The D.A.

There’s the view.

Eighteen floors up/big window/east exposure. His ritual: Gawk and sip coffee. His daily memo: The view meant the climb.

Twenty-eight years. One bureaucracy. Schmuck kid to D.A. They tag their D.A.s like presidents. Its L.A. County ego. He’s #40. His campaign dumped D.A. 39. He’s ten months in. His office is still too big. He still loves the view.

Look south—there’s City Hall. It’s a film noir update. Look straight ahead—there’s court buildings beaucoup. Look north— there’s the “Twin Towers.” It’s County Jail overflow. They’ve got freeway views.

It’s downtown L.A. It’s all crime all the time. Courtrooms and lockups. O.J.’s Oasis/the Punishment Palace/the Misdemeanant’s Motel 6.

It’s Steve Cooley’s world. Dig it dystopian. Check out his desk. It’s orgy-size. It came with the job.

It’s morning. He’s thinking. His brainwaves are broiling bravura.

With Blake. With Rampart. With Olson-Soliah.

The Blake job—six months old/indictmentless/classic. One, short time frame. Two, no guilt proof. Three, no alternative suspects. Rampart—a lurid labyrinth. The loony linchpin: a bent cop named Rafael Perez.

Perez admits his shit. Said shit includes dope ripoffs and frame-ups. Perez rats out Rampart Division. It’s a testosterone-torqued Tijuana. It’s the macho-maimed microcosm for the LAPD. There’s a lawsuit lynch mob lurking. They’re licking their lips. They’d love to loot LAPD. The mess is metastasizing.

Perez tattles tainted testimony. Court costs crescendo. Innocence invaded. Insignificant indictments incurred. Weigh the cost. It might be pull-the-plug time.

It started pre-Cooley. His predecessor caught it hot-hot. Cooley got in. Cooley formed the JSID—Justice System Integrity Division.

Protocols. Procedures to gauge cop misconduct. Rampart on his watch?—the scandal dies stillborn.

Olson-Soliah was hot. It was 10/29. Her plea date is 10/31. She might plead not guilty. She might go to trial. She might plead guilty and cop out. She tried to torch two cop cars. Her fuses fizzled. Ten years per car—predictable and wholly just.

Olson-Soliah went back. It’s ’74 now. Sara Jane Olson’s righteous tag is Kathleen Soliah. Soliah’s in the SLA. They’re loony left-wing losers. They kidnap Patty Hearst. They extort her old man. They rob some banks and spew specious rhetoric. Cut to 5/17/74. Cut to East 54th Street. LAPD SWAT swats an SLA safe house. Six Commies catch tear gas. They cough and combust. The house ignites. Six crispy critters snap, crackle, and pop.

The stiffs are ID’d. There’s no Patty Hearst and no Kathleen Soliah. Six notable new-left nudniks lay dead. Other SLA Unter-menschen survive. They undulate underground.

Cut to 4/21/75. Cut to Carmichael, California. We’re in Sacramento County. A baaaaad heist goes down. It’s a “Righteous 211” in cop-speak.

The Crocker National Bank. Eight suspected SLA-ers. Four inside. A four-fiend outside crew. A fifteen-grand take. A woman named Myrna Opsahl shotgunned for kicks.

Cut to 1982. Patty Hearst:

Caught/convicted/jailed/pardoned/released. She writes a memoir. She names the Carmichael crew.

Kathy Soliah worked inside. Kathy Soliah dumped cash drawers. Emily Harris killed Myrna Opsahl. Soliah quizzed Harris per Opsahl. Harris called Opsahl “a bourgeois pig.”

Time trucks. There’s Emily Harris and hubby Bill. They get popped for adjunct crimes. Time trucks anew. They go to prison. They get paroled. Patty Hearst’s book appears. The Sacramento D.A. stays gun-shy.

Cut back to ’76. The Feds try Kathy’s bro Steve Soliah. Hearst says he’s a getaway man. A jury acquits him. Double jeopardy saves him. Myrna Opsahl goes unavenged.

