The Persistence of Memory

In February 1972, when the California Supreme Court ruled that capital punishment violated the state constitution’s ban on “cruel or unusual punishments,” it gave the 102 men and 5 women on death row a reason to hope. And something else they never dreamed they would have. A future. Their sentences became life with the possibility of parole.

Paul S. Perveler was one of the lucky ones. Over the next several years, he was a model prisoner. In 1982, impressed with his institutional record, the Board of Prison Terms gave him a parole date of August 6, 1985. He’d spent a few years on death row, and over a decade in the general population. He longed to begin a life beyond the walls.

Outside the prison was someone who knew Paul’s history in a way the Board of Prison Terms never could. His former wife, Lela Halverson. Unlike the others whose lives Paul disrupted, Lela survived—and remembered.

Lela turned to Assemblyman Patrick Nolan for help. Nolan initiated a statewide petition drive to keep Paul incarcerated. He called Paul “a cold, calculating killer.”

Lela told reporters that after Paul’s conviction he told his minister that “someday, some way, he would get out of prison and kill me.” She believed him. Paul had remarried in prison, and his wife had made inquiries about Lela’s whereabouts—and that frightened her. But her fear wasn’t enough to silence her.

Public opinion is a powerful tool. Lela and Nolan announced the petition drive from the corner of McCarthy Drive and Caledonia Way in Glendale. Lela spoke about the significance of the location. She recalled that in June 1966, “I was coming home from a meeting and he got in front of my car. He started beating me inside the car, then he dragged me out and started pounding my head against the pavement.” Later that year, hit-and-run autos struck her twice. She didn’t believe in coincidence. She divorced Paul that same year.

In 1982, after news of Paul’s parole date broke, Lela spoke out, “I try not to dwell on it, but it’s always in the back of my mind. I have this great fear. It’s almost like going through that trial again, but this time it’s worse because I know of the brutality he is capable of. During the trial, I didn’t know everything.”

The reason for Lela’s fear lay in two murders Paul had committed years earlier.

In early December 1966, the Los Angeles County Fire Department responded to a routine call at a home on the 2700 block of Ballard Street in El Sereno.

After they extinguished the blaze, they discovered the charred body of Marlin Cromwell sprawled on the couch in the living room. At first, it appeared he had died in the fire. A closer look revealed multiple gunshot wounds inflicted by a small-caliber gun. Kristina, accompanied by the couple’s four-year-old son, was visiting with friends in Twenty-Nine Palms when the murder occurred.

About midnight on April 20, 1968, Cheryl Perveler pulled her convertible Jaguar into the carport of the Burbank apartment where she lived with Paul. A few minutes later, neighbors reported hearing three gunshots. Apartment manager John E. Miller went out to the carport and found Cheryl in the driver’s seat unconscious and bleeding. An ambulance was called and rushed her to Burbank Hospital. They later transferred her to County General where she died without regaining consciousness. She had been married to Paul for about six weeks.

The sixteen-month gap between the murders obscured the relationship between the two crimes. Had the deaths occurred close together, investigators would likely have examined Paul and Kristina’s affair much sooner.

Paul might never have been caught if he had not confided in a co-worker at the Auto Club details of Marlin’s murder. It was a serious miscalculation. The co-worker went to the police.

It took about two weeks for detectives to unravel the murder plot. On May 1, 1968, the police jailed Paul and Kristina. Detectives booked both Paul and Kristina on suspicion of murder in the deaths of their spouses.

At the time of Paul and Kristina’s arrest, detectives told reporters that Paul’s ex-wife, Lela, was deliberately run down by a car in 1965 and was the target of a car which jumped a curb in 1966. Paul would have received $32,000 in double indemnity insurance if she had died.

Juries prefer a case with an understandable motive. Sometimes they don’t get one. But here the D.A. offered them a common one, and one they could comprehend—greed. According to the prosecution, Paul committed the murders so he and Kristina could cash in on two hefty double-indemnity life insurance policies.

In fact, Marlin’s policy paid Kristinia $75,000. She and Paul used most of the money to purchase another Burbank cocktail bar—Paul already owned one.

A jury convicted Kristina Cromwell for her role in the murders, and she served 7 years of a life sentence before being released in 1976.

Paul received the death penalty for the murders and for the attempted murder of Lela.

Paul’s death sentence gave Lela breathing room. The change in his sentence shattered her peace. Once free, he could make good on his pledge to kill her. Would she have to look over her shoulder for the rest of her life?

Lela continued to pressure the parole board. She requested a hearing, and in June 1983, she presented the board with 20,000 signatures from residents of Patrick Nolan’s district, where the murders occurred. As the only survivor of Paul’s murder for money plots, Lela revealed more about him than was in his prison file.

