past behind them. I’d hear that so and so was working for this company and doing fine. I once was told that Ron Venegas was at a movie shoot in Hollywood, and asked if I wanted to see him. Now, Ron and I had been friends but I had nothing to say to him now.

I thought I was over the scandal when I attended a Department school for Watch Commanders. It was 1996, fifteen years after the scandal. I sat quietly in the back row of the class—I got there early. In the front of the classroom, this young sergeant was talking about police corruption and the Hollywood Scandal. I let him finish and when he asked for comments, I jumped up. I’d been silent for too long. There were two sides to this story and he was only telling the command staff’s side. I was there and this sergeant was still in High School when it occurred. After I vented, I sat down. A couple of old timers approached me at the break and thanked me for speaking up, but I still carry the scars of betrayal three decades later.

Lt. Dan Cook, LAPD spokesman at the time said, “We’ll recover from it but we’ll never forget it.” I’m not sure I’ll ever recover or forget.

Hal

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Ramblings by Hal

Police Burglars, part 3 of 3

This post is part 3 of 3. Oh, except for the epilogue, which will be posted tomorrow. Because the end of this series is so lengthy, I’ve split it in two. For police personnel or civilian, Hal’s take on this scandal is worth reading. He was in the trenches and sadly, is still feeling the betrayal three decades old. –Thonie

 

By Hal Collier
My first Ramblings on the Hollywood Burglary Scandal dealt with a rash of business burglaries that occurred in Hollywood, most on my shift. My second Ramblings described the arrest of Venegas and Myers and how they were caught.

This Ramblings will describe the aftermath and the effect it had on not only me but the entire LAPD. This might take a few pages so get yourself your favorite beverage and sit back. Again, these are my observations and any resemblance to the opinions of the Los Angeles Police Department is purely coincidental. I’m already getting opinions and theories from other Hollywood officers who have read my first Ramblings.

So here goes:
The next night I go to work wondering what to expect. Venegas and Myers have been relieved of duty and we were told an investigation into their activities had been started.

Nothing earth shattering there. The rumors started and the dumb questions were asked. Is anyone else involved? Cops on other watches, some former partners would ask, “Do you have a Video Recorder for sale.” Not funny after the 50th time. Another officer and close friend asks, “Hal, did you know?” That question hurt. Maybe it was just me but it seemed like I was being watched and under suspicion by everyone. Supervisors showed up at more of my calls. I was beginning to spend a lot of time looking over my shoulder.

After a few weeks things seemed to calm down, then another officer was taken out of the field and assigned to the desk. A week later he was relieved of duty. Then another two officers were assigned to the desk. They also were relieved of duty. The Hollywood desk was getting crowded.

One night I showed up for work and see that I’m working the desk. I ask the Watch Commander if I was I being investigated. He assures me, “No, it’s just that were running short of officers.” All night I’m at the desk and I hear, “Oh, Hal, not you too.”

Some of rumors were beautiful, some we made up ourselves. It was common knowledge that one of the involved parties was cooperating with Internal Affairs Investigators. That’s fine as long as the person is truthful. What if he has a grudge against an officer? It could ruin an officer’s career.

In 1981, there was a cowboy craze throughout America. A lot of cops were wearing cowboy boots, hats and big belt buckles. Yea, I even had them. One day this officer comes up to me at change of watch. He says, “Hal, I hear they searched everyone’s house.” I was tired of the rumors. I said, “Yea, they took all my boots, belt buckles and my favorite cowboy hat.” It spread like wildfire, before I got changed to go home it was all over the station. I still have that cowboy hat!

Another rumor that was going around was that Morning Watch Officers would meet after work and divide the stolen property. We were also rumored to have prostitutes at after work bull sessions. After relieving so many officers, the department had to replace them. Any new officer was immediately believed to be a department plant to get information on us. You need to trust your partner, not be suspicious of him.

Those of us still left, became paranoid. I remember one day I’m on a day off and sitting in my kitchen. My wife yells at me, “Hal, Internal Affairs is across the street and they’re looking at our house.” I look out the window and sure enough that’s a four-door plain police car with two plain suit detectives. I don’t care if they have a search warrant, but I’m wondering did we make the bed this morning. I’ll plead innocent to the kid’s bedroom, I don’t know what’s in there. I watch them for a while and discover they are looking at the house next door which has a for sale sign. They are shopping on duty. Ok, now my wife and I are both ready for those long sleeve coats with the buckles that fasten in the back.