Cut to 6/16/99. The Feds nail “Sara Jane Olson.” She lives in Minnesota. She’s a housewife. She’s got three kids. Her husband’s a M.D.

She’s extradited. She hits L.A. She bails out. Her pretrial process attenuates.

Steve Cooley perks up. Steve Cooley reviews Carmichael. Steve Cooley smells murder beefs.

Myrna Opsahl had a son. His name was Jon. He was a M.D. Cooley briefed some D.A.’s cops. They called Jon Opsahl. They updated him.

Kathy Soliah—popped for the car-bomb caper. The Carmichael job—primed for prosecution now.

Cooley kept calling Jon Opsahl. Opsahl bugged the Sacramento D.A. Opsahl got the gist. Opsahl vibed this:

Sacramento’s reluctant—once bitten/twice shy. Cooley’s running for D.A. Cooley leads the polls. Say he gets elected. Say he goes bold. Say he tries the case non-jurisdictionally.

Cooley got elected. Cooley took over. A local judge scoped the car-bomb evidence. Said judge said this:

“The history of the SLA, including Carmichael, could be introduced in the bombing case here, because it was part of an ongoing criminal conspiracy.”

Cooley smiled. Cooley tapped his desk. Cooley checked the view.

Time trucked backwards. It’s 5/74 again. It’s yesterday once more.

He was a kid prosecutor. He was a kid LAPD reserve. The “SLA Shootout” ran live on TV.

He watched it. He dug it. It played live from his own beat.

Some show. Order triumphant. Adjudication circumvented— a tragedy. He almost grabbed his uniform. He almost went over.

He deferred his help. Time trucked forward. His Carmichael ploy might work. Sacramento might prosecute.

What a ride. What a fucking view.

The office was huge. Newcomers needed maps. Floors and floors/rooms and rooms/mazelike cubbyholes.

The Criminal Courts Building—Temple and Broadway.

Cooley knew every wall crack. He worked headquarters. He detoured. He worked Siberian outposts. He returned as top dog.

He toured the halls. He touched the walls. It was turf-marking time. You’re el perro primo/il cane supremo/chien numero un.

Pinch me—I’m the D.A.

Cooley walked to his 10:00 a.m. meeting. Subordinates said hi. It was “Steve” and “Boss” mostly. The timid deployed “sir.” Cooley looked embarrassed.

He cut through the squadroom. It was packed. Good cops all—prime PD transfers. They investigated cases. They guarded witnesses. They watchdogged him.

Pinch me. I’ve got bodyguards and drivers. Headwaiters kiss my ass.

Busting Robert Blake earned Steve Cooley headlines, but reshaping the largest prosecutor’s office in the country—and one of the most maligned—is the challenge of a lifetime. (Photo courtesy of the Los Angeles County District Attorney’s Office)

Cooley walked. Cooley touched wall cracks. Cooley made his 10:00 a.m. meet.

The crew was there. The room was big. The desk was orgy-size. The topic: the new Cold Case Unit.

It’s Cooley’s scheme. It’s four DDAs plus LAPD detectives. Let’s solve old murders. Let’s deploy DNA. There’s a big state grant—fifty million cold. Let’s utilize our share. Local crime labs are swamped. Let’s blast through our agenda.

For LAPD:

Lieutenant Debbie McCarthy, Detective Rick Jackson, Detective Dave Lambkin, Detective Tim Marcia, et al. One supervisor. Three file-prowling/street-pounding/case-clearing dicks.

For the D.A.:

Lisa Kahn—deputy-in-charge. The widely known DNA “Goddess.” John Lewin—stoic prosecutor. Nifty suit and slick haircut. Ellen Aragon—seasoned litigator. Piercing eyes chilled by large glasses. Vesna Maras—prosecutor/recent transfer/quiet-raucous wit. Dead ringer: the Eastern-bloc ingenue in Andrzej Waida flicks. Joe Scott—Cooley’s media boss. A young 71. Deep L.A. roots. His dad was a judge. His dad slammed Big Bill Tilden for honking young boys.

