Up Close and Personal With The LAPD
The police officers banged on the front door of my Pacoima home and shouted for me and my friends to come out. Two of my school chums and I cowered in a bathroom, afraid to face the cops. We were 13-year-old seventh graders in the autumn of 1962.
My big brother David apologetically told us we must comply with the officer’s demand. My parents were out. David was alone with us, explaining that nothing was to be done to avoid our fate.
We soon walked out the front door, and the officers forcefully grabbed us and snapped on handcuffs. I don’t remember if the cops Mirandized us, but there was no question we were jail-bound.
The cops yelled at us in an apparent rage. Again, I don’t recall what they said. As we were being led to the squad car, David approached and said it did not seem right that I was being arrested without Mom and Dad’s knowledge. One of the cops put his hand on his sidearm and ordered David to back up.
How did we end up in this fix? What crime did we commit?
Here’s the story of how I became a baby criminal.
About an hour before our arrest, we were atop a large, undeveloped hill behind the family home. Bored, my friends and I began a rock-throwing contest. The winner would be whoever heaved the rock the furthest.
Our mistake was throwing the stones over and across busy Foothill Boulevard, about 100 feet below where we stood. We ensured no vehicles were on the road when the rocks were tossed.
Using binoculars, Buster, my close friend, spotted two officers crouched and creeping toward us, much like soldiers in combat would do. They looked to be around 50 yards from us.
In a split second, we bolted. As we sprinted, I suggested we hide in my house. I excitedly told David what had happened. Peering through the bathroom window, I saw our winded pursuers arrive at the bottom of the hill.
A neighbor watering his front yard chatting with officers, pointed to my house.
I knew we were done for, although we had broken no law save one. We ran from the cops. In rough, dangerous neighborhoods like ours, police had an unwritten law: never run from us, no matter what.
We barrio and ghetto kids had our own rule: if officers aggressively approach, don’t let them catch you. Nothing good would result if you were nabbed.
In our case, we later told the officers we had raced away just in case we had unknowingly violated some obscure law.
We immediately asked why we were being busted. The cops falsely accused us of throwing rocks at vehicles transiting Foothill Boulevard. Naturally, we vociferously denied the allegation, adding that we did not throw stones when vehicles were passing or near.
On our way to the police station, one of the cops launched into an obscene diatribe. David, he said, was lucky not to have been shot because of his threatening manner.
I was frightened and incredulous at what was happening. Did the cop really mean he would have shot David?
We were fingerprinted at the Foothill Division station, mug shots were taken and then grilled separately. By now, I was thoroughly shaken and afraid of what might follow.
A typically tall LAPD officer, Officer Moody rejected what I told him as a lie. After cursing me, he alleged we had broken a man’s windshield.
Il-advisedly, I became angry and challenged him to present this fictional victim.
With that, Moody shoved me hard against a wall. There was no question I would not antagonize this guy further. I was about five feet tall and probably weighed no more than 75 pounds. Moody: what an evil, dangerous coward, I thought.
All we could tell the officers was the truth. There were no lies to concoct.
We were locked in a holding cell, and passing cops taunted us with vulgar insults. Among ourselves, we worriedly speculated that the worst was yet to come. I faintly hoped that this mistaken arrest would be seen as such and we would be freed.
A few hours after our arrest, Dad arrived, burning with fury. He was incensed that cops had snatched me up without his or Mom’s knowledge. On the short drive home, he cursed the cops in Spanish. My father had some criminal experience and countless run-ins with cops. Dad never claimed to have been innocent of charges but detested police for their mistreatment of him.
Jail Bird became my nickname in middle school. My pals and I were called that good-naturedly. Some classmates wanted to know what getting busted was like. To my dismay, I learned that fellow seventh-grader Doug Moody was Officer Moody’s son.
My fellow suspects and I were summoned to an informal proceeding, a sort of kangaroo court. The judge declared us guilty of malicious mischief without hearing from us and only issued a warning. Officially, we were guilty.
I look back on the incident with some resentment, but I mainly view it as a crucial real-world lesson in what law enforcement could mean for Mexicans like me. I can’t say the unjust arrest and maltreatment traumatized me. But it was a lot for a young kid to take in.
Ricardo Chavira Chicano 