Ghettoside

“[Skaggs] had molded his life around an urgent problem seldom recognized, and he was unshaken—perhaps even encouraged—by the fact that so many others didn’t get it.” 

An important theme of the text is that of forging one’s own path, and Skaggs is an interesting example of that in his approach to police work. Often, this theme is discussed in the way we search for happiness and vocation; for Skaggs, though, it’s a matter of responsibility: he is good at his job, and it’s a necessary job, so he does it. Here, though, is another element—almost a contrarianism in that he believes in its importance despite the fact that others don’t see it. Symbolically, he is not only working for, but siding with, the residents of South Central.

“Police work can be a haven for brainy, action-oriented people who do not, for some reason, gravitate toward formal education—the type afflicted with what [Wally Tennelle’s daughter] DeeDee Tennelle diagnosed in her whole family as ‘a touch of ADD.’” 

As with the above, this quote connects to the larger theme of forging one’s own path. Despite, for example, Skaggs’s and Wally’s lack of formal higher education, a traditional marker for intelligence in contemporary society, Leovy presents their decisions to forego university in favor of police work as attributable to an intelligence that intersects with a certain kind of energy.

“Glory was not the only one who sensed that many people knew the killer. ‘Everybody knows’ was one of the most common phrases voiced about homicides in South Central. Lots of people had heard about the shooting, and some recognized the suspect, who was a regular around the neighborhood. But when Skaggs pressed, they offered conflicting names. ‘Jamal.’ ‘Jabar.’ No one seemed to know who the panhandler really was or where he lived.” 

Everybody knows” is a motif of the book that expresses one of the more frustrating aspects of police work in South Central: the fact that the police are often the only people who don’t know the perpetrators of crimes. This quote represents that, but also offers the twist—the fact that while everybody knows, generally, who the person is, identity is often more finicky than a straightforward name. This will be echoed later in the book, when the two informants can provide the street names of Starks and Davis, but not their real names (and in fact, even the jail system holding Starks at the time had him under the wrong name).

“For years, most LAPD officers had refused to live in the city they policed and instead commuted from distant suburbs. They formed little red-state bastions sprinkled around Southern California—Santa Clarita and Simi Valley to the north, Chino and as far as Temecula to the east, and Orange County to the south.” 

Much of the book deals with binary differences and the way these differences collapse in certain situations. This is one important example of a binary difference: an important feature of the text (that also ties into forging one’s own path) is Wally Tennelle’s decision to settle in the city of Los Angeles, rather than following his colleagues to the suburbs. This has wider implications, though—for one, in forming these enclaves, the officers create bubbles that allow their views to remain unchallenged, an idea supported throughout the book. For another, in describing them as “red-state bastions,” Leovy also reminds us of the sharp political differences between the police force and those they are policing, at least in California, highlighting the relative homogeneity of those who enter the force. The heroes of the book lean conservative, so its aim is not to make a statement about left-versus-right opinions, even in policing; rather, it appears to be working against closed-mindedness in any form.

“His theory was, he admitted, ‘a circumstantial case.’ But La Barbera’s observations over the years in South Los Angeles had convinced him that catching killers built law—that successful homicide investigations were the most direct means at the cops’ disposal of countering the informal self-policing and street justice that was the scourge of urban black populations.” 

A central claim of the book runs something along these lines: that combating black-on-black violence (or violence of any kind) requires swift consequences for the perpetrators. La Barbera holds this belief, but it is echoed by many of the heroes in various forms, and could be summed up as “reactive policing”—i.e., policing that holds that it is more effective to react to crime than to try to prevent it in the first place. 

“Only people who weren’t familiar with this kind of ‘inner-city’ environment would attribute its problems to alienation or lack of community solidarity. The truth was that ‘community spirit’ in the sense of both local pride and connections among neighbors was far more evident in Watts than elsewhere. […] Even people who were not related were networked into this complex mosaic. Common-law romantic relationships […] not only constituted their own distinct category of familial bonds, they roped in a lot of other blood relations, too.” 

Leovy seeks to counter misunderstandings and presumptions about black communities in the service of her larger project, and part of the purpose here is to unravel, even just mildly, the misconceptions the public might have about these relationships. First, of course, is the concept that there is no community, a belief she shows is flat-out false. Second is the way that relationships are thought of is often incorrect—e.g., the way the public refers to “baby daddies” and “baby mamas,” which only hides the informal, but no less real, ties held between people.

“Some would even argue that witness safety was a nonissue because the only people who really needed to worry were gang members—as if this made it less problematic […] it was all upside down: the system’s weakest point was exactly its statistical apex.” 

This again calls back to a central claim in the book: the kinds of category errors made by police in their presumptions that being involved in gang violence requires gang membership, or that gang membership excludes someone from the possibility of formal legal protection or status as a human being. In doing so, not only are the police committing errors of apathy, but they are also harming their own investigations, as these witnesses are often needed in order to make inroads. One might call to mind Jessica Midkiff, who would prove instrumental in the Starks and Davis trial, but who might have been written off by these kinds of police officers.

