Never Again: A Never Before Told Insight into the 1992 Los Angeles Riots - Softcover

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Thursday, 4:30PM

As I drove my Chevy pickup truck onto the freeway south into work late Thursday afternoon I listened to radio reports describing the chaos that was now my life.

Newscaster: “Preliminary reports indicate at least 25 deaths since the verdicts were announced yesterday afternoon, acquitting four police officers involved in the beating of Rodney King on March 3, 1991, There have been more than 500 injuries and 1,000 fires, resulting in over 700 arrests. Property damage is estimated at over $200 million dollars.”

It was incredible to think that all of this occurred in less than 24 hours, from the initial stages and turning point, to the moment I could have altered this madness with my strategy to some degree. Each fire, every reported loss of life or property stung. I wished I could go back in time to launch my plan and avert the destruction. It would have been easier if the time between my giving the go-ahead and my Captain’s crushing decision to “stand down” had been distanced by more than a few minutes. But there was no going back.

I began humming and whispering the lyrics to another one of my favorite songs by Phil Collins, “Another Day in Paradise,” and one by John Secada , “Just Another Day,” as I flashed back to the highlights of the day before.

I drove over the Mulholland pass on the southbound 405 freeway. Huge plumes of smoke billowed up across the city as helicopters flew through acrid smoke along the horizon. The city was on fire. The smoke covered the sky with an opaque, yellow tinge. I looked up to find the sun and all I could see behind the veil of smoke was a bright spot surrounded by a halo of light. I rolled my window down about three inches to let in some air. A pungent stench filled the truck. It smelled like burning wood or smoke from a bonfire, but at the same time there was an underlying odor―sharp and unpleasant―the scent of burning chemicals.

I felt like I was entering a war zone. The fact of the matter being―I was.

I exited the freeway at La Cienega Boulevard and Century Boulevard near LAX, encountering a huge crowd of looters in the street as I rounded the corner and passed under the freeway overpass onto Century Boulevard at Felton Avenue. Several of the mom and pop and chain stores, including a laundromat, had been destroyed and were burning. Ash, carried by the breeze fell from the sky. Debris was scattered everywhere. It seemed as though I was driving onto a movie set.

Looters pushed shopping carts loaded with merchandise including such simple things as diapers and toilet paper. Ordinary people caught up in the hysteria, were taking the opportunity to steal necessities. As I approached, individuals in the crowd moved suddenly into the street in front of me to block my path. I reached across to the passenger seat next to me and opened my fanny pack. Pulling out my Beretta 9MM pistol, I held it in my right hand and placed an extra magazine clip between my legs.

The crowd was diverse, made up of both young and old. Many held stolen merchandise or other objects. Dusk was setting in and I was unable to tell exactly what they were carrying. Possibly weapons, I thought.

I scanned the immediate area. There were no avenues of escape. Some of the vehicles behind me stopped, blocking my ability to back up or turn around. This was going to be ugly.

The only side street near me was short and would lead me into a hostile gang neighborhood paralleling the freeway and abutting some of the burned-out businesses. I flashed back to the images on the news programs the day before, as drivers were pulled from their cars and savagely beaten.

There was only one option.

Breathing deeply, showing no fear, I moved my pickup truck slowly toward the crowd. I steered with my left hand down low, placing my right hand high on the steering wheel and holding my loaded and cocked Beretta, making it very obvious I was armed.

As I neared the crowd a heavy-set, tattooed, Hispanic man at the front of the group jeered at me, almost as if he recognized me, and motioned with his hands for the hostile and angry crowd to back away allowing me to pass through. Several people yelled obscenities as I slowly drove by. I could feel the tension and hostility of the crowd as several plastic water bottles struck my windshield and other parts of my truck.

I took another deep breath safely passing the crowd. I had been mentally prepared to drive through the raging mass and/or fire my weapon if necessary―both of which were the last things I wanted to do. But there was no way I going down like Reginald Denny had the day before. No one was going to pull me into the street and rob and beat me.

I was still feeling the surge of adrenaline as I drove the few remaining miles to the station. I was fully aware that I was lucky to have avoided a possible use of deadly force against this unruly crowd―especially if they had decided to rush the truck.

I drove southbound on Hawthorne Boulevard. I was saddened seeing one burned-out business along the way. Nearing Lennox Boulevard I prepared to turn left at the intersection and into the Lennox Sheriff’s Station driveway near the corner. I paused. I could not believe what I saw.

The Payless Shoe Store, directly across the street from and diagonally adjacent to the station, was on fire. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. We went from holding our own area in check the day before to losing a business right across the street from the Sheriff’s station. I felt as if I was living in a movie. This must be a movie. None of it seemed real.

The absolute devastation reminded me of photos I had seen of war-torn regions in third world countries. I could not believe it happened in the city I worked in. I could not understand the senselessness of it all. Had I been given a chance, I could have stopped it from happening in this senseless way.

We could have done something to change this.

I live with that guilt to this day.