|
California
Connections
|
|
Interview,
|
|
|
|
|
|
Kurt
Timken set aside his Harvard M.B.A. and a fast track business career
to patrol the streets of East L.A. in Unit 24. |
|
by
Theresa Pease
Most
interviews start with an introduction, a handshake and if you’re
lucky a cup of coffee. An interview with Kurt Timken ’82 begins
with the signing of a liability waiver and the issuance of a bulletproof
vest.
The
exchange takes place in the concrete and formica lobby of the El
Monte Police Station under a sign that proclaims El Monte, one of
the ganglion of municipalities that make up Greater Los Angeles,
to be among the 10 Safest Cities in the United States. The irony
of that proclamation will become clear as Timken— against a
backdrop of police dispatch calls, sirens, whirring helicopter blades
and other sounds of the night—tells his story. Our conversation
is punctuated with drama as we experience the graveyard shift in
Timken’s cruiser, Unit 24.
|
|
7:19
p.m.
A
domestic violence call comes in, and is soon cancelled; another
unit has gotten there first. Instead, Timken and I go to an
address where larceny has been reported. There we find an
Asian man with few possessions other than a state-of-the-art
TV and VCR. He is distraught because an acquaintance came
to the door and left with two used videotapes. Timken tries
to make him understand that, with no proof of ownership, the
district attorney is unlikely to prosecute the theft of the
items, valued new at about $10 each. But the man is adamant:
They were his property. Finally, Timken takes a report, knowing
the case will probably go nowhere. Property is property, he
agrees.
|
|
| El
Monte, Timken tells me, is a city of 10 square miles with a population
in excess of 120,000. About 80 percent of the citizens are Hispanic,
and there is a growing Asian community. It is also home to one of
East L.A.’s largest concentrations of pimps, whores, drug dealers
and gangs. And it’s where Timken spends 40-plus hours a week,
generally clustered around three 12-hour shifts like the one we’re
on tonight.
|
|
7:40
p.m.
We
darken our lights and cruise around a seedy motel where lots
of crime takes place. Timken teaches me how to notice suspicious
activities: See the kid with the shopping cart? Do you think
he owns that shopping cart? Where is he going with it in the
dark? The colors the boy is wearing, the shaved head—those
are gang designations. If we saw him up close, we might see
three dots tattooed near his eye or on his hand, or maybe
a comedy and tragedy mask: laugh now, cry later. The dots
connote mi vida loca—"my crazy life"—and
according to Timken they send the same message as the masks:
"I'm young, I take my chances, I commit crimes. If I
get caught, I get caught." It's the laissez-faire of
the streets, he says.
|
|
| Like
many law enforcement professionals, Timken thought about becoming
a cop when he was little. But unlike many, he grew up in a world of
prep schools and privilege and high ambitions. His father, William
Timken ’56, is the president of a multinational company manufacturing
bearings and steel. His siblings, Kris Kingery ’79, Beau ’84
and Mark ’87, as well as several cousins, are part of the Phillips
Academy family. Kurt, a leader of PA’s regional alumni association
in Southern California, entered the family business after graduating
from Pomona College. He worked his way up from the shop floor to international
assignments that took him to France and to India, where he opened
a new plant for the Timken Company. After that, he went to Harvard
Business School for an M.B.A. degree.
|
|
8:26
p.m.
We
are driving past Little Five Points Liquor, a high-crime locale,
when a call comes in from a residential address: baby not
breathing. Suddenly we are on a Code 3, flying through the
streets of El Monte, down wrong-way lanes, around cars stopped
at lights. We reach a sprawling complex with maybe 100 people
milling around, children and adults, speaking and shouting
in Spanish. Timken disappears inside so fast I temporarily
lose him. When we are reunited, he smiles—the baby's
OK—and nudges me inside to see for myself. A very young
mother, her face a blend of relief and terror, nestles her
16-day-old infant as two toddlers cling to her sides. Both
mother and daughter will be transported to the hospital as
a precaution, Timken tells me. He speaks reassuringly to the
young woman in Spanish before we leave; later, at El Monte
General Hospital, he will arrange for a social worker to give
her some parenting advice to build her confidence.
|
|
|
But
when Timken was 30 years old, the trajectory changed.