After a while, the interviews started. I.A. would show up at the station and just like the enemy, they attacked at dawn. They would bring in an officer, sit him down and ask him questions about radio calls he had been at months or even a year ago. Who was there, what did you do, what did you see, do you own any of these items? Hell, a year ago? I have my name and address in my underwear. You would think that they would ask all their questions one time and they would be through. Ha, every officer they interviewed gave them some information they didn’t know about and they would have to ask each officer about that incident. As near as I can remember, I had six separate interviews. They always said I wasn’t a suspect but I sure felt like “a person of interest” like they mention in the news.

After a round of interviews, new rumors would fill the station halls. Cops can spread rumors faster than TMZ! Soon, I’d get calls from friends in other divisions who heard the rumors. It became hard to avoid the distractions.

See Just the Facts, Ma’am/Ramblings tomorrow for the epilog to this story.

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Ramblings by Hal

Prostitutes, part 5 of a trilogy

By Hal Collier

The following stories are true to the best of my memory, but then I’m beginning to write my name and address in my underwear. Now, if I would just remember to wear underwear.

 

I never worked Vice or PED (Prostitution Enforcement Detail) but I did spend a lot of time, pissing in the wind, trying to stem the flow of untaxed prostitution.

 

I was working the best job I would ever have on the LAPD.  I was walking a foot beat on Hollywood Boulevard.  I still laugh when some supervisor on a cop show threatens to send a cop back to pounding a foot beat.  Anyway, I’m working a morning watch foot beat assignment on Hollywood Boulevard.  A morning watch foot beat is unheard of in other divisions.  That’s right 11:30 P.M. to 7 A.M.  Anyway, I got a handle on the drag queen problem—they’re all working east of Vine.

 

My lieutenant says “Hal, the whores on Sunset are out of control and Vice can’t work all night. I want your foot beat to go down to Sunset and give them some attention.”  Uh oh, I’m going to need another recipe box.  PED hadn’t been invented and Public Nuisance laws hadn’t been enacted.  Anybody who knows the law, knows that uniformed police officers don’t make arrests for prostitution.  Only a Darwin Award candidate would go up to a uniformed cop

Here is a picture of Jim Tomer, a partner of mine. He was giving a traffic ticket to a soiled dove in Hollywood. Hal
Here is a picture of Jim Tomer, a partner of mine. He was giving a traffic ticket to a soiled dove in Hollywood.
Hal

and offer a sex act for a specific amount of money.  So, all I could do was write them tickets or book them for the tickets that I wrote them and they didn’t pay for. The circle of a Hollywood cop’s life.

 

So, Randy Witkamp, my partner at the time, and I headed down to Sunset.  We began filling up a recipe box with a whole new circle of friends.  Mud Ducks from the East side and the more attractive and expensive girls from the west end.  I knew they were girls, because if you remember, [see post from May 3] I’m a department expert on drag queens.

 

We immediately encountered one girl at Sunset and La Brea.  Her name was Bobbie XXXXXX. I remember her last name but she’s probably a member of some city employees staff and I can’t afford a civil suit.  Bobbie was attractive, smart and only dated regular customers.  Vice had a hard time arresting her. I think she actually graduated from college; her brother went to UCLA and played football.  Any way Bobbie had a bad attitude toward the police and we became her new favorite nemesis.  Randy and I would drive down Sunset, right after stopping at Limelight Liquor for sunflower seeds and cigars.

 

If we saw Bobbie, we would park right in front of her.  Bobbie always paid her tickets so all we could do was put her out of business.   Bobbie once told me she makes a $1,000 a week, tax free.  I was making about a $1,000 a month, before taxes.  So we would sit in our car and Bobbie was put out of work for the night.  Because we didn’t have to respond to radio calls we could sit for an hour at a time.  One night we brought a thermos of coffee, pulled up in front of Bobbie poured ourselves a cup and sat back drinking coffee and eating sunflower seeds.

 

Taxi and prosBobbie said something about a waste of tax payers dollars and jumped into a taxi cab.  She’s not paying taxes so who cares.  We followed her southbound Hollywood Freeway to southbound Harbor Freeway.  The taxi exited at Century Boulevard and so did we.  We got back on the freeway and stopped at PAB and topped off our gas tank.  We got back to Sunset and La Brea just as Bobbie was getting out of the taxi. We made sure that Bobbie didn’t make any money that night.