Bagels and coffee sit warm. Packaged cream cheese melts. The crew shags coffee. Cooley shags a bagel. Lisa Kahn takes charge. She’s the Goddess DIC.

We’ve got high-volume unsolveds. We’ve got evidence extant. We’ve got evidence destroyed. We’ve got jobs with no suspects, jobs with prime suspects, and whodunit jobs. We’ve got grant funding. We get one DNA sample-test per case. Our priority: nail suspects in hardcore sex snuffs.

Everyone agrees. It’s charged and vocal. Cooley’s noshing a bagel. He nods assent.

The cops take over. It goes orderly. We go McCarthy to Jackson/Lambkin to Marcia on down.

Subtext runs strong. We work the worst murders. Female victims/male suspects. Penetration/ejaculation/mutilation. Lust-now-pay-later crimes.

The cops riff prosaics. We read files, we ID victims, we locate or confirm evidence lost. We locate suspects free or in custody.

Lisa Kahn speaks. Remember—DNA convicts and exonerates. Cooley speaks. Remember—DNA is fully precise. It cannot distort or dissemble. We can serve justice both ways.

The subtext shifts. It goes telepathic quick. It’s a mass O.J. injection. Probative certainty—one thing. Shit-slick defense lawyers—another.

More cop talk. More D.A. talk. The ball bops beatific.

Rape kits/freezers/property rooms. The comb-old-cartons/computer run/field-new-calls essentials. Resentment sizzles. They’re new. They’re pumped and poised. They’ll buck longstanding sloth.

Lab backlog. Lab incompetence. DNA as hot topic and Kafkaesque theme. Idle cons in Quentin and Folsom. Let’s try a DNA scam! We might get lucky! It worked for O.J.!!!

More talk. Deft passes—cops to D.A.s.

Rape-kit tests. The consensual sex factor. Outside labs—can we employ them? Let’s buy that new fingerprint computer.

Cooley mops up bagel crumbs. Cooley shifts his chair. It’s his prelude to coda.

Cooley speaks. His chair’s a pulpit. The orgy desk’s a pew.

Murder solving—the detectives’ stern duty. Sound teamwork as device. The prosecutor’s duty: Win honestly in court. Usurp the autonomy of killers. Protect society on that basis ad hoc.

The pitch worked. The sermon on the orgy desk. Nonsectarian prayer.

The meeting adjourned. Cooley grabbed a bagel for the road.

THERE’S THE LIFE.

“The Life”—noun. Convict-derived. Denotes inclusiveness and sealed borders. You’re in or out. You commit crimes. You run inherent risks. That’s your membership card.

“The Life”—noun. Applied to whores and their high-risk existence. Applied to all sealed societies. Risk remains the membership card.

The L.A. D.A.’s Office—ditto.

Deep roots. 152 years. Deeeeep history.

Wild West days. Chinatown tong wars. Race riots. Lynchings. Police scandals. Bent cops running prosties. Bent cops bombing cars. Bent cop homicides.

Scandal without. Scandal within. It’s 1928. Asa “Ace” Keyes is D.A. Ace is convicted of bribery. Ace goes down. Ace gets two years in Big Q.

D.A. Buron Fitts—deep shit in 1930.

There’s a whore ring. It feeds young cooze to high rollers. Allegations arise. Fitts allegedly quashes them. Suspicions arise. The grand jury indicts. Fitts endures. Fitts wins at trial.

Deputy D.A. Jack Kirschke—’60s swinging dick. Jack’s wife is straying. She’s fucking this clown Orville Drankhan. Jack finds them in bed. Jack whacks them. Jack does ten years.

Hot crimes. Perpetrated within. Statistical rarities. Emblematic? Sure.

You’re in the Life. You make the law. You fight lawlessness without. You breathe the stink. You de-inoculate. You know the law. Your knowledge engenders recklessness. You crash the law without.

History. Dig it as picaresque. Load on that lore large.

La vida, la vie—Cooley fucking loved it.

The old days. The old D.A.’s cops—phone book-thumping goons deluxe. The rubber-stamp grand jury—Indictments R Us.

History lost. History least. The Office got hip and cleaned up. Credit time and trends without.

