In-N-Out Burger (21 page)

News of the move came as something of a surprise to the residents of Baldwin Park. Word reached the community through real estate circles only a few months before the planned move, when escrow opened on the building. “A lot of us were surprised and disappointed,” recalled Bob Benbow. “In-N-Out had played an important part in the development of Baldwin Park, and it was a point of pride here.”

Indeed, many felt that In-N-Out had put Baldwin Park on the map much in the same way that Disneyland had done for Anaheim (albeit on a much smaller scale). Certainly, the chain distinguished the city from the numerous postwar boom communities swallowed up in Southern California's growing suburban sprawl, connected to other suburbs by the vast network of freeways. More than just a successful company, In-N-Out, as Bob Benbow explained, had been “an important symbol for Baldwin Park.” The two entities were intertwined. In economic terms, the chain contributed immeasurably to the city's bottom line. In time, In-N-Out became one of Baldwin Park's largest employers. It had also become one of the city's top three taxpayers (slipping into fifth place only after Kaiser Permanente Medical Center moved to town).

Although Baldwin Park had grown tremendously since its rural heyday, it still had something of a small town feel about it, especially among its longtime residents. There was much speculation about the transfer. In-N-Out had plucked the nondescript suburb from obscurity, injecting it with its corporate culture. Baldwin Park had become a kind of genial company town and the company was hamburgers.

A number of explanations and theories concerning the move made the rounds. In one version, the transfer was prompted by Rich's desire to raise a family in the more prosperous and comfortable Orange County. Another version of events held that Rich harbored a grudge against the city following the city council's rejection of a proposal in 1990 to rename East Virginia Avenue “Hamburger Place” in honor of In-N-Out Burger. Actually, the opposition came mainly from the local businesses that were also located on East Virginia Avenue. Some 119 businesses (including a lumber firm and a sheet
metal house) circulated a petition resisting the change; it received fifty signatures. As Brent Taylor, president of Award Metals Inc. (one of the largest sheet metal manufacturers in California), told the
San Gabriel Valley Tribune
: “A name like Hamburger (Place) is totally inappropriate and embarrassing for the other 118 businesses on the street who do not sell hamburgers.”
^*
Mayor Sheridan dismissed all of the talk as uninformed gossip. “It was a good strategic move,” she recalled. “They wanted to relocate down here from Los Angeles because Rich Snyder had a house down here. He wanted to move the whole company down so that he wouldn't have to go back and forth into L.A. everyday.”

As usual, the company offered little in the way of a formal explanation, and so rumor filled the space where a public announcement might have gone. More than anything, Baldwin Park's longtime residents were left with the feeling that their favored son had finally grown up and was now moving away.

It was decided that the warehouse, distribution center, and the trucking facilities would remain in Baldwin Park. The decision offered a small measure of comfort to many who believed that the facilities were the heart and soul of In-N-Out Burger.

December 15, 1993, was a particularly busy day for Rich Snyder. Just days before Christmas, his schedule was full, leaving him little time to slow down before the holidays hit full swing. For one, he was overseeing the final move of company headquarters to Irvine, expected to take place in two months. On that Wednesday, Rich was going to attend the grand opening of In-N-Out Burger's new Fresno store, the chain's ninety-third. During the day, he and a group of In-N-Out executives including his mother, Esther, executive vice president and aide-de-camp Phil West, and Jack Sims, a public relations executive who also acted as a company consultant, also examined a number of potential store locations.

In-N-Out was opening about ten new stores each year, and despite the recession of the early 1990s, the company was averaging 15 percent annual growth. The rollout was increasing at such a rate that the company had leased a private jet in part to ferry executives scouting new locations and checking on existing ones. Commuting by air to keep tabs on the growing chain had become so integral to In-N-Out Burger's procedures that in December, the chain was granted its application for a six-month extension to build a helipad at the company's Baldwin Park complex.

The previous August, not long after opening his seventy-fifth store, Rich gave an interview to the
San Gabriel Valley Tribune
in
which he said that despite the company's growth spurt, he had no interest in competing with the fast-food industry giants. Reiterating his commitment to keeping the chain private and family-owned, he once again quashed rumors of an imminent IPO. “I think it would be too difficult to maintain quality control,” he explained. “I like the fact that I can visit all of our locations and they all know me. It's kind of like what they say about farming—the best fertilizer there is in the field is the farmer's footprints.”

 

Rich strode into the Fresno store on South Second Street. He was wearing one of his trademark suits, a tie, and—as usual—a big smile. At forty-one, he still had a boyish look about him. According to his friends, he appeared to have a real tangible sense of contentment about him. Usually upbeat, Rich seemed to be in particularly good spirits. Of late, he had been even more vocal and demonstrative with his friends and family, sliding his arm around them and expressing his appreciation for their friendship, letting them know how much he cared. He also began telling his intimates that he was “at peace with the Lord.” To more than one, he said, “If I don't see you again—I love you.”