 

One night we were sitting in front of Bobbie when we heard this car speeding northbound La Brea. It was a van and it sped right through the red light at about 60 mph.  Randy and I looked at each other as another car somewhat slowed and ran through the same red light.  This has to be better than watching Bobbie give us the finger.  We turned northbound and followed the two cars.  They both ran the red light at Hollywood Boulevard and again at Franklin Avenue.  We hear a horrendous crash.  The van was still going about 60 mph when it ran into a block wall where La Brea ends.  I won’t describe the driver’s condition but he died within minutes.  His van crashed into the block wall right in front of the yellow street sign that said “END”  The second car was an off duty cop who saw the van speeding and thought he had just committed a robbery.  The irony is the van driver was drunk and going home to the 1900 block of South La Brea.  He died in the 1900 block of North La Brea.  Right street, just going in the wrong direction.

 

I’m working station security one night.  This white guy pulls up in a pick-up truck.  He shows me an LAPD badge and asks if Sergeant Houchin is the Watch Commander.  I tell him yes and he sprints into the Watch Commander’s office.  I notice the guy is bleeding from his head.  Minutes later, I hear a crime broadcast, murder just occurred at the Sahara Motel on Sunset, suspect is described as a male white in a pick-up truck.  I’m putting 2 and 2 together and this time I come up with that’s the murder suspect.

 

Turns out he’s a Wilshire sergeant who picks up a black prostitute and goes back to her room for that 30 minute nap.  He’s just entered her room when the pimp emerges from the closet and tries to rob the sergeant.  The sergeant takes a couple of hits to his head, pulls out his gun and sends the pimp to the afterlife.  The homicide was ruled justified but the sergeant’s career path hit a major speed bump.

 

The real Farrah Fawcett
The real Farrah Fawcett

Ok, last story on prostitutes, I think.  We’re driving down Sunset early one night and we spot this attractive prostitute, new to us.  We stop her and she informs us we just arrived in Hollywood from Fresno.  She tells us they needed to turn a few tricks for motel money.  I’m no English major but I pick up on we and they.  I ask who’s she with, thinking it might be a pimp.  She tells us her girl friend just got a date before we stopped her.  I ask whats her girlfriend look like?  She tells me she looks just like Farrah Fawcett.  I’m thinking yea, right, they are on the west end where the better looking hookers work, but come, on Farrah Fawcett!

 

We drive around for an hour looking for Farrah, when we see a line of cars trying to pick up a hooker.  Yep, it’s Farrah. Damn if she doesn’t look just like Farrah, even with the famous hair style.  We get in line and it’s surprising how many cars ahead of us give up their spot.  We interview Farrah.  Yea, she got the looks but three words out of her mouth and you can see why she is a prostitute.  She couldn’t make change for a dime.  I swear my Lab has a higher IQ.

 

I’m not going into stories about the following but these are locations which catered to male prostitutes.  Most of my retired cop friends who worked around Hollywood could tell you stories that will amaze you.  Non-cops will find them unbelievable.

 

Ferndale #4–A men’s bathroom at the end of Ferndale Park.

 

Barnsdale Park–During the day a world class art gallery and Hollyhock House, after dark dozen of men running around looking for someone to share that 30 minute nap.

 

La Jolla and Waring–Nice neighborhood in the daytime, men having sex on your front porch at night.

 

I didn’t like working the prostitutes and equated it with standing Station Security.  Very little return for your effort.

Hal

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings Prostitutes, part 4

By Hal Collier

The fourth part of a planned trilogy.

 

If you missed the first 3 parts, e-mail me and I’ll send them to you free of charge.  Of course I live in California so I’ll have to charge you a tax of $12.96.

 

My last Ramblings talked about how to identify a drag queen. Now I’m going to tell you how I became a Department expert in a field so disgusting.  My background: I worked A.M. (graveyard) watch for the first fourteen years of my career on the LAPD.  The hours were roughly 11:30 P.M. to 7:30 A.M.  During those hours the prostitutes come out from under which ever rock they dwell.  It started out innocent enough.  I took a couple of reports when men dressed as women robbed their customers.  The suspect usually gave a first name to their new-found love.  Usually Steven was changed to Stephanie, Robert to Roberta etc. and there were always an abundance of Bambi’s, well, you get the picture.  After a number of reports where Roberta robbed Paul to pay Peter the pimp, I thought that Roberta was driving up Hollywood’s crime stats.  All I needed to do was ID and arrest Roberta. KISS—”keep it simple stupid.”

 

green recipe boxI began stopping drag queens who matched Roberta’s description. I filled out a field interview (FI) card and if possible took a picture.  After collecting a few dozen FI cards I needed something to store them in.  My wife bought me a green plastic receipt box.  It was the perfect size and became known as the “The Green Box.”  A few officers called it the “Drowning Rat File.”

