The
View From L.A.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. A year
ago, Mayor Vera Katz announced she'd gone out of town
for a new police chief--a move many in Portland lauded.
The Oregonian opined that it was "time to broaden
the city's horizons" and proclaimed that what former LAPD
deputy police chief Mark Kroeker lacked in local credibility
would be more than offset by "international assignments
that suggest an open mind and broad experience in conflict
resolution."
After six years of Police Chief Charles
Moose's temperamental outbursts and mangled syntax, Kroeker
was supposed to be a reinvigorating change: smooth, sophisticated
and an expert at the diplomatic art of outreach.
In Los Angeles, he'd used that department's version of
community policing to mend civic wounds in the wake of
1991's Rodney King beating and the riots the following
spring. During the 1990s, he'd worked with the U.S. Department
of Justice to teach new governments in Haiti, Rwanda and
Burundi how to create police forces that worked for their
citizens, rather than against them.
Such experiences, Katz said, made Kroeker the logical
choice to "take community policing to the next level."
But now, just three weeks before the anniversary of that
announcement, her chief is damaged goods in the eyes of
many Portlanders, making any expansion of community policing
much more difficult.
Kroeker's first bruise came from the bureau's heavy-handed
tactics on May Day and his insistence that what looked
to be excessive force was justified. Almost six months
later, what initially appeared to be a knockout blow came
from an obscure audio tape made more than 10 years ago.
What Kroeker said on those tapes dominated civic discourse
for nearly two weeks, providing an intense case study
in crisis management, a new example of the clash between
Portland's progressive and mainstream political cultures
and a mayor who once again proved adept at coming out
on top.
FRIDAY, OCT. 27
At 2:30 pm, Dave Mazza called a press conference in the
Southeast Stark Street offices of the Portland Alliance.
A former private investigator and longtime activist, Mazza
is editor of the 20-year-old left-wing newspaper.
He had been digging into Kroeker's past ever since May
Day. Through an Internet search, he had found a website
for Christian police officers that sold tapes of inspirational
speeches, including some by the former LAPD deputy chief.
On one of the tapes, "The New Social Disorder," Kroeker
says that homosexuality is "perverse" and "immoral" and
that millions would die from AIDS because the State had
slackened its moral authority. The Alliance planned
to publish a story about the comments three days later,
but fearing a leak to other media, Mazza called a press
conference to make the tape public.
The mayor was in her Northwest Portland home when she
caught wind of the story. She had just left City Hall
for a week-long working vacation. Her plan was to cozy
up with a 2-foot-high stack of documents in her Northwest
Portland home and plan for her next four-year term, which
begins in January.
When she picked up the receiver, chief of staff Sam Adams
was on the line. He gave her the gist of Kroeker's comments.
"Oh. My. God." That's how Katz recalls her response.
Katz had known that the chief was a born-again Christian
when she hired him, but a background check performed last
December uncovered nothing to suggest that the 32-year
LAPD veteran was prejudiced against gays or had ever uttered
a single word against them.
Katz told Adams that she needed to hear the tape, get
some legal advice from the City Attorney's Office and
determine which citizens groups she'd need to meet when
she returned the following week. In effect, she wanted
the evidence, guidance on how to interpret it, and political
cover.
Meanwhile, 3,000 miles away, Kroeker was in a Holiday
Inn in Virginia Beach, Va., unwinding from a recruiting
trip with other Portland Police Bureau officers, when
he took a call from Assistant Chief Lynnae Berg. Kroeker
had no idea his comments had been taped and offered for
sale. He didn't know how those tapes would register in
Portland, but he sensed that he was entering a crisis.
SATURDAY, OCT. 28
On a flight back to Portland, Kroeker composed a statement
in which he defended his 36 years of law-enforcement experience
and said he could separate his religious views from his
workaday life. Although The Oregonian buried news
of his taped comments in its Metro section, the chief
knew this story was far from over. He spent the remainder
of the weekend with his wife, Diane, reflecting upon the
sudden turmoil in his life.
"It was nasty," he says.
MONDAY, OCT. 30
By the time he arrived at City Hall, Sam Adams had read
an excerpted transcript of Kroeker's comments. Adams,
37, has been working in politics for 17 years. He was
the brains behind Katz's 1992 mayoral campaign and has
been at her side ever since. He's a calculating strategist,
and he knew that some people would be calling for the
chief's scalp before the day was out.
Adams is also gay. But that part of his personal life
had never before collided with his public life in quite
so dramatic a manner. At noon he took a seat across from
the chief in Kroeker's 15th-floor Justice Center office,
crammed with mementos of the chief's years on the LAPD.