The Fresno store opening went without a hitch. Rich and Esther Snyder, Phil West, Jack Sims, and a team from Baldwin Park spent time chatting with the new store's managers and associates. As had become standard, a huge crowd of enthusiastic fans had formed outside the store before it opened and the team watched as the lines swelled. It was a sight that always seemed to astonish Rich: “He told me one time that he didn't know why In-N-Out was so successful,” recalled his friend and neighbor Bob Longpre. “He was just as surprised as everybody else. They would open up a store, and there was a line of people waiting to buy hamburgers.”

After the Fresno opening, Rich boarded a chartered Westwind 1124A jet with Sims and his mother. In-N-Out Burger had a policy prohibiting its top executives from traveling together, so West, the company's number two, headed out to the airport to catch his own commercial flight. A number of other executives who had accompanied
the group to the Fresno opening had dispersed, making their own arrangements to return to Baldwin Park or other points in the field. However, when West discovered that his own flight was going to be delayed, he circled back to the private airfield. It had been a long day. Although anxious to get home, West inexplicably joined Rich on the chartered jet. Another executive, In-N-Out's vice president of operations Bob Williams, also boarded the plane. Esther Snyder wasn't feeling well and asked to deplane as soon as possible. The jet flew to Brackett Field in La Verne (east of Los Angeles) where she got off, as did Williams. Taking off again, the chartered plane flew south toward Santa Ana.

Less than thirty minutes after taking off, trouble struck. On approach to the John Wayne Airport, the Westwind found itself trailing in the flight path of a United Airlines Boeing 757. When they were eight to ten miles from the airport, air traffic controllers at John Wayne warned the Westwind to slow down, as it was gaining on the traffic up ahead. When the Westwind was five miles from the airport, another traffic controller gave the plane a second warning to reduce its speed, suggesting to pilot John O. McDaniel and his copilot Stephen R. Barkin that they make an S-turn if necessary. Although the small jet was gaining, flying thirty knots faster than the United Airlines flight, the two pilots didn't seem too concerned. “Yeah it's close,” McDaniel said to Barkin, “but I think we'll be OK.”

At about 5:30 p.m., the Westwind had descended to 1,100 feet. Just one minute from the airport, the small jet was also two miles behind the 757. Suddenly the plane became ensnared in the commercial liner's wake turbulence. The pilots lost control. Within seconds, the plane rolled 360 degrees, plummeting to the ground at a 45 degree angle before crashing near the Santa Ana Auto Mall. The impact spewed charred and twisted metal in its wake. Rich Snyder, Phil West, Jack Sims, and the two pilots were all killed instantly.

A year earlier, a similar crash occurred in the skies over Billings, Montana. Following, the Westwind's demise in Santa Ana, the National Transportation Safety Board conducted a full investigation that prompted the Federal Aviation Administration to insist air traf
fic controllers warn pilots about the high level of turbulence generated by 757s and recommend that smaller planes maintain a distance of five miles when trailing one.

That was of course little consolation to the Snyders, the families of Phil West and Jack Sims, and the thousands of associates at In-N-Out Burger. Flags at all ninety-three stores flew at half-staff. Disbelief seemed to hang over the Southland like a blanket of brown, hazy smog.

Rich and Phil West had known each other since childhood; West's grandmother lived across the street from the Snyders in San Dimas. They grew up together in the halcyon postwar San Gabriel Valley, playing army in the avocado fields, chasing girls, and going to In-N-Out Burger. Thirty-seven-year-old West lived in Glendora near Esther Snyder with his wife, Lori, and their young son. He had worked at Snyder Distributing through high school. At Esther's urging, he had gone to work for In-N-Out corporate during college, eventually rising to the rank of executive vice president of administration. Esther considered West another son, calling him “my best friend in the company.” He was Rich's right hand. Uncommonly grounded, West could be counted on to defuse the chronic tension between the Snyder brothers.

Jack Sims, forty-seven, another longtime friend, was heavily involved in helping Rich produce
Burger Television
. Along with Richard Rossi, an actor and ordained minister, in 1986 Sims launched a popular but controversial church called Matthew's Party. A church for people who ordinarily disdained churchgoing, the Party often met in a sports gym or a bar where wine and snacks were served, rock music was played, and anyone in need was given money.

Sims and West regularly attended In-N-Out's annual Montana fishing trips, while Rich and Sims met weekly for Bible study. In fact, Rich considered West such a close friend that five days before the crash, on December 10, he had a trust drawn up earmarking a portion of his estate for him and a small circle of other business associates in the event of his death.

Widowed after barely one and half years of marriage, Christina Snyder was shattered. “To me, it felt like I lost an entire volume of
life,” she recalled plaintively. “If just Rich had died, I would have gone to those two men for support and memories. The loss was just incredible.” Just two days after the crash, Rick Plate showed up at Christina's house with an eight-week-old golden retriever wearing a red bow. The dog was to have been Rich's surprise Christmas gift to his wife. She named the puppy Harry Snyder.