Racial roots rocked. The Spanish land grants and up. Mexican rule early. White rule ascendant—per population flux. The Office flew with the flux. The Office grokked that melting pot/Pacific Rim rebop. The Life was rigidly restricted and inimically inclusive. It lived by the law and flowed with flux more than not. L.A. changed complexion. The Office likewise. Seoul and Ciudad Whatever meet the Dark Continent and crash the White Spot.

L.A. changed. L.A. grew. The Office followed up. Representative justice—within meets without. Race. Gender. The Cold Case Squad. Female victims probable. Three women to prosecute.

Cooley loved it. He was 54. He lived an L.A. lifetime. He logged half-plus in the Life. He saw the big guns work and fade. He met J. Miller “Gas Chamber” Leavy. Miller sent Stephen Nash and Barbara Graham to the green room. Miller 86’d Donald Keith Bashor. Miller was a self-described gas.

Then was then. Now was now. Fuck nostalgia in the knee cracks and neck. Now was better. Then had its place. The weave warped inextricable. Then and now latched the L to the Life.

Public awareness was up now. Awareness meant accountability. Reformer’s zeal was in now. That zap of zeal elected him. He grew up in the Life. It was BIG and circumscribed. He watched the expansion. The dimensions dazzled him.

The Life. The Office. One force synonymous.

A thousand prosecutors. Nine hundred support staff. Two hundred and eighty cops. Thirty-nine regional offices. Thirty-nine specialty divisions. The whole downtown octopus.

Expansion—concurrent with rising crime stats. The Life meets the Life in proximity propitious.

You side with justice. You see the Other Life revealed. You touch the dirt. You feel it. The slip into slime fuels you ambiguously. It’s delirious dispensation. It’s the perverse perk of peeking into purgatory. It reinstills resolve. It’s a salutary salary deincentive. Defense lawyers outearn you. The Life lets you laugh and not care.

You help victims. You punish wrongdoers. You poke through their shit. The Life taxed you and tweaked you, vexed you and vamped you, nudged you and nailed you nonplussed.

Cooley knew why.

It was the truth biz. You had to love it.

OLSON-SOLIAH PISSED BACKWARDS. He shitcanned Rampart.

Halloween day—she pleads guilty. She stays free on bail. The judge sets sentencing for 12/7. Possible term: 20 to life. Possible 5-year parole.

She pleads guilty. She splits the courtroom. She sees reporters outside. She says she’s not guilty. She blames 9/11. I can’t get a fair trial. Antiterrorist fervor, oh yuck!

Outrageous.

Unacceptable.

Cooley’s DDAs responded. Michael Latin fumed. Eleanor Hunter said, “She’s either lying in court or lying outside court to save face.”

The judge called a hearing. It occurred 11/6. The judge lectured Olson-Soliah. “A guilty plea is not a waystation on the way to a press conference.”

Olson-Soliah whined up 9/11. The judge asked her straight: “Do you wish your plea to stand?” Olson-Soliah paused. Olson-Soliah said, “Yes.”

Cut to 11/15. Olson-Soliah proffers a sealed motion. It’s unsealed and read. Olson-Soliah boomerangs. She wants to retract her plea.

“After deeper reflection, I realized I cannot plead guilty when I know I am not.

“Cowardice prevented me from doing what I should: throw caution aside and move to trial.”

The judge set a hearing for 11/28. The judge postponed it to 12/3. The judge rejected the motion. His Honor Larry Paul Fidler, succinct: “She pled guilty because she is guilty.”

Boom—sentencing on 1/18. DDA Latin, succinct: “It’s time to face the music.”

L.A. music. Johnny Justice and the Karma Kings—’70s rock. Potential upstate music—the Carmichael job.

Olson-Soliah dodged bullets. Cooley dodged some and caught some. Cooley shut off Rampart.

He held a press gig. Chief Parks and Sheriff Baca stood by. He announced his filing declinations. He’d signed 15. He might sign 30 more. He stressed Rampart’s limits. Perez and his unit stood culpable. Trials and sentencing concluded/appeals in progress. Case closed beyond that.