 

Soon the “The Green Box” became two boxes, A thru L was the Green Box an M thru Z was a tan box.  Whenever possible, the suspects were taken to the station where we had a strip mug photo machine.  Just like you had at the carnival, four pictures for a buck.  The “Green Box” became popular not only among officers but the drag queens themselves.  If an officer was looking for a particular he/she, he would look thru the “Green Box.”  The drag queens wanted to see if we had a good picture of them. One even offered to go to the station for a better picture.  The Green Box evolved into two I-Card books.  Each individual had it’s own card with all it’s alias’s, DOB’s (date of birth), criminal arrest numbers and a small picture.  Once a homicide detective used my Green Box to ID a murder suspect.

 

I was the keeper of the Green Box or the drowning rat file books.  I guarded them with your tax dollars.  The information contained hundreds of hours of computer time as well as a who’s who in the drag queen hall of fame.  I once used the Green Box as a Christmas list.  I checked the current Hollywood drag queens for warrants.  I used the wanted queens as a shopping list.  Two days before Christmas I arrested and booked the “Ladies” who caused the most crime.  It was my present to Hollywood Officers who might otherwise have to take crime reports with drag queens as suspects.

 

Some of my non-police friends might wonder why I spent so much time and tax dollars on drag queens.  It was because of RD’s (Reporting Districts) and crime stats.  Each police car is assigned an area which is broken down into RD’s.  The officers assigned to an area are somewhat responsible for the crimes in their area on their watch.  Sometimes the Watch Commander (W/C) would say “Collier, why is your area leading the division in robberies?”  I’d say, “It’s the prostitutes, they’re robbing their customers.”  Wrong answer! The watch commander would counter, “Collier, what are you doing about it?”  Do you still believe it’s a victimless crime? My robbery statistics and watch commander didn’t say so.

 

My W/C said I had to do something, so I figured I would move two hundred drag queens out of my area and give my problem to the bordering car’s area. My area was Hollywood Boulevard from Highland to Vine, Franklin to Fountain.  I couldn’t drive them west, that’s where the Chinese Theater was.  Unwritten rule, no prostitution around the tourist attractions.  I’ll just get them to go east of Vine St.

 

I started telling the queens who frequented my area that if they worked east of Vine I wouldn’t harass them, I mean give them selective enforcement.  I even wrote up an east of Vine pass.  About a dozen of them started working east of Vine.  I would stop by and compliment them on their nice clothes and make-up.  I didn’t write them any tickets or check them for warrants.  My crime statistics dropped, and crime went up east of Vine.  Other officers started giving out RD (reporting districts) maps detailing which areas they could ply their trade.

 

From Hal's own library
From Hal’s own library

Some officers become department experts in narcotic sales and identification.  Me, I became an expert in drag queen recognition.  It started out one night when my partner and I saw this guy trolling for a drag queens.  We ran his license plate and it returned to a John XXXXX, legal owner, LAPD Credit Union. Oh, oh, my partner recognized the name as a classmate who was now working Rampart Division.  We looked at the driver and sure enough it was an off duty cop. After notifying a supervisor we kept an eye out for the cop.  A month later a Hollywood sergeant stopped the cop with a queen in his car.  He resigned but later requested a trial with a police review board.  That’s where I testified as an expert on the recognition of men dressed as women.  This was in the 70’s and cops supporting the oldest profession was a no no.

 

Last entry on drag queens and a kind of funny.  This is the very early 70’s and we stopped this young, I want to be a lady at a bus stop.  It was about dawn and the normal citizens were coming out and heading to work.  After a consent for drug search the queen took off his blouse and then took the dirty socks from his bra.  He removed his bra and shoes and placed them on the hood of our police car.  I noticed this little old lady sitting on the bus bench.  She was watching us and had a “Oh, my God look on her face.”  I walked over to her and advised her that it was a man, a prostitute and a drug abuser.

 

LOL waiting for busShe thanked us for protecting society and got on her bus.

Hal

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Ramblings by Hal

Prostitutes, part 3

By Hal Collier

 

 

 

The following stories are true and I remind you I never worked vice, or PED (Prostitution Enforcement Detail).  I was a street cop who got dragged into the underworld of prostitution.  Come to think of it, I got paid, so I guess I was a member of the oldest profession. I just didn’t have a pimp or have to take off my clothes.

 

This is the third part of a trilogy, or what I thought was a trilogy until I received comments from part 1.  I get, “Hey Hal, remember what’s her name or did you ever hear about this or what about the contests?”  I also get questions about the “Green Box.”  Some of these comments spark a memory, so please feel free to pass along your stories to me. 

 

Lets talk about “Drag queens,” as most street cops refer to them.  The politically correct call them transvestites, transsexuals, cross dressers, or a man trapped in a woman’s body.  I’m old school and not paid to be politically correct anymore, so I’ll refer to them as Drag queens.  If this offends you, I’m sorry.  Drag queens may take two or three Ramblings to fully explain.  They’re very complex. We’ll see.