"I
had been working for Rockwell International for about two years.
I was logging in 80-plus hour workweeks, traveling a lot and doing
what young business people do; they overextend themselves in the
hope they’ll climb the ladder faster. I did it hard core. My
marriage came to an end—the work was a contributing factor—and
I became disillusioned with the corporate environment. I was getting
raises and promotions, wowing everybody, but I wasn't feeling it
in my heart. At the end of the day, I felt I had nothing to show
for it."
Burned
out, Timken decided to get a divorce and a badge.
When
he handed in his resignation at Rockwell and told them he was going
into law enforcement, he recalls, they said, "What are you
doing?" His parents said, "What are you doing?" And
his friends? They said, "What are you doing?"
|
|
9:01
p.m.
We
investigate an alarm at a school and find the building's security
guards have things under control, so we head for the Yum Yum
Doughnut shop to check out the transvestite prostitutes, but
they are late getting started tonight. Timken seems disappointed
that I have missed them, so instead he decides to give me
a lesson in probable cause. You can't just stop someone who
is not doing anything wrong, he explains. But if someone arouses
your suspicion, chances are good you can find something wrong
so you can stop and question him or her. See that guy riding
another on his bicycle handlebars? That's illegal in this
city—probable cause. Did someone go through a stop sign,
or jaywalk, or display an expired license plate? Probable
cause. It's a whole new way of looking at the world.
|
|
|
But
saying he was going to be a cop was easier than doing it.
"Potential
employers," he recalls, "saw this 30-year-old guy with
way too much experience, and with an M.B.A. from Harvard, wanting
to drive around in a patrol car answering 911 calls. I was turned
down for a job first by the FBI, then by virtually every police
force in Greater L.A. By that time, my folks had become very sympathetic.
They knew my value structure and had come to believe I’d make
a good police officer. My father was the voice that said, 'keep
going, keep fighting, don’t quit.’ That really helped
me persist."
|
|
9:20
p.m.
Another
officer has made a routine traffic stop and thinks the subject
looks suspicious; instantly Unit 24 is dispatched to the scene.
Timken pats the man down and finds nothing amiss—only
a small pocket knife he has a right to carry. Still, the policeman
notes, it's crucial for officer safety to act on your instincts.
Two cars patrol this quarter of El Monte, each with a single
officer; people must be ready to back each other up. In his
time on the force, Timken says, he has drawn his gun many
times— often in response to a home invasion or domestic
violence —but has never needed to fire. Fighting is another
matter. Mixing it up physically takes place virtually every
weekend. So far, he's had no serious injuries.
|
|
|
After
acing Civil Service, physical, mental and polygraph tests to no
avail, Timken decided to take a risk. He put himself through the
Rio Hondo Police Academy, a rival of the legendary Los Angeles Police
Academy, investing significant tuition and seven months of his life
becoming street smart.
"California
prides itself in being the preeminent state in law enforcement,
and the training is pretty grueling. It’s designed to weed
people out. It’s just like going to boot camp. I showed up
on my first day with my head practically shaved, and I had to stand
at attention and listen while four tactical officers yelled in my
face," he says.
|
|
10:12
p.m.
I
ask about murders, and Timken points to a spot where a killing
took place when he was a new rookie—now he's an "old"
rookie. His fellow officers decided to test his mettle by
making him follow the transport of the corpse, still oozing
blood, to the El Monte hospital. "It was a hot night,
and I was in a small enclosed space within the emergency room
for fatalities, and there is this distinctive odor that emanates
from dead bodies," he recalls. "I was thinking about
passing out when I realized, 'If I can't handle this, I don't
belong on the force.' After that, my head was clear."
|
|
|
At
the academy, Timken learned to jump over walls. He learned about
firearms, combat, and arrest and control techniques. He mastered
the federal and state laws he yearned to enforce.