There’s no “endemic” LAPD corruption. Don’t indulge witch hunts.

He stressed his Integrity Division. He detailed some new protocols. We roll out. We move on cop-misconduct charges. We probe. We prosecute valid beefs. Look for us—all officer-involved shootings/all custody deaths.

Fifty Rampart-related cases—dumped by New Year’s. No new filings predicted. It just wasn’t there.

Rampart—adios, motherfucker.

He got some praise. He took some hits. He tapped some long-term exhaustion. The conspiracy press fricasseed him.

Cooley the Cop Collusive. Colluder Cooley Culls Contacts. Cop Curtain Curtails Probe. Will Wicked Whitewash Wither Righteous Reformer’s Prestige?

You can’t control public perception. Shit—it just wasn’t there.

Some defense lawyers responded. The corrosive chorus continued. It was “one huge look the other way.”

No, we looked. We ran a Roto-Rooter ream stick through Rampart. It just wasn’t—

Fuck it. It’s fall in L.A.—some sunshine, some rain. Olson-Soliah dips to her destiny. The Cold Case Squad is setting up. Prospects prickle priapic. Ouch—prime those killers for some pain.

AUTHORITY MEETS JUSTICE. He grew up with the dream. Silver Lake—catch the view now to then.

The hills near downtown. Close to Chavez Ravine. Authority spawns injustice. Power dudes evict poor Chicanos. Power dudes build Dodger Stadium.

He grew up Catholic. Chief Parker went to his church. Parker was a reformer. Cooley knew it then. Parker kiboshed LAPD corruption. Parker was a lush. Wags called him “Whiskey Bill.” Parker got drunk. Parker defamed Negroes. Parker pulled asshole stunts. Cooley did not know it then.

Cooley’s dad was a Fed. Dad admired J. Edgar Hoover. Hoover collected pornography and dirty surveillance pix. Dad did not know it then. Likewise Cooley.

Silver Lake was half-ass diverse. White squares ruled. Homosexuals and Mexicans goosed the body count. Silver Lake was hilly. Wags called it the “Swish Alps.” Nobody called J. Edgar “Gay” Edgar.

A good kids’ place. Dig the hills and terrace views. Grow up illusioned. Disillusion right. Stretch out the process.

Cooley did it. He scored in school. He played kid sports. He sold the L.A. Herald. The Herald ran crime extras. Cooley hawked copies. Crime—the young lawyer’s primer.

The Finch-Tregoff case. Caryl Chessman and the green room. The hot seat and J. Miller Leavy.

The Herald flogged the Spade Cooley snuff. Spade was a country fiddler. Spade and Steve were no kin. Spade was a hophead. Spade whacked his wife. She wanted to join a sex cult. Spade got mighty pissed.

Kids kidded Cooley. Spade had slit-eyes. Chinamen were Cooleys. Where’s your rickshaw, Steve?

Crime scratched his skin. A prick—no big flesh wound. His life was full. School, four siblings, church. ’60s tsuris bored him. His world was secure. The world at large should be. Dad was a Fed. There was a stable path. It brought joy and fulfillment.

He took it.

He graduated Loyola High. He entered Cal State L.A. Cal State ran no-frills. Cal State had a low rebellion quotient. He nursed a political urge. He ran for student body veep and got elected. The prexy got drafted. Cooley made prez.

He was the Man—some squaresville youth version. He was a groovy youth figurehead. He confronted some radicals. He helped quash some half-baked revolt. The law scraped his skin. This flesh wound hurt. He applied to USC Law School. He got in. Let’s train for the truth biz.

We’ll learn theory and statutes. We’ll learn to think legalistically. Let’s learn to lasso the truth.

He studied. He gorged on test cases. He choked up minutiae. Law school—the Life writ small.

He honed his truth skills. It juked his appetite. He drooled for more adventure. It was ’72. He doubled his workload. He joined the LAPD Reserves.

LAPD—the Life writ bigggg.

He took academy classes. He logged 264 hours. He augmented his law-school skills. He was young, dumb, and full of cum. Give me jeopardy and peril. Give me a black-and-white. Give me a badge and a gun.