 

My first experience with a drag queen was an eye opening experience.  I had a whole three days out of the academy. I responded to a radio call of a stabbing at Franklin and Cahuenga.  We get there before the ambulance and see this girl lying on the ground.  She’s bleeding from a stomach wound.  This other young girl, hysterical, is kneeling over our victim.  My partner, a senior officer, tells the second girl to move out of the way.  The hysterical girl refuses and pushes my partner.  He slaps her across the face and knocks her down.  I’m shocked!  I was brought up to never hit a woman.  Later, I was told that neither of them was a woman.  Now, I’m really shocked.

 

It takes a while and some training to tell who is female and who is male, especially in Hollywood.  This training is not a one or two day lesson, it takes years and even decades to become an expert.  Some men still can’t tell the difference, or so they say.  Unfortunately, I’m considered a department expert.  No extra pay, no ribbon to wear on my uniform, like pink sock-filled bras.  It was just determined by a couple of captains during a trial board.  I’ll explain later.

 

Guessing a person’s gender is a slippery slope at best.  Guess wrong and you get sued, guess right and you still get sued.  It’s not an exact science.  The first trait I was taught was to look for an Adam’s apple—only men have them.  Bet the men check that on your next night out at a bar.  Better to find out in a bar than in the backseat of your Chevy.   Next, look at their hands, women usually have smaller hands and slim fingers.  Third, look at their feet.  Did you ever see a man try to fit his size 12 foot into a women’s open toed shoe.  The toes bunch together like sardines.  Last but not least, women don’t get a 5 o’clock shadow after 3 A.M., well, unless you’re dating a female Russian athlete.Trans

 

Ok, now you have the basic knowledge for gender classification.  You think you know their sex and something goes wrong.  I had a partner, Randy, who had booked this drag queen a half dozen times.  Always a man, this time the queen had the sex change operation.  Male officer strip searches a “now legally female” spells lawsuit and became the lead story on the 5 o’clock news.  Drag queens now have the Adam’s apple shaved, electrolysis, and breast implants.  Some of these medical changes were paid for with your tax dollars.

 

During the early years of my indoctrination to the, “women trapped in a man’s body” life style, I saw some amazing sights.  Subjects with no breast implants, used to stuff their bras with dirty socks.  The wigs they wore still had the shards of glass from the window of that wig store on Hollywood Boulevard. Smash and grab.  

 

photo courtesy of Wikipedia.com
photo courtesy of Wikipedia.com

Some of the queens put a lot of effort into their dress. Others, like Eddie Johnson, didn’t have their heart into it.  I’m going to finish up this segment with Eddie Johnson. Eddie could fill up a whole page but I’ll just hit the highlights with my encounters.  Eddie was a young black man who scratched out a meager living as a prostitute.  Eddie wore an ill-fitting blond wig and a pair of cut off Levi’s.  Eddie passed for a women to only the most inebriated tricks.  Oh, by the way Eddie was also an alcoholic.

 

I once got a radio call of a woman down in the ice plant.  It was just getting light and the call was up in the hills near the Hollywood Reservoir.  I was met by this doctor on his way to work when he saw Eddie face down in the ice plant.  He said the girl was breathing but probably drunk.  I recognized the blond wig and cut off Levi’s.  I yelled, “Eddie, wake up.”  Eddie rolled over and said, “Good morning, officers.”

 

I put Eddie in the back seat of my police car and headed downtown to the drunk tank.  I asked him, “how in the hell did you end up in the Hollywood Hills?”  Eddie slurs something like, “last thing I remember I was sitting in the back seat of another police car!”

 

Last time I saw Eddie was downtown.  I had just finished booking someone at PAB when the B-Wagon (drunk wagon) backed up to the ramp.   Out steps Eddie, blond wig on sideways and the same cut-off Levi’s.  Yes, Eddie was drunk.   Eddie moved from the glamour of Hollywood to the alleys of skid row.        

Hal

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Soiled Doves, part 1

 By Hal Collier

 

The following stories are true and are my recollections and certainly don’t reflect the views or opinions of the LAPD.  Those of you have followed my stories must have known that I would eventually write about prostitutes.  How could you write about Hollywood without bringing up the subject of prostitution?  Hollywood is the prostitution capital of the world.  Just about every city has prostitutes and an area, kind of like an auto mart, where you can go and pick out the model of your choice.  Hollywood is synonymous with prostitution, the world’s oldest profession.