Finally
convinced Timken was not just some East Coast bookworm, the El Monte
police chief agreed to put him on. In less than two years on the
force Timken has managed to command the respect of his fellow officers,
few of whom have more than a vague notion about his educational
and family back- ground. Already he has been designated as a gang
specialist, which puts him, he feels, on a fast track toward becoming
a detective.
|
|
11:05
p.m.
We've
hardly been idle for more than five minutes at a stretch,
so I am surprised when Timken says, "It's a slow night."
He seems semi-apologetic, as if afraid I will be bored not
to witness murders and drug raids and fisticuffs. He uses
his radio to contact a fellow officer at the airport. "I
have a civilian ride-along tonight. Can she see what it looks
like from the air?" Minutes later, I am being strapped
into a specially equipped helicopter and told, "They'll
keep you up there about 10 minutes. Unless, of course, a hot
call comes in. If a hot call comes in, you go." The hot
calls come, and for nearly two hours I get a bird's-eye view
of police work below. The first call is an alarm at a bank;
we flood it with light and circle it tightly, passing around
it maybe 30 times before a cruiser reaches it. Next comes
a report of a man apparently trying to break into a house;
I actually spot him before my pilot and his partner, and again
we mark the scene with light, circling the suspect until patrol
cars see our beacon and find him. The guys in the air never
get to hear the end of a story, they tell me.
|
|
|
Whether
he will remain in law enforcement forever is uncertain, but to date,
Timken says, the job has entirely lived up to his expectations.
What
were those expectations? Excitement was one, and challenge another.
"I had to develop a set of skills very different from those
I used in the business.
world—among
them the capacity to hold my own when all hell breaks loose in a fight,"
Timken says.
Then
there’s the sense of making a tangible impact for the good.
Whether
he will remain in
law enforcement forever is uncertain, but to date, Timken says,
the job has entirely lived up to his expectations.
What
were those expectations? Excitement was one, and challenge another.
"I had to develop a set of skills very different from those
I used in the business world—among them the capacity to hold
my own when all hell breaks loose in a fight," Timken says.
Then
there’s the sense of making a tangible impact for the good.
|
|
12:15
a.m.
Finally
comes the big one: a gang fight at a local bar and restaurant.
Closing in from above, we see the participants spill into
the street, then watch Timken and other ground officers arrive
and begin breaking up the squabble. One carload gets away,
and we pursue it down the highway, keeping it illuminated
until Timken, barely a speck on the ribbon of pavement, catches
up and detains the suspects. Later, on the ground, he tells
me he was kicked during the melee. He also says the men he
detained were admitted members of El Monte Flores—Mountain
Flowers, one of the town's biggest gangs. There are five prominent
Hispanic gangs in El Monte, he tells me, and several Asian
gangs. The latter are becoming the more lethal because they
are well-funded and well-armed. In essence, the gangs are
like business enterprises that revolve around crime, particularly
crimes involving property, money and drugs. In all, he says,
a gang can have as many as 100 active members and legion gang
wannabes. The latter are more dangerous, Timken says, because
they will do virtually anything to get the attention of gang
leaders, including hurting a cop.
|
|
| "Each
time I hunt down a criminal and take a bad person off the street,"
he muses, "I know this person isn’t going to be hurting
anyone again, at least for a long while. |
|
1:22
a.m.
It
has now been 20 hours since I awoke in Massachusetts to head
for L.A., so I decide to check in my body armor and leave
El Monte for the comparative luxury of my Santa Monica hotel.
Timken, though, has another six hours to go. Tomorrow he'll
work another graveyard shift before driving west to his home
at the beach.
|
|
|
|
|