With Adams was Elise Marshall, Katz's police liaison.
Although neither man will discuss specific language,
Adams told the chief precisely what he thought of what
he'd read. It's hard to imagine that Kroeker enjoyed being
dressed down by a gay man 20 years his junior.
Katz declined to answer media inquiries. That left Marshall
to issue a tepid statement of support.
Beginning at 3 pm, Portland's media tried to scrutinize
the chief in tightly controlled one-on-one interviews
in Kroeker's office. When asked if he still believed that
homosexuality was perverse and immoral, Kroeker declined
to answer. Those statements were his "personal religious
beliefs" and he'd made them in a San Fernando Valley church.
When asked whether his views about homosexuality were
compatible with the city's ethos of inclusivity, the chief
of police suggested that the mayor and City Council could
best answer that question. In the wake of May Day, Kroeker
had enjoyed Katz's immediate support.
But this time, WW told Kroeker, the mayor wasn't
talking and the only commissioners to comment on the situation
were asking questions, not giving assurances.
In his 15th-floor Justice Center office, the chief broke
eye contact, turned his head to the left and clenched
his jaw.
WEDNESDAY, NOV. 1
The Kroeker story took a new twist after WW published
an article including additional comments Kroeker had made
in other speeches that had been taped and sold over the
Internet. Like Mazza, WW reporter Nick Budnick
had been laying the groundwork for an in-depth story about
Kroeker and his years with the LAPD. On one tape he acquired,
"Family Discipline," Kroeker advocated corporal punishment
for children (with a boat oar) and said that women should
be submissive to their husbands. Local television stations
began airing excerpts of the tapes, which had been provided
to them by the Alliance and WW. That evening,
City Commissioner Erik Sten appeared on television to
demand that the chief explain whether his taped statements
reflected his current views.
THURSDAY, NOV. 2
Dan Saltzman, the newest member of City Council, joined
Sten in going public with his concerns. "I am deeply disappointed
by your comments that have recently come to light," he
wrote in a letter to Kroeker. "I am further concerned
that your recent public statements in response to this
situation have not indicated that your opinions have changed.
This raises a question for me about whether or not you
will be successful in keeping your personal views from
affecting your professional decisions and conduct."
MONDAY, NOV. 6
After a weekend in which the media shifted its focus
to the upcoming election, Kroeker appeared before a Central
Precinct morning roll call. Since assuming his post, Kroeker
has used Monday morning roll calls, which are shown live
over closed-circuit television and videotaped for later
shifts, as pep talks. Lately, he's peppered the force
with the gospel of physical fitness. Stepping before the
video camera, however, the chief had more than wind sprints
on his mind. He said that he needed to "get some things
off my chest." AIDS was not a "gay disease," he said,
and "gays are simply people."
But Kroeker, whose statement was intended for immediate
public release, never said what many wanted to hear: I'm
sorry.
A block and a half away, Katz began a series of City
Hall meetings with community leaders--everyone from Margaret
Carter, head of the local Urban League, to Mary Nolan,
former head of the Oregon NARAL, and the Rev. Roy Cole,
pastor of the Metropolitan Community Church.
Kroeker is an at-will employee, meaning he could be fired
merely if the mayor had lost confidence in him. Though
she'd spoken several times a day with Adams during her
vacation, Katz had not made a final decision on Kroeker's
future and was looking to gauge community sentiment toward
the chief--as well as provide herself with a political
fig leaf for what she expected would be a divisive decision
either way.
That afternoon, Katz met with 40 gay and lesbian police
officers at a location that remained undisclosed for privacy
reasons. There the mayor listened as officers told her
that Kroeker had acted in an unbiased fashion toward them,
but that they had serious reservations about the environment
toward homosexuals within the bureau.
The most tense meeting, however, wasn't until 5:15 pm,
when Katz met in City Hall's Rose Room with leaders of
the city's gay and lesbian community. Among those summoned
was Terry Bean, a wealthy real-estate developer, founder
of the Human Rights Commission and fund-raiser for liberal
causes.
Bean scolded Katz and told her Kroeker had to go. If
she didn't fire him, the 52-year-old gay man said, then
he'd mount a campaign to force Kroeker's resignation.
TUESDAY, NOV. 7
It was Election Day. Measure 9, the Oregon Citizens Alliance's
attempt to chase even the most oblique mention of homosexuality
from Oregon's public schools, was on the ballot. But no
one in Katz's office was talking about that or anything
else. They had a hermetic seal on any information concerning
the Kroeker crisis--even city commissioners were in the
dark.
WEDNESDAY, NOV. 8
After 12 days of sifting through advice and weighing
community outrage against political reality, Katz was
ready for her meeting with Kroeker.