 

I’m not an expert on prostitutes. I never worked vice, or (PED) Prostitution Enforcement Detail, but you can’t work Hollywood patrol for thirty-three years without some contact and stories.   Prostitutes can be broken down into numerous categories: Men seeking women, men seeking men, men seeking men dressed as women, men who claim they didn’t know it was a man, yea right, AKA Drag Queens, and women seeking women.  I’m not even going touch the different fetishes that are out there, or hotel, or outcall prostitutes.

 

Well, okay, just one fetish.  I saw this trick circling the block looking at all the female prostitutes.  There was this one girl that was quite good looking.  This trick drove right by her and picked up a rather heavy set girl that was testing the strength of her spandex wardrobe.  Some guys just like “a little junk in the trunk.”

 

In the early days, most of the prostitutes knew that blue suit cops couldn’t arrest them for prostitution.  Oh sure, we could write them tickets for standing in the roadway and book them for any unpaid tickets, but who wanted to spend the next three hours booking a female at Van Nuys or Sybil Brand Institute?  Our Vice Unit, the largest in the city, could only arrest so many prostitutes a night and those they did arrest were soon bailed out by their pimps.  The prostitutes also knew that vice officers had Sundays and Mondays off.  Some of the prostitutes who actually graduated high school would call the vice office and if no one answered they would go to work without fear of being arrested.

 

I remember the prostitutes used to stand on the boundary line between the city and county, in front of Bullwinkle on Sunset.  If they saw a Hollywood police car they would move to the county side, if it was a sheriff’s car, they would move to the city side. I notice that they preferred the city side, so I asked one girl why.  She told me that LAPD writes us tickets and books us on our warrants but the sheriffs make us put our hands on their car window ledge and they hit our fingers with their metal flashlights.  Bet you never heard that on ABC News.

 

We had a new captain who wanted to know just how bad the problem was.  He wouldn’t come out at night and see for himself so he sent a sergeant out to do a whore count.  The sergeant made a drive on Sunset Boulevard from the county line, where Bullwinkle stands, to Normandie, Hollywood’s eastern boundary.  He counted over three hundred girls. If you figure in the ones that were already on a date in a motel or on car date, the number is higher.  Tax them and reduce the deficit in six months.

 

The problem was so bad at one time, that I was enroute to a high priority radio call.  I was driving westbound Sunset Boulevard at Vista.  I look over at the Denny’s and see a prostitute leaning into a car stopped at the stop sign.  She is performing the kind of sex that Clinton denied getting in the Oval Office.  Think about it: you go to the theater, tickets $90, night club & drinks, $100, late meal at Denny’s $40.  Watching a prostitute give some motorist oral sex right outside your booth, priceless.

 

A lot of non-police think prostitutes look like Julia Roberts in Pretty Women, or Melanie Griffith in Body Double.  Quite the opposite, even the whores classified themselves.  The west end prostitutes were usually a better looking, better dressed and of course more expensive dates.  The east end whores were referred to as “Mud Ducks.”  They were the Wal-Mart variety, little quality, but a lot cheaper than Saks 5th Avenue.  They seldom bathed, or put on clean clothes and usually were supporting a drug habit. I suspect that most had STD’s.  Mud Ducks were not allowed to work the West end.

 

Next, I’ll talk about some of the great stories I heard from tricks when they want to make a crime report about how they lost their wallet.

Stay tuned.

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: AM Watch, part 4

By Hal Collier

Here is another Ramblings story about working Morning Watch.  Those cops who spent most of their time working Day or Pm Watch will scoff at sleeping on duty, but try sleeping in the day with small children in the house, or the sounds of everyday street noises.

 

Some officers who refused to park and sleep, fell asleep at the wheel.  Some hit parked cars and more than one cop fell asleep at the wheel of a police car while stopped at a red light.  They were usually awakened by some citizen knocking on the driver’s window, yelling, “Officer, are you all right?”

 

Albany, NY cop sleeping in car.
Albany, NY cop sleeping in car.

Remember, I mentioned how hard it was to hide a black and white police car? Well, hide one with the intention of closing your eyes and catching a quick nap.  First and foremost, you need to find a location where some terrorist or dirt bag won’t find you.  Second, you need to find a location that the new sergeant who’s trying to make a name for himself, can’t find.

 

Third, don’t park in a spot that some citizen will find and call the Watch Commander to complain about how much he pays in taxes not have cops sleeping on his dollar.  I’ll bet you didn’t know this much thought went into grabbing a quick nap, did you?

