"I was an aide for Mayor Alioto in his first term of office in the 1960s. I remember being down there at the bus terminal. There's a picture of it somewhere. I remember him talking about this being the single most important project to come to San Francisco, a terminal that would accommodate bus, rail, everything. That was four decades ago. He was talking about bringing millions of people to San Francisco without cars, to North Beach, to Fisherman's Wharf, and what a tremendous boon that would be for the economy," said Supervisor Tony Hall when I caught him last Wednesday, a few hours after he'd finished a Tuesday board meeting that went until 3 a.m. "That stuck in my mind."
Alioto was talking about the Transbay Terminal, a train, bus, and trolley interchange that city planners have envisioned since the turn of the last century and that is only now getting off the ground. Wednesday morning, after the board spent nine hours listening to testimony on an environmental study that would allow the $3 billion terminal to get built, Tony Hall cast his mind back 40 years and somehow let rip a piece of oratory encouraging colleagues to approve the environmental documents.
I happened to be asleep at 3 a.m. But people at the hearing say Hall, a middle-of-the-road politician whose core issues include yawners like city golf courses and condominium rules, unleashed oratory rivaling Willie Brown's. "He said there was little that we do that is going to be as significant as this in the future of our city. He was using that kind of language, in that wonderful voice of his," effused pro-terminal activist David Schonbrunn. "It was amazing."
Before the speech, opponents and supporters of the motion to approve the study believed the vote could have gone either way. Following the speech, the board voted 11-zip to allow the project to go forward.
Chalk one up for the little guy.
I once met a boy named James, a tall, large-framed, quick-witted high school senior who exuded a type of curiosity that translated as charm. Notwithstanding these attributes, he didn't enjoy a privileged lot in life. When I met him, he was attending a special high school where my wife worked, a school focused on kids who weren't coping well in ordinary classrooms. There were plenty of reasons for James to be in that school, including a heartbreaking litany of family problems I won't go into. Suffice it to say that James' brilliance, like that of so many people shunted through our public schools, had been hidden under a bushel. One day two years ago, James mentioned to my wife in passing that one of his relatives had learned of a police incident at a Mervyn's store not far from his school. I looked into the case, and discovered that San Francisco police officers had inadvertently asphyxiated a man while arresting him for the alleged theft of a blender. It turned out that an extraordinary SFPD policy of secrecy made it nearly impossible to obtain the official record of how and why the man died. And until now, it's been an informal policy of the department to use a loophole in state public records law to withhold public records involving police killings until the hubbub has died down, and there's little possibility that news stories might be written, or that they might cause the public to question police behavior.
I wrote three columns on the case of dead shoplifter Gregory Caldwell, denouncing the unofficial, but very real, Police Department policy of concealing official public records that detail citizen deaths involving police officers. That was the last I heard of it; no other news media ever mentioned Caldwell's seemingly iconic death.
Two weeks ago, in a passageway outside a City Hall meeting room, I grabbed the elbow of Jayson Wechter, a city bureaucrat who investigates formal allegations that arrive at the Office of Citizen Complaints, the city agency that monitors the police. Wechter, fortysomething, perennially flustered, and obviously dedicated to his little-noticed job, had just made a recommendation to the San Francisco Police Commission that would end the secrecy surrounding police-related deaths and require police to make public as much information as possible, without, of course, hampering official investigations. Wechter said he began his inquiry into police secrecy after the asphyxiation of Caldwell, which had followed the death that summer of Idriss Stelley, a computer student whom police gunned down at the Metreon shopping center.
Wechter called me earlier in the day to tell me about the recommended policy change, which seems to have a good chance at approval now that we have a Police Commission that's become a genuine oversight body -- rather than the police-crony rubber-stamp machine it used to be -- thanks to last November's Proposition H. "Homicide routinely orders all incident reports to be sealed. This is a policy that has gone on for quite some time," Wechter said in his presentation, in which he recommended that it become department policy to provide as much information as possible without endangering an investigation, witnesses, or police officers. Among documents Wechter presented to commission members was a column high school senior James had spawned.
