indicated that the draconian consent decree policies should not be lifted.
The judge felt that this case proved that the consent decree was an essential tool in policing the police, bringing with it
an endless paper blizzard devoted to audits and oversight and micromanaging minutiae. The private “monitoring” firm, which
received a cool $2.4 million a year from a teetering city budget to oversee compliance, could not have been unhappy with the
judge’s comments, which implicitly encouraged more milking of the municipal cash cow with no end in sight.
“Does anybody ever point out that there were only two crooked cops in that whole freaking Rampart deal?” Flotsam rhetorically
asked the acting watch commander, not expecting an answer and not getting one.
“And how about this latest case?” Hollywood Nate said. “Two cops again. We’re a police department of ninety-three hundred,
for chrissake! A total of four thieving cops in ten years, and the judge thinks LAPD corruption is pervasive? I wonder how
many corrupt lawyers are out there in our fair city?”
Jetsam said, “And who caught the bad Rampart cops? It was us. LAPD caught them!”
“It’s a catch-twenty-two,” Dana Vaughn said. “There’s no financial incentive for the auditing firm to ever say that LAPD’s
taken all the steps required under the consent decree. We might be still using hundreds of coppers doing useless and redundant
paperwork for another ten years. No wonder the midwatch can only field six cars on a weekend night!”
Sheila Montez said, “When LAPD was forced to break up the Rampart Crash unit,
Mara Salvatrucha
gangsters from L.A. to El Salvador were dancing in the streets.”
Hollywood Nate said, “Why can’t all those cop haters be satisfied? They broke our sword, why do they have to bury it up our
ass?”
The acting watch commander was Sergeant Lee Murillo, a wiry, sharp-eyed, third-generation Mexican-American with prematurely
gray wavy hair who had almost made an L.A. Dodgers farm team fifteen years prior, before his arm lost its elasticity and his
fastball went from ninety-plus to a hanging balloon that his grandmother could’ve hit.
He’d been a cop for thirteen years and a sergeant for three, all of his supervisory years having been spent at Hollywood Division,
now officially called Hollywood Area to sound less military. Of course, the troops said that anyone, including the brass,
who would replace
division
with
area
was a pussy, and Sergeant Murillo always referred to their piece of Los Angeles geography as Hollywood Division.
The fact was, he agreed with everything they said, but being a supervisor, he wasn’t supposed to validate the bitching. He
just sat in front of the room and gazed over the heads of the dozen seated troops at the one-sheet movie posters decorating
the walls, posters that could be found in other parts of the building as well in case anyone didn’t know that this police
station was in Hollywood, USA. In the roll call room were the posters for
L.A. Confidential
and
Sunset Boulevard
. Downstairs there was
Hollywood Homicide
.
Lee Murillo wondered when they’d start in on their latest complaint. That would be the brouhaha over the judge’s wanting “confidential
financial disclosure” by all LAPD officers who worked gang enforcement details and narcotics field enforcement. The rant came
from Johnny Lanier, the only black cop on Watch 5. Johnny was a compact, outspoken P3 with fourteen years on the Job. He was
a veteran of the first Gulf War who liked to say, “This job has all the good things about the Army: a uniform, weapons, camaraderie,
ball-busting fun, and I don’t have to go back to Iraq.” He was next up to work the Gang Impact Team, but he didn’t know if
he wanted to work GIT now that there was the financial disclosure issue.
“Who’s the problem out there, gangbangers or us?” he said. “You think I want some gangster or his lawyer
The judge felt that this case proved that the consent decree was an essential tool in policing the police, bringing with it
an endless paper blizzard devoted to audits and oversight and micromanaging minutiae. The private “monitoring” firm, which
received a cool $2.4 million a year from a teetering city budget to oversee compliance, could not have been unhappy with the
judge’s comments, which implicitly encouraged more milking of the municipal cash cow with no end in sight.
“Does anybody ever point out that there were only two crooked cops in that whole freaking Rampart deal?” Flotsam rhetorically
asked the acting watch commander, not expecting an answer and not getting one.
“And how about this latest case?” Hollywood Nate said. “Two cops again. We’re a police department of ninety-three hundred,
for chrissake! A total of four thieving cops in ten years, and the judge thinks LAPD corruption is pervasive? I wonder how
many corrupt lawyers are out there in our fair city?”
Jetsam said, “And who caught the bad Rampart cops? It was us. LAPD caught them!”
“It’s a catch-twenty-two,” Dana Vaughn said. “There’s no financial incentive for the auditing firm to ever say that LAPD’s
taken all the steps required under the consent decree. We might be still using hundreds of coppers doing useless and redundant
paperwork for another ten years. No wonder the midwatch can only field six cars on a weekend night!”
Sheila Montez said, “When LAPD was forced to break up the Rampart Crash unit,
Mara Salvatrucha
gangsters from L.A. to El Salvador were dancing in the streets.”
Hollywood Nate said, “Why can’t all those cop haters be satisfied? They broke our sword, why do they have to bury it up our
ass?”
The acting watch commander was Sergeant Lee Murillo, a wiry, sharp-eyed, third-generation Mexican-American with prematurely
gray wavy hair who had almost made an L.A. Dodgers farm team fifteen years prior, before his arm lost its elasticity and his
fastball went from ninety-plus to a hanging balloon that his grandmother could’ve hit.
He’d been a cop for thirteen years and a sergeant for three, all of his supervisory years having been spent at Hollywood Division,
now officially called Hollywood Area to sound less military. Of course, the troops said that anyone, including the brass,
who would replace
division
with
area
was a pussy, and Sergeant Murillo always referred to their piece of Los Angeles geography as Hollywood Division.
The fact was, he agreed with everything they said, but being a supervisor, he wasn’t supposed to validate the bitching. He
just sat in front of the room and gazed over the heads of the dozen seated troops at the one-sheet movie posters decorating
the walls, posters that could be found in other parts of the building as well in case anyone didn’t know that this police
station was in Hollywood, USA. In the roll call room were the posters for
L.A. Confidential
and
Sunset Boulevard
. Downstairs there was
Hollywood Homicide
.
Lee Murillo wondered when they’d start in on their latest complaint. That would be the brouhaha over the judge’s wanting “confidential
financial disclosure” by all LAPD officers who worked gang enforcement details and narcotics field enforcement. The rant came
from Johnny Lanier, the only black cop on Watch 5. Johnny was a compact, outspoken P3 with fourteen years on the Job. He was
a veteran of the first Gulf War who liked to say, “This job has all the good things about the Army: a uniform, weapons, camaraderie,
ball-busting fun, and I don’t have to go back to Iraq.” He was next up to work the Gang Impact Team, but he didn’t know if
he wanted to work GIT now that there was the financial disclosure issue.
“Who’s the problem out there, gangbangers or us?” he said. “You think I want some gangster or his lawyer
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