L.A. Noir (50 page)

Girlfriend Sandra Hagen put on a rather more dramatic show. Sobbing, her hands thrown up “in an attitude of prayer,” she told the scribbling newsmen, “It’s too long, but I’ll wait for him!” The following month the government denied Cohen and Hagen’s request to be married while Cohen was in federal custody as “contrary to established policies.” With good behavior, Mickey would be eligible for parole in five years.

From Washington, D.C., the new attorney general called assistant U.S. attorneys Thomas Sheridan and, in Washington, Charles McNeil to congratulate them for their work on the case. He also issued a statement praising the jury.

“This was a major case and a very significant verdict,” proclaimed Robert Kennedy.

Cohen’s attorneys (who now included Jack Dahlstrum in addition to Sam Dash, as well as longtime Parker foe A. L. Wirin) petitioned for a new trial and asked that Mickey be freed on bond during his appeal. Judge Boldt declined both requests. Cohen’s last hope for escape came in the form of a message relayed to Dahlstrum from Tom Sheridan, a special assistant to Attorney General Robert Kennedy.

“Lookit, now, don’t get hot,” Dahlstrum told Mickey, when he came to him with the offer. “I know you’re not going to like this, but it’s my duty as your attorney to relay this to you.

“The government’s got three names—George Bieber, the attorney in Chicago, Tony Accardo, and Paul ‘the Waiter’ Ricca. If you want to cooperate with any of these three names, you can gain your freedom.”

Mickey responded by instructing Dahlstrum to tell Sheridan and Kennedy that they could go fuck themselves.

At daybreak on the morning of Friday, July 28, deputy U.S. marshals removed Cohen from the L.A. County Jail and flew him to his new home: Alcatraz. It was an unusual destination for an income tax evader. Cohen had little doubt the choice was Bobby Kennedy’s doing.

      ALCATRAZ was like no prison Cohen had ever been in before. “It was a crumbling dungeon,” Cohen would later write. The prison blocks were always bathed in the cold ocean clamminess. There was no hot water to shave with, no newspapers, no radio, no television, no magazines. “You never seen a bar of candy there, only on Christmas,” lamented the man who had once wooed Candy Barr. The yard was a mere fifty feet long.
Inmates got only forty-five minutes a day outside. Life inside was dank and dangerous. Mickey did have a few good friends in the joint, such as onetime Siegel associate Frank Carbo, Harlem crime boss “Bumpy” Johnson, and Alvin Karpis, the head of the notorious Ma Barker-Alvin Karpis bank-robbing gang in the 1930s. But even the prestige of the Syndicate afforded little protection against his stir-crazy, ultraviolent fellow prisoners.

“The atmosphere was such that you lived in fear,” Cohen would later recall. “Like if you’re walking around a corner, you’re liable to get a shiv in your back.”

After three months on “the Rock,” Cohen was abruptly summoned to the warden’s office.

“Well, I guess you got the good news,” the warden began, reluctantly.

“What good news?” Cohen replied.

Cohen had been released on bail—freed on a writ signed by U.S. Supreme Court Justice William Douglas, who had decided that he could return to Los Angeles to await a decision by the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit on his income tax conviction appeal. It was the first time an inmate from Alcatraz had ever been released on bail.

Mickey was exultant. After stepping off the boat in San Francisco, he promptly made his way to the luxurious Fairmont Hotel on Nob Hill for a night of pampering. How Cohen paid for the evening—or managed to purchase a luxury class ticket to Los Angeles the next day—is unclear. But despite these splurges, this time Cohen appeared to have learned a lesson. When Cohen (looking natty in a black monogrammed Alpaca sweater, open white-on-black sport shirt, and black-and-white checkered pants) presented himself at his bondsman’s to sign the note required for his $100,000 bail, he announced to the amused press corps that he had turned down an offer to borrow a Caddy for the duration of the appeals process and would be driving a Volkswagen instead.

Reporters noted that he “killed the engine twice, had trouble adjusting the seat and then tried to take off with the brake on” on the way out.

Then, two weeks later, something shocking happened. Cohen and four others were indicted for murder in connection with the December 2, 1959, death of Jack Whalen. LoCigno had started to talk behind bars. In the process, he’d given authorities an important new lead, which prosecutors argued led straight to Mickey Cohen.

POLICE LIEUTENANT Tom Bradley didn’t immediately realize that his transfer from public relations to Wilshire Division was a form of punishment. Instead, he seems to have viewed the move as an opportunity. Wilshire Division had long been largely off-limits to black officers. The appointment of a black lieutenant—even to the midnight shift—seemed like a huge step forward. Chief Parker’s comments before the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights were also encouraging. Bradley decided that the time was right to attempt a major goal—desegregating the radio cars.

As watch commander, Bradley had considerable authority. Soon after moving to Wilshire Division, he gave the order that henceforth all radio cars in that division would be integrated. But Bradley knew he would need the chief to back him up. At least some white officers were sure to complain and resist. So he sent a request up the chain of command asking Chief Parker to support the new policy. Bradley’s proposal was tough: If officers didn’t go along with the new policy, they would be out of a job, “just like any other type of insubordination.”

Parker refused. Without backup from the brass, Bradley’s integration was doomed. Just as he had feared, some white officers under his command complained loudly of reverse discrimination and sabotaged assignments by calling in sick on the days they were paired with black officers. Without support from his superiors, Bradley was unable to respond effectively to such disobedience. Bradley’s efforts to integrate Wilshire slowly withered. As for Bradley himself, with a law degree in hand and pension eligibility fast approaching, he began to consider a new career—in politics.