Most of Portland's gay leaders had urged her to cut Kroeker
loose, but among the phone calls and emails her office
received from the public, there was an even split.
Katz knew what she would do; she simply had yet to tell
her chief of police.
Kroeker arrived at City Hall after making a solitary
walk along Southwest Madison Avenue. He was haggard, having
abandoned his running and weight-lifting regimen for several
days, but calm. He wanted to stay in Portland yet would
be at peace with any outcome.
Katz took a chair in her conference room, which looks
out onto Southwest 4th Avenue. She and Kroeker were joined
by Adams and Marshall. The two top aides had contacted
members of the Portland Police Bureau, asking for any
evidence that Kroeker's anti-homosexual views had infected
his job performance. None was forthcoming.
The foursome met for 90 minutes. During the meeting,
Katz had a pointed question: Was he willing to undergo
the level of scrutiny that his every decision would receive
in the future?
It was a watershed moment, Kroeker knew. Would he walk
away or make something happen? Kroeker was contrite and
told the mayor that leaving his post would be far worse
than staying and taking responsibility to undo the damage.
He'd try to appropriate all the resulting community turbulence
and make it fly in the right direction.
It was the answer Katz wanted, but there was another
one. As the meeting wound down, the mayor looked at the
chief.
"Tell me," she said, "why it is so difficult to say 'I'm
sorry for the hurt I've caused.'"
Mark Kroeker looked at Vera Katz.
"I can do that," he said.
Katz asked him to stay, but did not make any public statement.
THURSDAY, NOV. 9
His job secure, Kroeker began the process of trying to
make good on his promise to ease tensions. He and Assistant
Police Chief Mark Paresi met the most virulent of the
chief's gay and lesbian critics in Kroeker's office. Bean
and Tinker were joined by Jaime Balboa, executive director
of Basic Rights Oregon; Pam Monet, a board member of Love
Makes a Family; and Kristan Aspen, program director of
the Lesbian Community Project. None of them knew that
Katz had asked Kroeker to stay.
Tinker, who co-founded the Bradley-Angle House, lashed
Kroeker over his corporal-punishment comments.
Then Bean cut in. "Do you still think we're perverts?"
he asked. The chief mumbled: "'Perverse'? That's not me;
it's not for me to judge."
Bean, who's reportedly criticized President Clinton to
his face, didn't let up. "I want to know what you think,
what you believe," he said.
The chief would not answer. It was a ventilating session,
and Kroeker knew how to handle it.
Balboa took his turn. The most cautious of the chief's
critics, Balboa honed in on a portion of "The New Social
Disorder" in which Kroeker refers to homosexuality as
a "victimless crime."
"Are you sorry that homosexuality has been decriminalized?"
Balboa asked. "Do you wish we were still criminals?"
"You have to understand the context," Kroeker said. "I
was referring to gay prostitution."
Balboa was stunned. "I asked you about sexual relations
among consenting adults and you respond to me with prostitution?"
he said. "Don't you understand how that makes us feel?"
Tinker says that when the meeting ended she was numb.
But she asked if Kroeker would attend a community forum.
The chief agreed.
Katz spent the day sifting through how to word her decision;
her task was to articulate it in a way that made her decision
virtually unassailable.
The mayor still hadn't broadcast her intentions beyond
her office, and everyone at City Hall was trying to interpret
what few signals she had sent. Most prominently, the chief
wouldn't be present for her announcement: That didn't
look promising for
his future.
At 5:02 pm, she stood before a grove of microphones in
the same conference room where she'd met with Kroeker
the prior evening.
"I want to apologize for the concern, pain and fear caused
by the taped comments made years ago by Chief Kroeker,"
she said. "His taped comments in no way reflect my own
personal beliefs.... Many of the arguments raised asking
me to dismiss Mark Kroeker because he is 'out of step
with Portland' could be used in other Oregon communities
to fire more liberal public officials who are 'out of
step' with their community's conservative majority. My
30-year fight for tolerance goes both ways."
Then she left to deliver another statement, this one
at a Kristallnacht commemoration at First United
Methodist Church.
Katz's announcement, timed for live television and radio
coverage, ended speculation over Kroeker's immediate future,
but it also raised the bar for everyone singed by the
now-cooling crisis.
By letting the drama play out over two weeks, Katz effectively
let the opposing political alliance undo itself. As much
was obvious last week when Terry Bean called off his campaign
to oust the chief. He's declined to talk in detail, but
it's clear that, privately, he's still disappointed--and
simmering. "I think Terry's politically savvy enough not
to take this to the extreme," says Gary Maffei, a trustee
of the Merlo Foundation. "He knows you don't make enemies
to solve a problem."