They did. He got Newton Division—ruff, tuff, and non-Caucasian. He worked 3 to 6 shifts a month. He worked Saturday nites. He saw a gunshot victim bleed out on a pool table. The cat took one in the aorta. The cat’s eyes pulsed and flatlined.

Newton kicked the youth out of him. He got in fights. He broke up fights. He rolled code 3. He read law texts. He popped his street cherry. He inhaled legal gobbledygook. He saw horror up close. He got used to it. The SLA pulled their shit. It was calamitous nonsense. He got no pinch-me portents of distant destiny.

He rigged a plan. He culled contingencies. Plan 1: Pass the bar. Plan 1-A: Become a Deputy D.A. Plan 2: Fail the bar. Join the Feds or go full-time LAPD.

Good plans. Lashed to his life sense and wrapped in his roots. He was 26. He was disillusioned. His ideals stood intact. He was book-schooled and street-smart and tricked out to try the truth biz.

He aced the bar exam. The D.A. needed prosecutors. Plans 1 and 1-A played out plenty good.

COOLEY WORKED. The ’70s sizzled. The decade featured big hair and self-forfeit. Self-absorption reigned. L.A. was stoned. Criminals rapped sadness. Don’t lock me up/help me adjust/I need rehabilitation.

It hindered truth detection. It made Cooley think. It made him weigh mitigation. It buttressed the truth as absolute standard. It undermined the truth as knowable up front.

It honed his shit sniffer. It taught him to gauge forfeit per person. It expanded his cop context. He moved past suspects and victims and fast patrol encounters. He whipped past his own white-ass world and Negrofied Newton. He read case law. He took specific fact patterns. He abstracted them. He revised them to fit breaking cases. He met diverse suspects and victims. He added witnesses and families in duress. He studied. He interviewed. He talked to cops cop-to-cop and cop-to-cop lawyer. He prepped for court. He plea-bargained. He litigated. He weighed his native rectitude against a growing compassion.

He learned. He lived the Life. He tried for the truth. The truth tricked him and trapped him. There’s knowing the truth. There’s proving the truth. There’s the truth obscured by baffling fact patterns. There’s forfeit fueled by traumatic circumstances. There’s forfeit as furious fuck-up. The truth triumphs, the truth eludes, the truth preys on principles that protect the guilty. Every day/every case/every courtroom deal and judgment—simple truth, two-sided truth, truth misunderstood.

Misdemeanors, felonies, dope cases, assaults, burglary-robbery. Case law, plea deals, referrals, sentencing, justice. The Life socked it to him. Some trail of truth got him through.

He met a woman. They courted and married. Two kids followed. His career advanced. The Life and the Office—one force synonymous.

He toured the County. He wrote a dope-seizure text. He worked regional outposts. He ran Antelope Valley. He nailed a rape-o for a hundred years plus. Bam—the longest single-victim rape sentence ever. Truth-serving and well deserved.

Steve Cooley in his LAPD uniform in 1975. He served as a reserve officer for the Newton Street Division from 1972 to 1978. (Photo courtesy of Steve Cooley)

Commendations accrued. Ding me with dinners and ply me with plaques. He litigated. He won in court. He forged friendships with fellow Lifers. D.A.s came and went. He studied Joe Busch, John Van de Kamp, Bob Philibosian, Ira Reiner, and Gil Garcetti. He ran San Fernando Valley. Said office was huge. Its size equivalence stunned. He tried special-circs murders. The Laurie Myles case went down. Cooley was on it.

It was a three-punk/four-month nightmare. It shocked the Valley. Two murders/three woundings/thirty robberies. They shot Laurie Myles in her car. Her young son watched. They parked outside a church. Her daughter was at Bible-study class.

LAPD got the punks. Cooley put them away. Two life-without-paroles. One 38-year jolt.

The truth—sometimes simple. Ask “Gas Chamber” Leavy. The Simpson-Goldman snuffs occurred. Cooley watched the upscut. Gil Garcetti was D.A. Garcetti tried the case downtown. The jury pool favored O.J. O.J. walked. It was an outrage. Cooley caught the upshot.