“A second witness was also a gang member. […] It took several interviews for the young man to reveal [his] story. He lied, then recanted. At last, he confessed to Marullo that he was terrified. He feared the shooter, although ostensibly the two had been friends and ‘homeys.’ So-called gang loyalty is often like this: Men go along to get along, as battered women go along with their abusers.” 

This ties back into the above quote regarding the difficulty of witness interviews: not only is the mainstream public terrified of testifying, but gang members are tied up in complex loyalties and fears that prevent them from testifying or potentially switching sides. This is a complexity that is often ignored.

“Bryant had abilities, just not academic ones. He loved animals. He cared for all kinds of pets, never losing interest in them. He maintained a tank full of exotic fish. He was good with his hands.” 

The book prizes alternative paths throughout. Bryant is presented as atypical in the Tennelle household, but not abnormal or deficient, which is important. He is a skilled person, but his skills aren’t well-rewarded by mainstream society. The book often appears to argue implicitly against this. 

“The doctor was Bryan Hubbard, a veteran trauma surgeon of the Big Years. Hubbard and his colleagues were the medical equivalent of the Tennelles, Gordons, and Skaggses of the LAPD. They were high-energy perfectionists who had learned their craft in the age of the great homicide epidemic. For a while, the military had sent their medics to train with them.” 

Though the book is concerned more with law enforcement, Leovy here hints at the complexity and reach of the problem. Another book could have been written about the Big Years and the way it affected the medical community; we don’t get much of this, but we get a glimpse in the figure of Hubbard and an understanding, by way of Tennelle and Skaggs, at the complexity and horror of his position.

“Four days later, police found Christopher Davenport, thirty-six, lying dead on the sidewalk in San Pedro […] The next day, LAPD narcotics officers in plain clothes killed Ronald Ball, sixty, in the Newton Division.” 

It’s interesting that in a section on the back-and-forth of homicides in Los Angeles, Leovy includes not only gang killings but also police killings. The book doesn’t shy away from presenting issues in policing, and is frequently critical of methods; this is not to say Leovy is necessarily attempting to criticize methods here, but by including this here, there is a suggestion of equivocation.

“After all, God’s will was something to be accepted. And if you couldn’t accept, the next best thing was to endure. So they set about enduring.” 

A subtext of the book is that of grief. We often see it explicitly shown to us, but less often does the book interrogate grief and ways of grieving. This chapter digs into that in the various ways the Tennelle family deals with the grief and suggests, naturally, that there is no one right way to grieve. Further, it suggests that we apply that beyond the Tennelles, to consider how much of the violence is a result of grief and a desire to set things right.

“Coughlin’s methods were guaranteed to look like straight harassment to those on the receiving end. After all, how important was a bag of marijuana in a place where so many people were dying? But Coughlin’s motivation wasn’t to juke stats, boost his department ‘rating,’ or antagonize the neighborhood’s young men. He had seen the Monster, and his conscience demanded that he do something.” 

The book presents differing philosophies of policing, mainly proactive versus reactive. Generally, reactive is preferred by the book; however, this moment seems to justify proactive to some extent by justifying Coughlin’s approach of, essentially, harassing residents for small crimes in the hopes of preventing bigger ones. This is effectively “broken windows” policing, and Leovy points out elsewhere that proactive policing such as that can have dire consequences; here, though, she shows the possible benefits.

“Later, [the probationer’s] father turned him in to a probation officer himself. It was an extreme step. But the father hoped that some jail time would straighten him out. Instead, his son came out tougher than ever.” 

This quote highlights the difficulties of trying to raise a child under these circumstances—what’s the right approach? The probationer’s father—whose other children were more traditionally successful—believed that tough love might make things better, but it only backfired. In subtle ways, we see this play out with the probationer and his father throughout the book.

“This was exactly the point: getting rid of people. Seldom was it put this way. But one of the primary reasons to have a legal system is to take certain people out of the picture. It is what justifies the immense power the police hold. If you don’t incapacitate violent actors, they keep pushing people around until someone makes them stop.” 

Leovy here departs from philosophies of policing and digs into larger social theory. However, she presents this in a way as settled: we put people away in order to separate them from society. That’s one theory. But this (a) ignores rehabilitative approaches to criminal justice, and (b) presumes an inherent violence of certain individuals. Generally, Leovy grasps the complexity of situations; here, though, the interpretation is more reductive.

“All Skaggs knew was that, as common as confessions were, you couldn’t count on getting one. Many gang members were interrogation experts. […] And just like the cops, they were smooth liars. So although there were those who refused to talk, or bailed midinterview, the more common scenario was a tense tit for tat in which suspects offered detectives bits of information in exchange for finding out what the police knew.” 

This, too, undermines the more popular perception of criminality and justice. Popular presentation is that of the stoic gangster who refuses to talk under any circumstances, whereas here the presentation is more that of a reverse interrogation.

“Kouri remained in Marullo’s shadow. His methodical style balanced his partner’s blazing energy. But deep down, Kouri considered his own skills inferior. He worried that he lacked the necessary gifts. Skaggs overwhelmed people with confidence, Marullo with charm. But Kouri was neither confident nor charming. His thoughts formed no thread; they skipped around in vast matrices of detail. Nor was Kouri intuitive.” 