The parole board only saw his exemplary record, college education, self-awareness groups for prisoners, favorable psychiatric reports, praise from prison staffers, and a 1978 marriage that offered him new stability.

Paul opted out of the hearing, which gave Lela the perfect opportunity to speak. “I’m thrilled and delighted we’ve finally been heard and that we have a chance for justice.” She spoke of the severe beating at Paul’s hands. “He tried six times to kill me. I will never forget the feeling of the bones of my face crunching, the smashing of my head against the pavement and the taste of my own blood in my throat while he was choking me. I knew I was going to die.”

She said he had lain in wait for her before the attack and had doused himself with alcohol afterward so he could claim he attacked her in a drunken, jealous rage and that he wasn’t trying to kill her.

Kristina Cromwell confirmed Lela’s testimony and offered her own perspective into Paul’s plans. She described how he intended to commit the murders over a three-year period.

She said in 1965, Paul shot his father from a passing car on Baja Highway south of Tijuana. “We were going to overtake them on a road where there were cliffs, and he was going to shoot out of the back window.” A bullet struck Joseph Perveler on the right side of his nose. His father recovered and died later of other causes. The shooting was never reported to U.S. authorities.

Kristina told of Paul’s plot to murder Lela while on a Memorial Day outing in the San Gabriel Mountains and make it look like an accident.

She told the parole board that three other times Paul had struck Lela with his car.

Paul planned to kill Marlin while he and Kristina vacationed in Mexico in 1966, but she refused to cooperate and fled to Los Angeles. “He told me if he had caught me on the way back to the border, he would have killed me.” He said if she refused to cooperate in her husband’s murder again, he would kill her son.

Kristina revealed that she and Paul were going to kill Lela and described the plan. She was to wait in her car and honk the horn as Lela’s VW neared the house. Paul would emerge from his hiding place, attack Lela until she was unconscious, and stuff her body in the back seat. But after the attack, Paul ran to Kristinia in a panic. Kristina convinced him to pour alcohol on his clothes and tell police he’d been drinking.

Asked why she never reported Paul to the police. She said she loved him and did whatever he wanted.

The board was convinced by the women to rescind Paul’s parole. Lela said: “Our system worked as it should have worked. It’s just unfortunate that I had to go through all that I have.”

Paul showed little emotion as he heard the ruling. Asked how he felt, he said, “Tired, wiped out and gutted.”

At least for a time Lela could rest easy; but the fight would begin again in six months when his parole status would be reviewed.

Paul’s persistence in pursuit of a goal was evident from his continued attempts to kill anyone who stood between him and a large insurance payout.

Lela was persistent, too. But hers wasn’t destructive—it was restorative. She wanted the truth to become part of the permanent record.

Over the next decade, she had to summon her strength repeatedly to keep Paul behind bars.

Lela prevailed.

In 1992, in the landmark case Perveler v. Estelle (1992), the Ninth Circuit affirmed that California’s parole board acted within its legal rights when it rescinded Paul’s parole date based on newly uncovered evidence of his dangerous past. Paul would remain in prison.

For years, Paul Perveler tried to persuade parole authorities that they misunderstood him. In the end, it was Lela Halverson and Kristina Cromwell who persuaded them that indeed they had.



NOTE: My thanks to Blake Leung for introducing me to this case. He pointed me to an extraordinary story hidden in the archives.


Sources

This story was researched using contemporary newspapers, court records, parole proceedings, archival collections, and other primary and secondary sources.


Research Note

The historical record is never complete. This narrative reflects the best available evidence at the time of publication. Any errors or omissions are my own.



A Mobster in Hollywood

The Mob Comes to Hollywood

Los Angeles never had a mob like those that ran the streets in Chicago, New York, Detroit or Kansas City. Corruption in the City of Angels was a top-down affair—overseen by politicians in City Hall. Local vice kings, Charlie Crawford, Albert Marco, and Bob Gans managed illegal liquor, gambling and prostitution and shared profits with the politicians. Crooked members of the Los Angeles police force supplied the muscle. As a cabal, some called “The City Hall Gang,” they had vice in the city sewed up with no room for outsiders.

(1928) – View of Los Angeles City Hall decorated with banners for its opening ceremony. Photo courtesy Water & Power.

Eastern mobsters attempted on several occasions to get a toehold in Los Angeles. Infamous Chicago mob boss, Al Capone, visited Southern California in December 1927. He traveled by train south to San Diego, and stopped in Orange County on his way back. When he returned to the Biltmore Hotel, LAPD kept a close watch on him. On December 13th, LAPD detective Edward “Roughhouse” Brown escorted him and his entourage to the Santa Fe station to board an eastbound train.