The Office lost face. Public support dwindled. The office got shivved in the shorts. Garcetti got reelected. He won by a pubic-hair margin.

Cooley supported Garcetti’s opponent. Cooley got punished and transferred downtown. He took over Welfare Fraud. It was a demotion and a shaft job.

He worked downtown. He saw Lifer discontent. He saw cop discontent. He saw public discontent mucho close.

He worked his shaft gig. He caught anti-Garcetti vibes. Rampart broke. Garcetti fumbled it. Gilded Gil glitched out. He had no system. He had no way to look/learn/listen/collate and cull.

The Belmont scandal broke. Let’s rebuild Belmont Hi. Let’s rename it a “Learning Center.” Let’s build on some choice downtown land.

But—

The land’s faulty. It’s fucking toxic. It’s environmentally fucked. Taxpayer millions—gone already. It’s a city contract. It reeks of collusion. It howls and stirs questions up.

Where’s the truth? Where’s Gil Garcetti?

Cooley extrapolated. Cooley ran fact patterns and flowcharts. Cooley countered current controversies in his head. Cooley got this idea. It was quixotic and Jimmy Carter-esque.

I’ll run for D.A. I’ll defeat the incumbent. I’ll win.

He gauged the public mood. He sensed truth fiends out there. He sniffed shit in the spiritus mundi.

O.J. walks. Clinton walks. Rampart rages. Belmont Hi is Jack Webb’s alma mater. Jack ran for class prez. Jack won insurgent. Time trucks then to now. Circa ’38 meets 2000. Insurgency runs in waves. It’s yesterday once more.

He talked to his family. They said GO. He talked to aides and colleagues. They concurred.

He started early. He leaked word in spring ’99. He put up a Web site. He hired a consultant. He beat potential candidates timewise. He glommed key-opponent status fast.

The media scoffed. Cooley hammered Gil Garcetti.

Garcetti sets up a Trademark Infringement Unit. Garcetti gets campaign cash from Guess? jeans first. A Garcetti backer’s son hits the shitter. Garcetti reduces the beef.

The Life. Dig the traditions. Challenge your boss. Hold your job concurrent.

More challengers cliqued up. Cooley quashed their momentum. They came and went. Barry Groveman stayed. Formal announcements/fund-raisers/media brouhaha. ’99 hits 2000.

March 7—the runoff election. A 50% plurality chills it. If Gil gets 50, Steve’s fucked.

Cooley’s a Republican. Garcetti’s a Democrat. L.A. runs Democrat biiiiig. Garcetti paints Cooley as a manic malcontent. Garcetti infers right-wing nut and gun freak. Cooley brings up Lockheed.

Dig:

It’s ’96. Garcetti runs for reelection. The D.A.’s Office taps the County supervisors. Let’s pay Lockheed 2.5 million. Let them run our child-support computer system.

Post hoc, ergo propter hoc:

Lockheed lobs Garcetti campaign cash. The envelope arrives a month on.

The clock clicked. Tick, tock to March 7. Cooley picked up endorsements. Garcetti and Cooley culled campaign cash. Garcetti looks like a Latin lover. Cooley’s the “blue collar” call. It’s disingenuously dunned—but it works.

Cooley hammered Gilded Gil.

Guess? jeans. Lockheed. The O.J. malaise as subversive subtext. Belmont. The Three Strikes Law—noxious nightmare. Garcetti supports it. Garcetti hurls hypocrisy. Garcetti has a supporter. His grandson stands on strike 3. Garcetti shoots him 16 months. That’s inconsistent. It’s mandatory life per strike 3.

Garcetti denied Lockheed. Garcetti tried to trim the timeline in his favor. Garcetti spoke through a consultant. The consultant called Cooley “a traditional disgruntled-employee candidate.” Such people “always make a mistake of thinking the public wants to hear their laundry list of exaggerated attacks.”

Laundry list, shit. No tickee, no washee. I’m no Chinaman, but I’m a Cooley.

