(6 of 11)
"The T.R. Times." Yet the biggest problem of the L.A., or any other police force, is not tactical. "Above all," says Reddin, "we found as a result of Watts that we had lost touch with the public that we were attempting to serve."
Keeping touch has been Reddin's main concern. California Criminologist A. C. Germann suggests that a good police chief must be as willing to talk to black nationalists as he is to the Optimists' Club. Reddin may not exactly rap with the Black Panthers, but he tries.
A gregarious and Brobdingnagian man (6 ft. 4 in., 215 Ibs.), he will talk with almost everyone. During his first year in office, his audiences numbered more than 70,000; he still spends four to five hours a day in some form of community relations, averages at least ,five speeches a week. "I know," he boasts, "every banquet hall in Los Angeles." The L.A.P.D. has not been excluded from Reddin's conviviality. Not only does he talk frequently with all levels, but every two weeks he sends the troops a little newsletter dubbed "The T.R. Times." One of its maxims: "Don't blow your cool."
Damping Rumors. At Reddin's direction, community-relations programs have been greatly expanded, with a deputy chief and a staff of 100. A community-relations officer, often a Negro, and a youth-service officer have been assigned to each ghetto station as emissaries to the neighborhood. Each station, in addition, has established a citizens' council that brings together 20 to 50 residents a month to discuss local problems with the police. One such meeting in Watts elicited a demand for a crackdown on bars serving as hangouts for prostitutes. The police listened, then acted against the bars. Another time a group from the Imperial Courts housing project in Watts brought in a suggestion for a community police service corps; they already had some 60 boys and girls, ages ten to 18, who wanted to help educate the community on the problems of law enforcement. Reddin immediately sponsored the unit, and Deputy Chief James Fisk scrounged around for office space, equipment and uniforms.
To damp down rumors that often lead to riots—a report that a pregnant Negro woman had been beaten by police helped precipitate the 1965 uprising —Los Angeles, like other cities, has set up rumor-control centers. If an inflammatory incident occurs, police immediately tell their side of the story to the local rumor-control officer. He calls four friends and each of them calls four more; the chain continues until a large part of the community knows that there are at least two sides to the story. "It's very loose-knit," admits Reddin, "but it gets the word out. And the people involved aren't known as finks."
So that residents can know who the man behind the badge is, Reddin also gave each cop business cards and name tags—an innocuous but nonetheless controversial departure in a once notoriously highhanded force. Another innovation is actually ancient. Reddin has returned to the streets a man who disappeared from Los Angeles when patrol cars came in: the cop on the beat. It is remarkable in a city where only the poor and the eccentric walk, and so far the experiment is on a tiny scale. About 30 are now pounding the pavements.