Very few people in the book develop as we might think of characters developing in a traditional narrative—the plot develops, but the characters largely stay the same, the author opting instead to balance characters against one another. Kouri is one of the few exceptions, and we see the seeds of that here. Perseverance and dedication are the two traits that the book defines as essential; everything else is presented as beneficial, while people find their own way. Kouri here is defining himself against two people with natural talents; his way will be different.

“Conviction rates had risen over the same period that clearance rates had declined. So whether prosecutors failed to convict, or investigators failed to win charges, the net result was the same. The system remained weak in terms of outcomes against killers.” 

It’s worth noting that the system presumes innocence and is designed in part to determine the truth. Leovy here appears to presume guilt, instead, suggesting that because people are arrested and brought up on charges, they are guilty, and that it’s the system’s job to follow through on that presumption. It’s easy to fall into that trap—the heroes in this tale are law enforcement, and particularly righteous members of that community. There’s a danger in that presumption, though, in that it ultimately undermines the system—there is a reason we don’t presume guilt, and the purpose of a court system is not simply to ensure that police played by the rules, but through these chapters, it sometimes feels as if that’s the implication.

“Scholars have made similar findings elsewhere. Despite their relative poverty, recent immigrants tend to have lower homicide rates than resident Hispanics and their descendants born in the United States. This is because homicide flares among people who are trapped and economically interdependent, not among people who are highly mobile. Immigrants are, essentially, in transit.” 

This ties into Leovy’s argument regarding immobility in rather clear ways, but it also ties into a connected societal misconception about immigration that is particularly prescient in contemporary society: the idea that immigrants are more likely, rather than less, to commit crimes. It’s a unique spin on it, though, in that it presents immigrant groups as being mobile and other groups as immobile, which in turn leads to lawlessness and communal justice among the latter demographic.

“Hispanics had a further advantage over blacks: despite their high poverty rate, they had long enjoyed better private-sector opportunities than black Angelenos. Los Angeles employers had shown an ‘unabashed preference’ for Hispanic labor over black for generations, historian Josh Sides showed. […] It wasn’t that Hispanic workers didn’t suffer discrimination—they did. But often they were treated badly in jobs that black people couldn’t get in the first place.” 

This is a key claim to the larger point and it ties into the previous point about mobility while simultaneously making an important point about degrees of poverty. Hispanics, according to this claim, are a very different kind of poor than blacks: they are largely able to find work, and therefore able to afford a semblance of mobility. Poverty is often spoken of in reduced terms, but the reality is that different people experience poverty differently; in this case, a root cause of the problem at hand is that a lack of opportunity has created a different kind of poverty than other groups might experience.

“But this was hairsplitting. Take a bunch of teenage boys from the whitest, safest suburb in America and plunk them down in a place where their friends are murdered and they are constantly attacked and threatened. Signal that no one cares, and fail to solve murders. Limit their options for escape. Then see what happens. The young man [a potential informant] turned on them somber, frightened eyes. He didn’t want to be in prison and didn’t want to die. He wanted out but couldn’t find a way.” 

This ties into Leovy’s larger point about circumstance, a point that’s made repeatedly in other ways, as well. Leovy is making the argument that what matters is circumstance, that anyone can and would fall victim to their circumstances if placed in the same situation as teenagers in South Central. Contrary to popular belief, this isn’t a chosen life, but a forced one due to circumstance.

“[Kouri’s] cases had shifted his allegiances. He had come to sympathize with the same people against whom he had directed the harshest doubts when he wore a blue uniform. Hustlers, drug dealers, prostitutes, probation violators had become his witnesses, his suffering family members, all united with him against the Monster. […] Kouri no longer shared the views of some of his uniformed colleagues, who parroted the clichés insisting that the people of Watts lacked ‘values’ and didn’t value life. ‘Until you live it, you can’t fully understand it.’” 

This, too, reinforces the concept of circumstance and its role in creating “the Monster.” However, it also ties back into the idea of a bubble and perspective—Kouri, it’s implied, once did share those viewpoints and made those arguments; however, spending time with people and understanding their experiences changed his perception to something more open and tolerant. His last admonishment—that one can’t understand the life until they live it—carries with it a deeper argument almost justifying actions larger society would look down upon, and that we do continue to prosecute.

“[Kouri] believed in his heart that violence comes first—that law is built on the state’s response to violence—and that responding was better than preventing. It was more true to the spirit of the law—and in the long run, more effective. This belief, more than anything else, made an ordinary investigator into a great one.” 

This echoes La Barbera, and it ties back into differing philosophies of policing, and the book’s minor thesis: that reactive policing is better. It’s important to note that there are two supporting arguments here—that reactive policing adheres to the law’s purpose, first, but more, that it is more effective than preventative. These are related, but not quite the same, and the latter is really the one that matters more. Further, this is probably the clearest statement that this is an argument the book wants to make, suggesting that in order to become a great investigator, one must shed one’s beliefs about preventative policing.