The only successful mob-backed racket to gain power in Los Angeles was through the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees (IATSE). IATSE was weak, struggling to protect its members against powerful studio heads like Louis B. Mayer of Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and Harry Warner of Warner Bros. The workers wanted fair pay and safe conditions, but they lacked the leverage to fight the studio bosses.

Premiere of “Morocco” at Grauman’s Chinese, 1930.

It was 1935, and the mob’s timing could not have been better. The Great Depression gripped America. Hollywood seemed safe at first. But then, theater attendance dropped. Studios cut wages. Workers grew angry and desperate. The mob realized competing with the entrenched local vice lords, with support from the mayor’s office and police, was a non-starter. However, they found a lucrative backdoor. Hollywood.

In 1935, the mob sent William “Willie” Bioff, a Chicago mob associate, as the West Coast representative of IATSE. He seemed to the workers like an answered prayer. He vowed to get them the money and working conditions they wanted.

A Vulnerable Industry

Bioff joined George Browne, an ambitious IATSE official. They realized the movie industry was vulnerable, and those vulnerabilities presented them with the perfect way to make money. If a single projectionist stopped working, a theater could not show a movie. If the stagehands walked off a set, filming stopped.

With Frank “The Enforcer” Nitti backing him, Browne had won the presidency of IATSE in 1934. He then appointed Bioff as his personal representative for West Coast operations.

The Price of Peace

Bioff did not care about union pride or worker rights. The first thing he did when he arrived in Los Angeles was to meet with the top studio executives. He gave them a choice. They could pay him, or he would call a strike that would shut down every movie studio in Hollywood.

Studio moguls knew that a strike meant losing thousands of dollars a day.

The extortion system was well-organized. Bioff demanded fifty thousand dollars a year from smaller studios and one hundred thousand dollars a year from the major studios. He collected the money in cash, often packed into brown paper bags or briefcases. For the studios, it was a cheap way to keep the cameras rolling.

To make sure the studio bosses knew he was serious, Bioff occasionally ordered small, sudden strikes. He would shut down a soundstage for a few hours as a demonstration of his power. The studio heads learned to pay on time.

While Bioff was getting rich, he had to keep the union members happy so they would not rebel. He used his power to win a major victory for them in 1936. He negotiated a huge wage increase and a closed-shop agreement. This meant that the studios could only hire IATSE members for technical jobs.

To the average stagehand making a few dollars a week, Bioff was a hero, the tough guy who stood up to the multi-millionaire studio bosses and won.

With the union firmly under his control, Bioff lived like a king in Southern California. He bought a massive estate in the San Fernando Valley. He raised prize cattle, drove luxury cars, and wore expensive jewelry.

He mingled with movie stars and studio executives. Even though everyone knew he was a gangster, he was a welcome guest at exclusive parties. Hollywood stars have always had a thing for bad guys. The frisson of proximity to danger, without the consequences, was intoxicating. Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel enjoyed the same treatment when he moved to Los Angeles. He dined with stars and considered an acting career like his childhood friend from the old neighborhood, George Raft.

Bioff ruled the Hollywood labor scene with an iron fist, crushing any internal dissent. If a union member questioned where their dues were going, Bioff’s thugs would beat them up or kick them out of the union, which meant they could never work in Hollywood again.

The Pen and the Prosecutor

By the late 1930s, the first cracks in Bioff’s empire revealed themselves. Early signs of trouble came from within the labor movement itself. Other unions and independent worker groups grew tired of IATSE’s monopoly and Bioff’s thuggish methods.

A group of Hollywood actors, writers, and progressive workers began to look closely at the union’s finances. They noticed that millions of dollars in union dues were missing, and that Bioff seemed to be working closer with the studio bosses than with the workers.

The most damaging blow outside the studios came from the press. A crusading, syndicated journalist named Westbrook Pegler started a fierce, one-man media campaign against Bioff. Writing for the New York World-Telegram and other papers across the country, Pegler used his widely read column, Fair Enough, to dig into Bioff’s dark past.

Pegler discovered that before coming to California, Bioff was a low-level thug and pimp in Illinois. Most importantly, Pegler uncovered an old 1922 Chicago conviction against Bioff for pandering—operating a brothel and taking money from a prostitute. Bioff had served only a few days of his six-month sentence before skipping town.

Pegler famously mocked Bioff in print, calling him a “panderer” and a “cheap thug” who was holding the entire movie industry hostage.

Pegler’s explosive columns ran week after week, exposing how a fugitive criminal was living in a California mansion while running a major American labor union. The public outcry from Pegler’s work was so loud that California authorities could no longer look the other way.