The change has been long in coming. In an apparent blanket policy of protecting their own, police have sealed police-killing details in such a way that family members have sometimes gone days, or even weeks, without knowing how or why their loved ones died. In the case of Gregory Caldwell, his mother suffered an emotional breakdown because she could not find out what happened to her son. An incident two months ago in which police killed kidnap suspect Cammerin Boyd appears to have created a tipping point of sorts in the public's outrage over the secrecy policy -- one that's unique among the police departments Wechter examined during a yearlong study. The new Police Commission required the department to release the names of officers involved in the Boyd shooting, the first crack in the police secrecy wall in the eight years I've been here.
Now, the commission appears poised to take that decision a step further, beginning deliberations on how to craft a policy that would require openness, without endangering witnesses -- a real possibility in cases involving dangerous criminals -- and without creating situations in which investigations are derailed because, for example, a suspect is tipped off by publicized information in a police report.
I asked Doug Chan, one of Mayor Gavin Newsom's appointees to the commission (and, as such, certainly not one of the body's firebrands), whether he thinks the department's secrecy wall really is cracking. "I think the answer to the question is, it's a new day at the Police Commission," said Chan, a San Francisco attorney and a Chinese-American community activist.
"I think it poses the classic tension of secrecy in an open and democratic society," he added. "I think you have to look at what interests are to be served by a secrecy policy. If those interests aren't compelling, the balance must be weighed in favor of the public's right to know. I envision the role of the commission, as a civilian oversight panel, is the appropriate place to make those determinations."
That's a far cry from the current situation, in which blanket secrecy is the order of the day when it comes to police killings.
Chalk up another one for a couple of little guys, Jayson Wechter and James, the high school student.
If life is a series of choices, then being a B-list pinup celebrity would seem to preclude fame as a champion of the common man. Pamela Anderson followed the pinup route, and from an important perspective, it's been a wise choice. Her starring roles in several babes 'n' action television series have opened to her a world of money and rock-star lovers, and earned her a place in the life of the mind of the American male. Of course, her chosen path keeps her from serious consideration as a figure in the moral world.
That's too bad, because in her own, circuitous way, Anderson may have struck a giant blow for Everyman. She appears to have played a role in the chain of events that ultimately led to the downfall of San Francisco credit card, telemarketing, and porn tycoon Mark Cohn, a convicted swindler featured in a front-page investment-fraud story in the Wall Street Journal last week.
Through the San Francisco offices of his Four Star Financial Services, Cohn at one time reigned over a $200 million investment fund, a financial-services firm specializing in collecting on bad debts, a credit-card telemarketing company, and controlling interest in a Seattle-based Internet porn empire -- the empire that in 1997 publicly featured the pirated home sex videos of Anderson and her then-husband, Mötley Crüe rocker Tommy Lee.
Anderson and Lee sued and eventually obtained a judgment of nearly $1.5 million against Internet Entertainment Group, which was half-owned by Cohn's Four Star. The judgment proved a crippling blow. IEG's gadabout director, Seth Warshavsky, ultimately fled his Seattle base to Thailand, according to a Seattle Weekly account. Cohn's empire -- which, besides Internet porn, allegedly involved bilking people through a credit-card scheme and taking $200 million from investors in a possible Ponzi scheme -- began to wobble, and Cohn started scrambling for money to maintain apparently fictitious returns to investors. In 2001 federal investigators questioned Cohn as part of an investigation that led to fraud and conspiracy convictions last year. Now, Four Star faces liquidation in San Francisco bankruptcy court, most of its $200 million seemingly gone. The FBI is trying to find out what happened to the money, the Wall Street Journal story said.
Anderson, through her publicist, remained true to the little-person role she has chosen for herself in regard to the moral universe. Anderson's press agent did not respond to repeated requests to allow her client to bask in the glory of her achievement via comments in SF Weekly.
Young Tony Hall, suffering through a bus-station grip 'n' grin 40 years ago, may not have imagined that moment leading to a speech that nudged history along. James, the high school senior, may not have envisioned an overhaul of San Francisco Police Department policy when he came to school with news of an incident at the Geary Boulevard Mervyn's store. And as she fellated her husband deckside before a rolling video camera, Pamela Anderson might not have imagined herself striking a blow for Everyman.
But good things happened, just the same.
Let the aforementioned little people be an inspiration to the rest of us, as we sit in our cubicles wondering whether our picayune efforts will ever amount to anything. If Pamela Anderson is any indication, they just might.