The list lurked and lingered. Cooley complemented it. He sent off salvos of solutions. He launched them lawyerly. They were complex and commonsensical. Mr. Blue Collar blurred into Policy Pete.

It’s March 7. L.A. County votes. Groveman: 330,429/25%. Garcetti: 504,098/37%. Cooley: 509,750/38%.

No plurality. We fight to November.

They did. Cooley had the momentum. Cooley built more momentum. Cooley grew from burly to stately.

Garcetti’s attacks atrophied. Cooley opposes Three Strikes. Bullshit—I want proportionality. I’m not passive on public scandals—Gil, don’t shit me.

Cooley got the endorsements. The L.A. Times/the cop unions/ the L.A. Weekly. Ex-D.A.s stumped for Steve. The constituency confounded. Cooley wrapped up the right and lured in the left. Grassroots gravitas grabbed them. The man magnetized.

Garcetti got desperate. He did ethnic shtick. Amigos y amigas, love me Latinate—my blood blends with you. He placed smear ads. They kicked off with “Republican Steve Cooley.” The “Republican” rip rolled no ripples. Cooley rode a nonpartisan roll.

He debated Garcetti. They fought fifteen times. They jabbed. They inveighed invective. Cooley’s record—deconstructed/distorted /revised. Gun control/Three Strikes/Guess? jeans/Lockheed. Slick versus burly cum stately. You’re soft on crime/no, you are— middle-aged malice and a sandbox-shenanigan show.

It was overkill. It delayed and postponed. It fucked with the foregone conclusion.

People loved Steve Cooley. It was genuflectingly genuine. He hit the clear chord of you and me. He did it honestly and naturally and effortlessly.

He won huge. Pinch me—you’re the D.A.

THAT WAS NOVEMBER 2000. Cut to now—1/2002.

Cooley trekked floor 18. He touched wall cracks. He turf-marked. He rehashed recent rebop.

The Times tainted him. Reformer’s first year—few highs, few lows. Joe Scott prestaged them. Joe released a memo. It ran 31 bullet points. It ran down Year One in detail.

Cold cases to hate crimes. Belmont to Rampart. Anticorruption to immigrant fraud.

The Times piece hit first. The memo stats ran piecemeal. The Times got more cluck for the buck.

The truth was a game. Politics taught him. The truth was a moral must and a shuck.

The Blake job—unresolved. The Cold Case Squad—looking tuff. That Armenian hit job promised progress. Rick Jackson and Tim Marcia rode it rough.

Rampart rang on rancorous. The conspiracy nuts won’t give up. The Public Integrity Division blew a case. Conflict of interest—you’re out of the box.

The truth gets trashed sometimes. You’re the Man now. You take the shots.

The truth plays schizzy. Learn from it. Light some candles. Light one for Gilded Gil Garcetti.

Cooley touched wall cracks. Subordinates said hi. They all called him “Boss” and “Steve.”

He crashed at his orgy desk. There’s the view. Sip coffee and put your feet up.

The truth liberates. The truth vindicates. The truth kicks in late.

Sacramento moved on Carmichael. Then to now—26 years plus.

The Feds linked shotgun pellets to shells. The link led to an SLA hideout. Forensic confirmation—waaaay overdue.

The Sacramento cops moved. It’s 1/16/02. It’s synced to gnat’sdick-hair margin.

Emily Harris—popped at 8:02 a.m. Her ex Bill and Michael Bortin—popped at 8:18.

Tight spread—16 minutes/shotgun sharp.

Olson-Soliah slinked to her lawyer. She spent 1/18 in court.

She got sentenced. Bam—the car-bomb caper/20 to life. She got arraigned for Carmichael—211 and Murder One.

She pled not guilty. It didn’t matter. She was karmically crucified, french-fried, and fucked.

There’s the view. All crime all the time. Courtrooms and lockups.

Cooley gawked. Sometimes there’s justice. Sometimes the plain truth works out.

Myrna Opsahl, God bless you—I’m glad I could help. We’re all here on the Good Lord’s dime. Someday we’ll hook up.