Tinker, too, is still angry. Following Katz's Thursday
evening announcement, Tinker had rushed to the podium
to say that she could not reconcile Kroeker's past words
as having been spoken by "a good man."
Like many other gay activists, she's furious not only
with Kroeker but with Katz, who, until now, has been viewed
as a consistent champion of their causes.
Kroeker didn't help tamp down the embers when it became
apparent that his trip to the International Association
of Chiefs of Police conference in San Diego, Calif., would
prevent him from honoring his promise to appear at the
community forum set for last Wednesday night. Tinker and
others scrambled to reschedule the forum for Nov. 21 at
Lutheran Inner City Ministries in Northeast Portland.
But two days later, police bureau officials told the group
that the chief was scheduled through December and that
he'd be doing a forum Dec. 11 with the assistance of Just
Out publisher and managing editor Marty Davis.
Katz seems unfazed by the chief's failure to follow through
on his promise to publicly apologize. "He hasn't quite
had the opportunity to do that," says Katz. "I want him
to deal with his own officers first." She also supports
his decision to withdraw from the community meeting Tinker
tried to set up. "I don't want another Maranatha," she
says, referring to the explosive forum May 9 at a Northeast
Portland church. "It added nothing to anything. The last
thing I want is another confrontation like that."
She'd prefer to have Kroeker seen to the best possible
advantage: in a small setting with a somewhat controlled
audience, where his considerable personal charisma can
further disarm
his critics.
Her desire for control is understandable. The controversy
over Kroeker's words has focused attention on a shortcoming
of the bureau that will be difficult to address: The Portland
Police Bureau remains an agency where open homosexuality
is marginally acceptable for female officers--most prominently
in the case of Katie Potter, daughter of former police
chief Tom Potter--but is essentially verboten for
men.
Among the bureau's approximately 1,000 sworn officers,
there are an estimated 35 lesbians whose sexual orientation
is known by colleagues. By comparison, sources say, the
bureau has at most five gay male full-time officers, and
only one, former Central Precinct commander Mike Garvey,
is open. And he is embroiled in a discrimination lawsuit
against the city over his 1996 demotion to captain.
But the problem extends beyond mere numbers: There are
rumors of "slow cover" or "no cover" for homosexual officers
by some of their straight colleagues.
Many of the officers who saw their chief's Nov. 6 roll-call
speech complained later that his comments about respecting
gays shouldn't have been aimed at them: It was his crisis,
not theirs.
Yet it is their challenge.
EPILOGUE
FRIDAY, NOV. 17
Wearing a navy blue suit, Kroeker looked rested and even
a bit relaxed when WW sat down with him at 11:30
am in a conference room in the Multnomah Building, where
he'd just attended a meeting of local police chiefs.
Why didn't he apologize for his comments soon after the
story went public?
"I didn't want to trivialize it," he says. "It shouldn't
sound like something you're saying because you want to
keep your job. Words are very cheap. My life is worth
more than whatever words could be thrown back from my
past."
Does that mean he's sorry?
"I am deeply moved at the pain people have expressed
to me."
When is an apology forthcoming?
"Sooner rather than later."
THE VIEW FROM L.A.
Mark Kroeker's taped comments about gays stunned not
only his new boss in Portland, but also those who knew
him before he came to Portland.
"I am shocked," says Laura Chick, a Los Angeles City
Council member who's known and worked with Kroeker since
the late-1980s. "I always found him as being impeccable
in his values and principles and respect for others."
"This is not the Mark Kroeker I know," says Carey Hoover,
an openly gay man who served with Kroeker on overseas
assignments for the U.S. Department of Justice in the
mid-1990s. Hoover is a translator for the Department of
Justice in Washington, D.C.
But Kroeker's views were not a complete surprise to prominent
members of L.A.'s politically powerful gay community.
When Kroeker was up against deputy police chief Bernard
Parks for the city's top policing job in 1997, some members
of the LAPD told local gay leaders that Kroeker's conservative
religious views would work against a department that was
still trying to mend its ties to the community. Those
leaders, in turn, contacted City Hall.
"Four or five of us called the mayor and the police commissioner
and said, 'This won't do,'" says David Mixner, one of
the most powerful gay leaders in America and a major Democratic
fund-raiser. As Mixner tells the tale, Kroeker's ascent
to chief of police was nixed without the story even hitting
the media. "It wasn't like we had to lobby or mount a
campaign," he says. "As soon as the information became
available to them, it was unacceptable" for Kroeker to
become police chief. --PD