 

In the bewildering days immediately following the accident, In-N-Out Burger said little publicly, preferring to remain, as usual, incredibly tight-lipped. They did release a statement that read: “[Richard Snyder] was the type of person who did a lot more than just talk about taking care of his associates. He nurtured them and wanted them to know how very important they are to the success of the company. Thanks to Richard Snyder, In-N-Out Burger is a great place to work…. Richard Snyder has given countless numbers of people the opportunity to lead better lives.”

Stories of Rich's quiet and compassionate generosity began to circulate. “He was so obviously a good man,” said Rich's friend Bruce Herschensohn, who decades later continued to reel at the random cruelty of the tragedy. “He was just marvelous, through and through.” Like many others, Herschensohn could recall numerous acts of kindness that Rich had displayed. “I used to wear these clip-on ties that he just hated. He bought me twenty-five ties and had his secretary knot them. All I had to do was just put one over my head.” Most of Rich's good deeds were performed anonymously; every month, Rich sent an In-N-Out cookout trailer to feed the homeless living on Los Angeles's Skid Row.
^*
According to Christina, when her husband found out that an associate at In-N-Out and his wife could not conceive a child, Rich paid for the entire expenses for the couple to adopt—he did the same for another friend.

For days, newspapers and television broadcasts parsed details of
the tragic crash and spent a great deal of time speculating as to the fate of the privately held, family-owned chain. Rich's death came at a crucial time in In-N-Out Burger's forty-five-year history. He had transformed the small local burger joint into a growing empire that went head-to-head with the corporate giants in the fast-food industry. In fact, secretly, In-N-Out was the envy of the industry. The ninety-three-store chain was pulling in about $116 million annually and employed roughly three thousand associates.

In the final stages of relocating its corporate headquarters to Orange County, the company decided to scale back the scope of the transfer and sent only about fifty executives and administrative employees to Irvine, keeping most of the corporate associates in Baldwin Park. Without warning, In-N-Out Burger now faced a host of challenges starting with its succession, transition, leadership—its future.

 

But those questions were briefly put on hold. In an uncharacteristic display, a public memorial service was held for Rich Snyder, Phil West, and Jack Sims at the Calvary Chapel in Costa Mesa. The service was conducted on Thursday morning, December 23. Nearly three thousand people crowded into the church's pews. In addition to family and friends, the mourners included countless In-N-Out Burger associates as well as business and community leaders, elected officials, and members of the Orange County Police Department, the California Highway Patrol, and police officers from nearly every community that In-N-Out Burger had touched. “There were more owners of restaurant chains then you can imagine,” recalled Jack Williams. “It was like a restaurant owner's convention. They all wanted to pay tribute to Rich.” In fact Williams and his wife, Linda, did just that two years earlier when they opened up a new restaurant near their ranch. They called it Richie's All-American Diner. Irvine mayor Sally Anne Sheridan arrived at the church early only to find that all of the seats were taken, and she ended up standing through the entire service. “It was incredible,” remembered Sheridan, “very religious and moving.”

Wreaths of flowers filled the church's lobby. One was fashioned out of red and yellow carnations forming the In-N-Out logo; another was in the shape of a cheeseburger. Enlarged photographs of the three men graced the pulpit on each side of the speaker's podium. Numerous condolences were sent, including those from former presidents Ronald Reagan and Richard Nixon and California governor Pete Wilson. An In-N-Out cookout trailer was there to serve burgers to the guests following the service. Gracing the cover of the memorial service's program was a photograph taken of the three men only eighteen months earlier at Rich's wedding.

Several years earlier, Rich was so upset after attending the funeral of a dear friend that he felt did not represent her in the least that he immediately outlined exactly the kind of memorial he wanted, down to the music to be played and Bible passages to be read; his memorial followed his instructions exactly. The service was punctuated with Scripture readings and tales of the three boyhood friends. A recording of country crooner Lee Greenwood's anthem “I'm Proud to Be an American” was played. Longtime store manager Don Miller, who had come to regard Rich as a brother, described how he made Rich “cry like a baby” teaching him to slice onions while training him some twenty-five years earlier. “That man,” he said, holding back tears of his own, “was a legend in my mind.”

Chuck Smith Jr., the pastor who had presided over the recent wedding of Rich and Christina, told the assembled crowd, “To miss them is certainly understandable. But to remember them without a smile would be a crime.”

When Esther rose to speak, she was met with two standing ovations. Her face creased with sadness and her voice at times breaking, she described her last moments with her son before she left him at Brackett Field. “Richard said, ‘Mom, I'm so glad you got to go with us today.' I kissed and hugged him. When I got off the plane, Phil was there with my jacket. I sat back and waved and thought, ‘Lord, I'm glad I got to know these men.'” Joe McCaron recalled Esther's stoic display. “I never saw her get emotional,” he said. “Even at the funeral she kept herself together, and that's pretty hard to do.” Despite her
obvious pain, Esther did not want anyone to feel sorry for her, and she focused on how her daughter-in-law was coping.