Bioff was arrested and forced to return to Illinois to finish his old prison sentence. This bad publicity shattered Bioff’s image as a legitimate labor leader and gave federal investigators the perfect opening.

Federal Trial

A determined federal prosecutor named Boris Kostelanetz stepped in to build a major tax evasion and extortion case against Bioff and George Browne. Investigators meticulously traced the paper trail of the studio bribes. Federal agents convinced studio executives to testify about the secret payments.

In 1941, Willie Bioff and George Browne were put on trial for federal racketeering in a New York courtroom. The trial exposed the deep rot in Hollywood’s labor system. One of the most important witnesses was Nicholas Schenck, the powerful president of Loew’s Inc., the company that owned Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer (MGM).

Schenck sat in the witness chair and described his first meetings with Bioff. He told the jury that Bioff did not make requests; he made threats. Schenck testified that Bioff looked him in the eye and said, “Your business is a fragile one. A strike would ruin you.”

Schenck explained the exact mechanics of the payments to the court. The money had to be paid in cash, and no checks or receipts were allowed. To get the cash, studio executives had to falsify their own company expense records. They hid the bribe money under fake ledger entries like “publicity expenses” or “legal fees” to keep their accounting books clean.

Other studio executives, like Leo Spitz of RKO, testified about how Bioff showed off his power. Spitz told the court that if a payment was even a day late, Bioff would call a sudden strike on a movie set. The stagehands would drop their tools and walk off, costing the studio thousands of dollars an hour.

This testimony ruined the defense. Bioff’s lawyers tried to argue that the money was just a voluntary gift for helping keep labor peace. But the raw, detailed stories from the studio heads proved it was flat-out extortion.

The jury took less than two hours to find Bioff and Browne guilty. Bioff was sentenced to ten years in prison, while Browne received eight years.

Bioff Makes a Deal

Faced with a long prison sentence in a maximum-security penitentiary, Bioff chose to talk. He became a government witness and testified against his former masters in the Chicago Outfit.

Willie Bioff in front of Judge Fricke’s court.

In a sensational 1943 trial, Bioff took the stand and explained exactly how the mob controlled IATSE and extorted the Hollywood studios. His testimony led to the conviction of top Chicago gangsters, including Paul Ricca, Phil D’Andrea, and Frank Nitti. Nitti was deathly afraid of confined spaces. Knowing that a federal prison cell would elevate his claustrophobia to an intolerable level, he committed suicide rather than face prison because of Bioff’s betrayal.

Bioff’s cooperation earned him an early release from prison in 1945. He knew the mob would be looking for him, so he changed his name to William Nelson. He moved to Phoenix, Arizona. He lived a quiet, normal life. But he also took a calculated risk and worked in the casino business in Las Vegas. He relied on his old connections to stay afloat while trying to maintain a low profile.

The Battle of Black Friday

Bioff’s removal from IATSE led to a new, incredibly violent struggle known as the Hollywood Jurisdictional Strikes. This was a bitter war between IATSE and a more progressive union called the Conference of Studio Unions, or CSU, led by Herbert Sorrell. The CSU represented painters, carpenters, and decorators, and they accused IATSE of still being a puppet for the studio bosses.

The battle for control of Hollywood film crews reached a breaking point on October 5, 1945. This day became known as “Black Friday.” Over one thousand CSU strikers and their supporters formed a tight line across the entrance of the Warner Bros. studio in Burbank, aiming to block anyone from entering the lot to work.

Hollywood strike. Photo courtesy UCLA Special Collections.

When IATSE members and studio replacement workers arrived, a massive fight broke out. The studio guards and the Burbank police stepped in to break up the crowd, but things quickly got out of hand. Men fought with clubs, heavy iron pipes, chains, and brass knuckles.

The scene became chaotic. Studio guards on top of the Warner Bros. walls pumped tear gas into the crowd. They also turned high-pressure fire hoses on the strikers, knocking people down on the slick pavement. Striker sympathizers overturned cars in the street to block police vehicles from entering the fray.

By the end of the day, dozens of people were badly hurt. Over forty people had to go to the hospital with broken bones and deep cuts. The police arrested more than three hundred strikers over the course of the week. This violent riot shocked the public and forced the state government to step in.

The studios used the violence to label the CSU as dangerous radicals and communists. Apparently, the CSU was more terrifying to Hollywood than a group of out-of-town gangsters.  

The studio bosses helped IATSE win the labor war. By the end of the 1940s, the CSU was destroyed. IATSE secured its position as the dominant union for Hollywood film crews, a position it still holds today.

