After the deluge
A gritty police reporter finds refuge in Bungalow Heaven and beyond.
By Miles Corwin 08/01/2010
From spring until fall I was engulfed in death. I spent my nights going on homicide call-outs with a pair of LAPD detectives in South Central L.A. and my days shadowing them while they interviewed witnesses and suspects and observed autopsies. When the detectives were between cases, I followed a city victim assistance coordinator who counseled and consoled traumatized families, often on the street at the edge of the yellow crime-scene tape, beside the hissing flares. I spent my weekends at a South Central counseling center where mothers whose sons had been murdered met in group sessions with counselors.
That was in 1994 while I was researching my first book, The Killing Season. During that year, there were almost 400 murders, just in South Central.
A supportive wife and an important story to tell eased the strain; I believed that it was unconscionable that this quiet genocide was being ignored by the public and the news media. I was living, at the time, on a quiet street in Bungalow Heaven, and the respite that Pasadena offered also helped me keep my equanimity amid such unrelenting anguish.
I always appreciated the 20-mile drive home because it gave me time to adjust to a different life, like a scuba diver who avoids coming up for air too fast to avoid the bends. When my work was done for the day, I would head east on Century or Slauson or Manchester or other major South Central arteries — past check-cashing shops, storefront churches, used-car lots, malt-liquor billboards — pull onto the 110 Freeway and head toward Pasadena. Not all of South Central is rundown or crime-ridden. There are a number of solid, working-class neighborhoods where residents mow their lawns, prune their shrubbery, keep their houses tidy and walk their kids to school. These were not the places, however, that I wrote about. I spent my time in crack houses, ramshackle Section 8 apartments and housing projects, and at bullet-pocked intersections and sidewalk street shootings.
When I left these areas and returned home to Pasadena, free from crowded central city streets and freeway congestion, I could feel my blood pressure drop. At dusk, I’d roll down my windows and inhale the fragrant mélange of freshly cut grass and jasmine and rose petals. During the early spring and late fall, when the air was clear, I’d cut up Hill Street and enjoy the view of the San Gabriels, the escarpment and shadowed canyons crystal clear, the sky a brilliant fluorescent blue.
During the rare days when people weren’t shooting or bludgeoning or stabbing each other and there were no call-outs, I particularly enjoyed my time in Pasadena. Because Pasadena is not a stultifying suburban outpost but a self-
contained city with a great array of restaurants, parks and cultural offerings, I never had to leave during my time off, when I was always exhausted. The city itself became my refuge. I didn’t have to contend with the freeways, the crowds or the congestion of other parts of Southern California. I could stay in Pasadena and see a movie, choose from a banquet of restaurants, relax at a park with my family. When I had the time to work out, I could swim at the Rose Bowl, mountain bike in the trails above JPL or hike in the foothills. By the time I received my next call-out from the pair of homicide detectives I was following — and headed down to meet them at the Southeast Division police station at 108th and Broadway — I felt rested enough to embark on the next investigation.
When I finished researching the book, I returned to my job at the Los Angeles Times — the paper had given me a one-year leave of absence — and resumed my job as a crime reporter. I wrote another book set in South Central, And Still We Rise, and I drove to a high school in the neighborhood every day for a year. I then wrote another book about LAPD detectives, Homicide Special. Again, the pressures of being immersed in sudden and violent death were counterbalanced by the return to placid Pasadena.
I ended up leaving the Times to write books and teach at University of California, Irvine. People always ask me about the onerous commute to south Orange County. I tell them I’m fortunate to live in the rare Southern California community with a functioning transit system. I take the Gold Line in Pasadena to Union Station and then Metrolink to Irvine.
After I finished writing my first book, I moved from Bungalow Heaven to Altadena.
During the past few years I have been writing a novel, an undertaking that has, once again, heightened my appreciation for where I live. I write at home. Ensconced in the foothills, I sit at my desk with a view of towering deodars, blooming jacaranda, plush Italian cypresses. I often keep my window open and enjoy the scent of gardenias on the breeze and the sight of hummingbirds darting among the plants and wild parrots flitting through the trees. I feel fortunate to be able to live and work in such a bucolic setting less than a half-hour from downtown Los Angeles, where my book is set.
Having left the Times, I no longer have access to the paper’s resources or researchers. Fortunately, the Pasadena and Altadena libraries are excellent and employ gracious and skilled reference librarians, who have helped ease my transition to the freelance life.
Occasionally I think of moving. I’ve lived near the ocean most of my life, but today the beach communities are too congested for my taste. I spent the first years of my life at the Rosslyn Hotel, which my grandfather owned, at 5th and Main streets in downtown Los Angeles. I still am attracted to the area, especially now that gentrification has taken hold, but I don’t think it would be compatible with family life. My wife and I lived in Santa Barbara when we were first married, but while the place still feels magical when we visit, I need to live closer to a big city.
There was a time when my wife and I experienced one acute drawback to the area: when my son was born. My mother lived in the Pico-Robertson area and my sister lived in Santa Monica. My son was an only grandson and only nephew. They found it difficult to traverse the various freeways to visit him regularly, and my wife and I missed the impromptu family gatherings and access to free babysitting. The problem was quickly resolved after my mother and sister began visiting. Both were enchanted. My sister bought a 1911 Craftsman in Pasadena, and my mother bought a house less than a mile from us in Altadena.
Although Pasadena has some drawbacks — primarily the smog and heat during the late summer months — the area is an ideal place for me.
I write about the gritty aspects of a city but like living one step removed from my settings.
Miles Corwin is the author of the novel Kind of Blue, which will be released in November.
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