Ricardo Chavira Chicano

The Los Angeles Police Department And Me: A Long And Troubled Relationship

A young Latino’s face was gushing blood, and two of LA’s finest were furiously going at the guy with fists and kicks. More blood would spew. The assailants were Los Angeles Police Department officers assigned to the Foothill Division.

Let me explain the finest matter. The police force is nicknamed LA’s Finest because of its purported department’s commitment to law enforcement and community service.

It seemed that inhuman battering was not going to stop. I witnessed this horrific incident in the late summer of 1973.

Indirectly, I caused the assault. An hour earlier, my brother and I arrived at my Pacoima, California home to discover a burglar. We entered the bedroom in twilight and came face-to-face with a man carrying my new stereo set.

My brother and I, of course, were startled, but the burglar was terrified. He had the familiar look of a tecato, Spanish slang for a heroin addict. Evidently fearing bad things, he loudly pleaded for mercy. All we did was keep him from leaving.

But neighbors heard the screams and came to the open front door. I had ascertained that my meager possessions were stacked on one side of the porch; his criminal companions had fled when we drove up.

As nothing was missing, I decided to let the failed burglar walk. I was not angry and instead felt sorry for the guy. But a male neighbor angrily insisted on calling the police. He said that several neighborhood homes had been burglarized in recent weeks.

Two burly LAPD officers soon arrived to find the burglar, head down, sitting on a porch step. “What’s your name, a__hole,” one of the cops growled. The tecato did not answer even after he was asked twice more.

Then came the kick, a mighty blow across the man’s face. It resembled a field goal kick, except a human received the blow, one so explosive it split the bridge of the criminal’s nose and left him splayed on the ground.

The officers quickly dragged him to the side of the house, where they began mauling him. I was aghast. As I recall, nearly a minute passed, and the cops kept up the ferocious pace.

Ever so gently—I knew LAPD officers detested anything resembling interference– and asked the assailants if it might be best to take the bad guy to the station for booking.

Infuriated, one of the cops drew close to me and bellowed, “Oh, so you’re going to tell us how to do our jobs, huh?” I don’t recall what I said. Surely, whatever I said was expressed timidly and apologetically.

“When this guy or his homies come back,” the irate cop said, “don’t you call us. We won’t come.”

Having been arrested twice and witnessed the LAPD in action during my boyhood and adolescence, I knew that LA’s Finest were not model citizens. 

Still, this dark, ugly, evil episode left me dazed. The horrific beating and my supposed rescuers turning on me were unbelievably distressing.

A historical note: Rodney King was brutalized by the Foothill Division cops.

It occurred to me recently that it is not often that someone often sees and experiences police misconduct and acts of brutality. This post is one of a few I will write. My intention is to illuminate the history and pervasiveness of police misconduct.