Bye-bye, Bioff

On November 4, 1955, Bioff’s past caught up with him. He walked out of his home in Phoenix and got into his pickup truck. When he turned the key in the ignition, a bomb wired to the starter exploded.

The blast destroyed the truck and killed Bioff instantly. It was a classic mob hit. Delayed punishment for his testimony a decade earlier. The mob did not forget or forgive. Nobody was ever charged in the case.

The story of William Bioff and IATSE remains one of the darkest chapters in the history of American labor and the entertainment industry. It showed how easily a union meant to protect working people could be captured by organized crime. It also shaped the future of Hollywood.

The systems of bargaining and the division of labor created during Bioff’s reign of extortion set the rules for how movies were made for decades to come. The stagehands and technicians finally got their strong union, but the cost was a legacy of violence, corruption, and fear that took Hollywood a generation to forget.

The Jake Walk

On January 18, 1931, a sixty-year-old Whittier man went to see his doctor. He complained of stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting, and severe diarrhea. Unable to diagnose the patient, the doctor sent him to the local hospital for tests. The lab tested him for amebic and bacillary dysentery—both were negative. They administered a Wasserman test for syphilis and he tested negative.

Greenleaf Blvd, downtown Whittier c. 1931

The hospital kept him under observation without arriving at a definitive diagnosis. Maybe he had caught a seasonal influenza. After three days, his symptoms had almost entirely cleared, so they released him and he returned home.

About ten days later he developed muscle soreness in his calves, and stiffness and numbness in his toes. The symptoms worsened. He had difficulty walking and suffered a bilateral foot drop. When he tried to walk on his own, he was forced to hold on to something for support.

His doctor reported the case to another Whittier physician, Dr. Frank G. Crandall, as suspected poliomyelitis. Polio would be devastating. There was no vaccine or cure for the disease. A patient could die or spend years in bed without recovering.

Within days, he lost the use of his fingers. His wrists dropped. His hands atrophied. Doctors transferred him to County General Hospital, where he remained confined to bed—unable to walk, stand, dress, or feed himself.

Dr. Crandall consulted with Dr. George H. Roth of the Los Angeles County Health Department. The polio virus was too small to be seen with the available technology, so doctors manually checked for muscle weakness or “physical defects.”  Drs. Crandall and Roth agreed that the patient did not have polio.

If not polio, then what else could render a man helpless in such a short period of time?

Young polio victim in iron lung c. 1948. Photo courtesy of Los Angeles Public Library Photo Collection.

They had heard reports from the Midwest and South of a malady caused by drinking adulterated Jamaica Ginger. During the summer of 1930, 10,000 cases of the disease were reported in the South.

Jamaica Ginger was a patent medicine in continuous use since the 1820s used to treat everything from flatulence to upper respiratory infections and menstrual disorders. It was a common household remedy, which made its poisoning even more monstrous. The victims in some cases were children.

The extract typically contained 70% to 90% ethanol by weight, which was necessary to keep the ginger oleoresin in solution. Not only did Jake, as it was called, have a kick, as a medicine it was legal to purchase during Prohibition. That was a huge plus for people who couldn’t afford to frequent local speakeasies or buy from a bootlegger. When compared to standard whiskey, which contains 40% to 50% alcohol, a two-ounce bottle of Jake, costing about fifty cents, was a cheap high.

As soon as the government learned about the legal loophole, it was determined to close it. They did it by requiring manufacturers of Jamaica Ginger to include a high concentration of bitter ginger solids to make it too disgusting to drink.

The government’s solution worked for a while until some manufacturers and distributors bypassed the regulations. They experimented with various substances that would fool government tests and finally found a cheap industrial plasticizer called tri-orthocresyl phosphate (TOCP). A powerful neurotoxin.

Following the Whittier case, two men in Los Angeles, J. D. Hoagland (46) of 1129 ½ Mignonette Street, and David Grant (66) of 403 Court Street, sought treatment for Jake paralysis. Dr. John S. Fox, assistant city health officer, supervised their treatment. The victims admitted to consuming the ginger extract. One of them drank a bottle a day for 15 days, and the other downed five bottles a day for five days.

Dr. Fox issued a warning against the use of the extract as a beverage. He said a single drink could result in paralysis. But even with Dr. Fox’s warning, four new cases were reported from the North Bunker Hill district. One man not only suffered from “drop foot,” a defining characteristic of drinking the poison, but his face and limbs were also paralyzed. Another victim permanently lost their sight.

City laboratories analyzed samples of the extract sold in drug and grocery stores on Bunker Hill. The labs found TOCP.

(ca. 1939)- Panoramic view of Bunker Hill as seen from City Hall. The intersection of Hill and First Streets is visible at lower right. Photo courtesy of the Los Angeles Department of Water & Power collection.