 

Usually, the senior officer picked the spot.  It had to be close to the center of Hollywood, in case you had to respond to an emergency call or meet that pesky sergeant.   If you were buried high up in the Hollywood Hills, it would take you a good half hour to get to Hollywood Boulevard and then you had to explain where you were.  If you were too close to Hollywood Boulevard, a transient, looking for recyclables, would be knocking on your window asking if you had any cans in the back seat.

 

Hollywood Bowl parking lot (top)
Hollywood Bowl parking lot (top)

One of the best spots was in the Hollywood Bowl parking lot. It was close to Hollywood Boulevard yet out of public view.  Across from the Bowl was the Odin parking lot.  In the back of the lot was a ramp that opened up to about twenty parking spots.  It might have been for employees working during the Hollywood Bowl season.  Anyway, it was out of sight and had large trees lining the parking lot.  If you backed into one of the spots you had a steep hill at your back and a view of the ramp in front.  I only mentioned the trees because in later years the police helicopter couldn’t see your police car from the air.

 

One night there were four police cars in the Odin lot, each taking turns sleeping and handling radio calls.  The rule was the first police car in the Odin lot had to chase out the homeless but he got to log it as extra patrol.  Another good spot was an upper lot at Universal Studios.  It was remote but a fair distance from Hollywood Boulevard.  It was also patrolled by the sheriffs.

 

Odin was the best. Now, I’ll describe some of the worst.  I mentioned the short one block alley on Cahuenga West, my partner picked to rest before eating.  The SLA dropped off their propaganda tapes at radio station KPFK a block away in 1974.  Sometimes a cop would pick a dead-end street up in the hills, only trouble was that all the prostitutes liked those streets as well to complete their business transactions.

 

One ingenious officer, (Mike Brambles) found what he thought was the perfect spot.  They were building brand new houses right under the Griffith Park Observatory on Los Feliz.  The houses were almost completed and he discovered that he could back his police car into the garage and close the door.  He just needed to be awake and gone before the workers arrived.

 

This night, the officer was working a report car, which means he was alone.  It was slow and he backed into a garage and closed the door.  He was careful to shut the engine off so he didn’t asphyxiate himself.  He woke up before the workers arrived but not before a truck dumped a load of sand in the driveway blocking the garage door.  He frantically called a friend to bring him a shovel so he could dig his car out of the garage.  True story.

 

LA Coliseum tunnel
LA Coliseum tunnel

There is a legend of two officers parking their police car in a tunnel at the Coliseum.  It was so tight that they couldn’t open their car doors.  The car battery died as they slept and they had to break out the rear car window to escape. Truth or legend?

 

The officers were not the only ones who slept on duty.  I was working with this brand new rookie and at about 4 A.M., we needed gas.  I pulled into the police garage which was across the street from the station.  As I pulled up to the gas pumps, I noticed a sergeant’s car parked between two other police cars.  The rear door was open and a pair of feet were sticking out.  The rookie also noticed the feet and thought we should investigate.  I asked him if his old employer was holding his job for him.  He replied “no” and I advised him pump the gas and clean our car windows and mind his own business.   He made probation and later he was my lieutenant.

 

Another time, I had this probationer who had a little problem with priorities.  He shows up at work and as we leave the station, he tells me, “We have to take it slow tonight!”  He goes on to tell me that instead of sleeping, he went to a Doobie Brothers Concert in Santa Barbara. I reminded him that if he fell asleep he might need his old job back.

 

Flip the coin.  I make sergeant and am transferred to Southeast Division.  That’s right—Watts.  Now, one of the first lessons you learn working Watts is don’t sit in your car, even to write in your log.  The less friendly inhabitants had a tendency to take pot shots at the cops.  As I described in a previous Ramblings, Morning Watch in Watts was very slow.  Watts was nothing like Hollywood.

 

I knew the cops were Hitting the Hole but I just wondered where and why I wasn’t invited.  Of course, the reason was that when you promote you become one of them instead of one of us.  It was just as well—I might miss watching the sun rise over the Watts Towers.

 

I had a former Hollywood cop approach me in the parking lot at end of watch and tell me how they turned over every rock and just couldn’t find anything to arrest.  I laughed and asked to see his log.  They showed ten miles all night.  I smiled and told him that if you Hit the Hole for half the night, you should drive up and down the freeway a few times to put extra miles on the police car.  That way, it didn’t look like you were parked most of the night.  His eyes lit up and he knew that I knew. Then I told him, “I know what you were doing. I just don’t know where.”

 

I was driving around Watts one very quiet night and couldn’t find anyone doing any police work. I was southbound on Figueroa in an industrial area that bordered the Harbor freeway.  An emergency call came out and as I was making a U-turn I almost got run over by the entire watch exiting from behind a closed warehouse.  I took that secret with me when I left Watts a few months later.