    IN JUNE 1959, at roughly the same time Lieutenant Bradley was beginning to seriously consider a political career, Officer Francisco Leon responded to a report of an auto theft. He soon spotted the stolen car and set off in pursuit. The car chase ended with a hail of bullets and the sixteen-year-old African American car thief dead. The shooting of an unarmed teenager led to demands for an investigation. County coroner Theodore Curphey announced that he would convene a coroner’s jury to determine whether the shooting had been justified or an act of criminal homicide. He then made a provocative announcement: The coroner’s jury, he declared, would be composed entirely of Negroes.

The NAACP immediately objected. For years the group had protested the selection of all-white coroner juries, but this was reverse segregation, the group argued. So Dr. Curphey amended his plan. The coroner’s jury would have six black jurors—a majority—and four Caucasians. On June 29, 1960, the coroner’s jury handed down the recommendation that Officer Leon be prosecuted for homicide.

Chief Parker exploded. The coroner himself had originally stated “that he saw no basis for prosecution in this case,” Parker stated. The intentional selection of a majority Negro jury was, Parker charged, a reckless experiment in whether “a Negro jury could be unprejudiced.” As far as Parker was concerned, by recommending that Officer Leon be prosecuted for murder, the jury had essentially answered the question—in the negative.

Soon after the verdict, Parker addressed the issue of why groups like the NAACP and the ACLU were always on the attack against the police department. It was not because of actual police brutality, Parker told his audience. No, complaints of police brutality represented something else entirely; they were an example of that most nefarious of totalitarian propaganda techniques, “The Big Lie,” an untruth so colossal that most people were unable to grasp that it was wholly fabricated. Pioneered by the Nazis, adopted by the Communists, this was the technique now being deployed against the LAPD. Those who used it—notably the NAACP and ACLU—did so knowingly, as part of a plan to undermine American democracy. As Parker told the Bond Club, “The type of democracy they [the NAACP and ACLU] are trying to sell is represented by
People’s World,”
the weekly newspaper of the Communist Party of the United States.

Whether because of the department’s actions or the “Big Lie,” by early 1961 one thing was certain: Chief Parker had become a deeply unpopular figure in the black community—even as the black community was be
coming an increasingly important part of the city. A mayoral election was fast approaching, and the conduct of the police department under incumbent mayor Norris Poulson promised to be a significant issue. That presented Poulson’s primary opponent, Rep. Sam Yorty, with both an opportunity and a danger.

Yorty was one of the oddest figures in California politics. Elected to Congress in 1936 as a radical liberal, he had run for mayor of Los Angeles during the 1938 mayoral recall as the favored candidate of Red Hollywood. He’d been soundly thrashed. Two years later, he ran for a seat on the city council and lost again. Instead, he settled for a seat in the California assembly. There he reinvented himself as a hard-core anti-Communist. It didn’t help. In 1940, he failed in his attempt to win election to the U.S. Senate. In 1945, he lost another mayoral election. He returned to Congress in 1950 and, four years later, promptly lost another Senate election. During the 1960 election, Yorty, ostensibly a Democrat, endorsed Richard Nixon. Kennedy’s victory promised two years of misery in Washington. So he decided to run for mayor again instead. In January 1961, he formally entered the race.

This time, Yorty’s timing was good. After two terms as mayor, Poulson seemed burnt out. A few months earlier, he’d announced that he wouldn’t seek a third term. The resulting cries of anguish from the downtown business establishment persuaded him to run one more time. Yorty now took aim at that establishment, which was led, as always, by the
Los Angeles Times
. He positioned himself as the champion of the “little guy” and as someone who would pay attention to the needs of the fast-growing San Fernando Valley When Poulson supporters mocked him for enthusiastically discussing new methods of trash collection, Yorty embraced the moniker “Trashcan Sam.” The candidate’s populist message played well. So did his direct, colloquial style, which was highly effective in the still newish medium of television. One of Yorty’s supporters was George Putnam, the news anchor at KTTV (and the inspiration for the character Ted Baxter on
The Mary Tyler Moore Show)
, which was actually owned by the
Los Angeles Times
. In the old days, the Chandlers would never have tolerated a mixed message. Now, for whatever reason, they did. While the
Times
took the mayor’s side, Putnam was allowed to tout Yorty.

Poulson, meanwhile, struggled with rumors. A long-standing throat ailment was alleged to be cancer. Yorty’s team also maintained that Poulson had acquired a $250,000 ranch in Oregon during his time in office. (In reality, it was a much smaller property owned by his wife.) Then, in the final weeks of the campaign, Poulson came down with laryngitis. Photographs
of the incumbent mayor in the hospital filled the papers in the days leading up to the primary election, which the mayor lost. Under Los Angeles’s system of nonpartisan elections, a runoff election was scheduled for June 1.

The anti-Yorty forces, led by
Times
man Carlton Williams, played tough, delving into some dubious ties between Yorty, the Teamsters, and Las Vegas gambling interests. The day after Yorty placed first in the primary vote, Poulson contended that Yorty’s campaign was “backed by the underworld.” Yorty responded by filing a $2.2 million libel suit. He countered that Poulson was controlled by an “overworld” consisting of Carlton Williams and the downtown business establishment. Yorty also stepped up his attacks on the police.

In his public appearances, he was always careful to distinguish between Chief Parker, whom he promised to keep on, and the Police Commission, which he criticized mercilessly. But as election day approached, Yorty sharpened his rhetoric against the chief, describing the current police commissioners as “Parker’s appointees,” promising to clean house, and insinuating that Parker would probably resign as well. In private, and to select black audiences, Yorty may have gone even further. Many Parker foes certainly believed they had received a firm promise that as mayor Yorty would force Parker out. Yorty also promised to fully integrate the department. Not surprisingly, candidate Yorty soon noticed that he was being trailed by plain-clothes officers from the LAPD intelligence division.