The number of victims continued to rise. Many of them lived in cheap hotel rooms in the vicinity of Seventh and Central and San Pedro Streets.  They said they obtained their extract from drug stores in the area. Many cases went unreported and the health department asked physicians to submit reports so they could track the spread the disease—which was fast becoming an epidemic.

Image created using AI

Reporters heard from one health official that the Jamaica ginger blamed for the paralysis cases arrived in the city in barrel lots. They had no way of knowing how much of it had been sold, and the situation was further complicated because the paralysis did not develop until ten days to two weeks after consumption.

Dr. J. L. Pomeroy, Los Angeles County Health Officer, investigated each of the cases and found the source of the poisoned extract was a New York firm operating under the name of Jordan Brothers. A local man, Jacob Rosenbloom, his wife, and sons, bottled, labeled, and distributed locally two-ounce bottles of the extract through their company, California Extract Company.

One thing became evident early on. The victims of Jake paralysis were among the most vulnerable of the city’s residents. They were poor, some of them were pensioners living in rooms in the faded Victorian mansions on Bunker Hill. The same was true of the thousands of victims in the Midwest and South. They were not people of means. Ginger Jake was the poor man’s way of getting a drink of liquor. During Prohibition, sellers could still offer products with high alcohol content if they classified them as medicinal, culinary, industrial, or cosmetic. People drank vanilla extract, cologne, medicinal bitters, and Jamaica ginger.

Managing the Jake crisis fell largely to local officials. The Federal Hygienic Laboratory—the underfunded precursor to the National Institutes of Health—had fewer than a dozen physicians and little authority. The only federal agency with real jurisdiction was the Treasury Department’s Bureau of Prohibition, whose agents carried badges, tommy guns, and responsibility for anything involving alcohol.

Veterans Home Photo coutesy Los Angeles Public Library

The horror of awakening to find you could no longer get out of bed was made even worse when in early March 1931, thirty-seven veterans in the Soldiers Home in Sawtelle (West Los Angeles) were struck down after drinking Jake. All of them were in critical condition, except for two who died.

The victims in the Soldiers Home were already dependent upon institutions. They were likely dealing with disability, poverty, trauma, or alcoholism.

Promises were made to find and prosecute those responsible for the manufacture and sale of the lethal ginger concoction. The Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906 was invoked, but the consequences were laughable. A first offense was punishable by a fine not to exceed $500 and/or up to one year in prison. Subsequent offenses were punishable by a fine of not less than $1000 and/or up to one year in prison. Even the violations involving interstate commerce were light.

Jake paralysis was killing people, or letting them survive with no hope, and the worst punishment a violator could receive was a fine and a sentence that could be served in the county jail. One wonders if the poison had been added to bonded liquor smuggled in from Canada and served to the swells who could afford it if the outcome would have been different.

There were attempts made to find a cure. Researchers at the University of Oklahoma claimed they had not found “a single case of a Negro being affected.” They suspected Black Americans had a natural immunity. To test their theory, the dosed black and white chickens with known paralytic ginger extract because they believed that the black feathered chickens were the genetic equivalent of Black Americans.  

The chickens, black and white, fell ill indiscriminately. Researchers concluded that “color plays no part” in the disease.

Long before historians and toxicologists explained how TOCP ravaged the nervous system, ordinary people understood the epidemic through the language available to them: limber leg, numbness, shame, failed romance, neighborhood gossip, and song.

The most heartfelt commentary on Jake came from blues musicians. Jake paralysis entered blues music because it had already become a part of everyday life. The lyrics spoke of the effects of the paralysis in ways that weren’t reported in newspapers.

In 1930, Willie Ray wrote “I Got the Jake Leg Blues

“I woke up this morning,

I couldn’t get out of my bed,

This stuff they call jake leg,

Had me nearly dead.”

The mostly male sufferers did not just lose their ability to walk without evidence of “Jake Leg,” they were just as often made impotent by the disease.  

“I’m a Jake walk papa

I’m a Jake walk papa

 And the Jake walk’s got me now

Can’t eat, can’t sleep

Can’t even make my woman smile.”


Willie Lofton, “Jake Walk Blues,” 1930

In May of 1931, some Oklahomans organized United Victims of Jamaica Ginger Paralysis. They claimed 30,000 to 50,000 members. Oklahoma Governor William “Alfalfa Bill” Murray said, “There are three kinds of people I haven’t much use for. One is the man with Jakeitis; another is the investor on the stock exchange, and the other I won’t mention.” Sadly, many others shared his low opinion of the victims. With their characteristic walk, sufferers were physically and mentally abused in their communities.