 

The next Ramblings will be the last on working Morning Watch and it will give some of you a different perspective of Morning Watch Cops.        Hal

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Ramblings by Hal

Ramblings: Court, Sleeping and the Job

By Hal Collier

On my last Ramblings, I described trying to adjust to sleeping in the day time and working all night.  Most cops hated Morning Watch, but I soon fell in love with the police work that can be accomplished while the city slept.  It must be in the genes, my son has worked Morning Watch for the past 15 years.

 

On Morning Watch you didn’t have to deal with the regular city traffic, you just had to dodge the drunk drivers.  You don’t have the petty disputes between neighbors, “her cat digs up my daises.”  The best part, the brass was home asleep and not out interfering with the way you handled a radio call.  I spent two years on Morning Watch before my captain could put my face to a name.  That was a good thing.

 

Hollywood in the 70’s was a lot of fun.  You hit the streets at 11:30 PM.  You cleared for radio calls and immediately got five calls, the max.  Apparently the PM watch officers had been submarining to get off on time.  They only had a two hour window before the bars closed.

 

In between racing from call to call, a few “hot shot” radio calls would come out.  To non-police friends, a “hot shot” call was an emergency call demanding immediate attention. Robbery, rapes, drive by-shootings, you know the usual dull stuff.

 

Tiny Naylor's back in the day
Tiny Naylor’s back in the day

On a slow night, usually midweek, you could sneak in a cup of coffee at Tiny Naylor’s.  Tiny Naylor’s was a drive-in restaurant where you got car service—you know tray on your car window.  I can’t tell you how many times I had to set the tray on the ground because we got a hot shot radio call.

 

Weekend nights were very busy and we rushed from call to call until about four A.M.  When it slowed down, you had a chance to catch up on your log.  Again for the non-police friends, a log documented when you got the call, when you handled the call and what time you cleared the call.  It also documented what you did and who you talked to.  Now during a busy night your log was written on a small 3×5 inch scratch pad and you had to transfer it to your log later.  Many a busy night the whole night’s work was on small scraps of paper.

 

Working Morning Watch in Hollywood was like always being in the front of the line at Disneyland rides.  Sometimes after work it would take an hour for the adrenaline to leave your body.  I can’t believe they are paying us for having this much fun.  There were some draw backs—ok, a lot of draw backs.  Some cops couldn’t sleep during the day.  Hell, some couldn’t stay awake for the ride home.  Many a Morning Watch officer owes his life to the guy who invented the freeway lane dots known as Botts Dots.  They woke him up just before he drifted off the freeway.

 

LA Criminal Courts Building
LA Criminal Courts Building

The biggest curse was probably court.  Work all night, change into your Brooks Brother suit—you know the one with the C&R tags and drive downtown.  You could wear your uniform, but then you became an information officer.  Officer, can you tell how to get to?  Sometimes citizens lined up to ask you directions or questions.

 

In the early 70’s court was in the old Hall of Justice. I remember walking past Charlie Manson’s girls during his trial.  Soon after, they built the Criminal Courts Building (CCB) across the street.  The new court house had a check-in and officer waiting room.  If you got there early, you could lay down on the two couch like seats.  If you got there late, you had to sit in a stiff upright chair.  Now, some cops could sleep anywhere.  They removed their suit coat, shoes, gun and laid down for a nice nap.  Me, I found out early, no matter how tired I was, don’t lie down and close your eyes.  After an hour asleep I was like a drunk at a Led Zeppelin concert.

 

Court could be a thirty minute visit or an eight hour ordeal.  Ok, spend all night working, leave work for the drive downtown to court.  Spend eight hours waiting for your case to be called, only to be told at 4:30 PM come back tomorrow.  No problem, I’ll race home in rush hour traffic, eat a drive thru hamburger and grab a quick three hour nap and go back to work.  This was not a rare instance but a regular occurrence.

 

I once had a partner, Mike Brambles, who had been up for two days between work and court.  He fell asleep in Judge Lang’s Court, Division 38.  Not just asleep, but he fell out into the center aisle, passed out on the floor.  Judge Lang put him to bed in his chambers until end of the day and then sent Mike home.

 

Another time I had worked three nights in a row with court.  I walked out of court as the sun was setting.  I walked the three blocks to the Music Center where we had to park.  I was in a daze and couldn’t remember which level I parked my truck, eight hours earlier.  I found it after walking down two levels and everyone else had already gone home.

 

Just about every Morning Watch cop had a court story that the general public doesn’t know about.  Next I’ll write about “Hitting the Hole!!

 

Hal