Ed McGoldrick on the witness stand– his wheelchair. Photo dated: April 25, 1931.
Courtesy Los Angeles Public Library, Herald Collection.

Iron leg braces worn by some victims were called “Jake Socks.” Temperance advocates and preachers joked about the physical twitching and shuffling. Some suggested God was forcing sinners to do a “forbidden dance” as a warning to anyone who contemplated breaking Prohibition Laws.

Law suits went nowhere. Activists lobbied Congress for years, but it never passed a bill for victims’ relief.

The suffering of Jake victims became a source of ridicule for temperance advocates and preachers, many of whom interpreted the paralysis as moral punishment for violating Prohibition.

At every stage, the Jake epidemic exposed the brutal realities of class in America. The victims were overwhelmingly poor, vulnerable, and disposable in the eyes of institutions that failed to protect them. Their suffering became a source of ridicule long before it became a source of public responsibility.

Note: There were many songs about Jake Leg. This one is by the Ray Brothers.

The Hillside Strangler: MGM+ Docuseries

I was interviewed over the summer for this four-part docuseries. The Hillside Strangler case was one of the worst in Los Angeles’ history.

One of the killers, Angelo Buono, died in prison in 2002. His cousin, and accomplice, Kenneth Bianchi, remains in prison. May he rot.

The most important names to remember are those of their victims:

Yolanda Washington
Judity Miller
Lissa Kastin
Delores Cepeda and Sonja Johnson
Kristina Weckler
Evelyn Jame King
Lauren Wagner
Kimberly Martin
Cindy Hudspeth

Here is the trailer.

Black Dahlia: Last Seen

Two men and a woman came to the door of the French home on January 7, 1947. Elizabeth Short saw them, but didn’t open the door.

Their visit rattled her. Who were they? If she knew, she didn’t say. Instead, she contacted Robert “Red” Manley, the salesman she’d dated a couple of times, and asked him to come and get her.

Elizabeth Short

Red arrived at the French home at 7:30 p.m. He loaded Beth’s two suitcases in the car. Neighbors who saw them said they seemed in high spirits.

They headed north, hugging the coast, and checked into a motel a few hours later.

After an evening of dinner and dancing, they returned to the motel. Beth curled up in the chair. Red took the bed—alone.

The next morning, they left the motel and started north. What was said on that drive to Los Angeles? Red noticed some scratches on Beth’s arms and asked her about them. She spun a story about a jealous boyfriend. An Italian with a temper. He had scratched her. Maybe he never existed. Maybe she made the scratches herself. It wasn’t the last lie she told him that day.

Beth spent much of the drive in silence. She may have wondered what she would do once she hit L.A. She had calls to make. Maybe one of her Hollywood friends had a couch. But first—she needed to ditch Red.

Once they arrived in the city, Beth told Red that she needed to check her luggage at the bus depot. He took her there, but refused to leave her in that neighborhood on her own. She insisted she would be fine, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

Beth had a few minutes while she checked her bags to come up with a plan. When they returned to his car, she told him she needed to go to the Biltmore Hotel to wait for her sister. It was a lie. Her sister Virginia was in Oakland, hundreds of miles to the north.

Red drove her several blocks to the hotel. The main lobby was on Olive Street, directly opposite Pershing Square. She expected to be dropped off, but he wouldn’t leave her. He may have wanted to postpone seeing Harriet. He hadn’t spoken to her for days.  

They sat in the Biltmore’s grand lobby, surrounded by velvet chairs and marble silence. They made small talk. Nothing important. Nothing honest. Red finally said he had to go. She assured him she would be fine.

Biltmore Hotel

At 6:30 p.m. Beth watched him go. She waited a few moments, eyes on the clock. Then she rose and walked out. She turned right onto Olive Street.

Did she stop at the Crown Grill at Eighth and Olive? She’d been there before. Maybe she’d find a familiar face—or a place to sleep. Some of the Grill’s patrons thought they saw her that night. None were certain.

Sometime after 6:30 p.m. on January 9, 1947, Elizabeth Short met her killer.

NEXT TIME: The missing week.

NOTE: For a glimpse into Los Angeles as Beth Short would have seen it, here is some amazing B-roll from shot for a Rita Hayworth film, Down to Earth, via the Internet Archive.

Elizabeth Short: The French Connection–Conclusion

When Dorothy French brought Elizabeth Short home in early December, she never expected her to stake a claim to the family’s sofa. Dorothy had simply meant to offer a safer alternative to a seat in the Aztec all-night movie theater—a place to rest for a night or two. No more than that.

But Betty stayed.

She took advantage of the Frenches’ hospitality. They were too kind to put her out, but the tension in the home was growing. Betty (she used Beth and Betty interchangeably) must have felt it.

Elizabeth Short

There’s no record of how they spent Christmas. It would have been the perfect time for Betty to leave San Diego, return to Hollywood—where she had connections, where people at least knew her. But she remained, a guest among strangers. The question is why.

Was she waiting for money? A ride? A man?

Some accounts reduce her stay in San Diego to cliché: drifting, partying, mysterious. It was none of those things. It was stasis. A kind of limbo.

She spent her days writing letters—many of which she never mailed.

One of the most poignant was addressed to Gordon Fickling, dated December 13. She had lived with Fickling—a Navy lieutenant and flier—months earlier in Long Beach. Gordon Fickling.

She wrote:

“I do hope you find a nice girl to kiss at midnight on New Year’s Eve. It would have been wonderful if we belonged to each other now. I’ll never regret coming west to see you. You didn’t take me in your arms and keep me there. However, it was nice as long as it lasted.”

The unsent letter offers a glimpse into her state of mind. It is wistful—a quiet longing for something stable. A safe harbor. And the realization that safety, when it appears at all, is always temporary.

The Frenches’ home had become a kind of refuge. Temporary, but real.

Then, something strange happened.

Red Manley

On January 7, two men and a girl came to the door. They knocked, waited a few minutes, and then ran to a car parked outside.

Betty peeked through the window but refused to answer. She was visibly terrified. When Dorothy asked her about it, Betty was evasive—so much so that Dorothy eventually gave up trying to get answers.

Shortly after, Betty wired Red and asked him to come get her. She was ready to leave San Diego.

He responded the next day:

“Wait and I’ll be down for you.”

NEXT TIME: Elizabeth Short’s life is measured in days.

Archival Note: Little contemporaneous documentation exists regarding Elizabeth Short’s daily life during her stay with the French family in Pacific Beach. Beyond later statements attributed to Dorothy French, and the surviving unsent correspondence, no police reports, diaries, or third-party accounts place Short at any specific location in San Diego between December 8, 1946, and her departure in early January 1947.

Elizabeth Short–The French Connection

Elizabeth Short stepped off the bus in San Diego in early December 1946—alone, broke, and fading into the shadows of the chilly evening.

She walked a few blocks to the Aztec, a 24-hour movie theater. The price of a ticket gave her a quiet and warm place to rest. She dozed off, only to be awakened by the cashier, a woman about her age, Dorothy French.

Elvera & Dorothy French

Dorothy could tell the woman, who introduced herself as Betty Short, was at loose ends. She felt sorry for her, and she knew that a woman sleeping alone in the theater was easy prey. Dorothy invited Betty to come with her to Pacific Beach, where she lived with her mother, Elvera, and her teenage brother, Cory. Betty was welcome to spend the night and get a fresh start the next day.

Nearly two weeks had passed since her arrival on December 8. As the days crawled toward Christmas, the Frenches began to regret their kindness. Like many post-war families, they struggled to make ends meet. Betty hadn’t contributed a cent to the household, and the family was tired of tip-toeing around the sofa as she slept.

She showed no interest in finding a job and spent much of her time writing letters. She had one visitor, a man she introduced only as Red. She told the Frenches he was an airline employee in San Diego who lived in Huntington Park, but stayed at a nearby motel.

The sofa in the Frenches’ modest home was a far cry from the glamorous Hollywood backdrop Betty spoke of, but it provided a measure of stability. According to Elvera, Betty was polite but withdrawn. She offered few details about her past and rarely ventured out during the day. She claimed to have worked at a naval hospital but made no effort to find another job. Over time, Elvera grew uneasy. She had a “premonition” that something was wrong. She described Betty’s presence as moody and unsettled.

She was more shadow than guest.

Dorothy said, “Betty seemed constantly in fear of something. Whenever someone came to the door, she would act frightened.”

Despite the undercurrent of discomfort, the family allowed her to stay through the holidays.

NEXT TIME: Elizabeth Short leaves San Diego.

Archival Note:
Details of Elizabeth Short’s (Black Dahlia) stay with the French family in Pacific Beach are based primarily on contemporaneous police interviews and subsequent press reports. Key accounts include statements attributed to Dorothy and Elvera French following Short’s disappearance and murder.

The First With The Latest: Aggie Underwood, Crime Reporter — Aggie’s Birthday 2025

Aggie interviews unknown woman.

For more than forty years, Agness “Aggie” Underwood covered the crimes that terrified—and fascinated—Los Angeles. Murderers, mobsters, and corrupt officials all crossed her path. But the moment that set her career in motion wasn’t a gunshot or a headline. It was a pair of silk stockings she couldn’t afford.

In 1926, money was tight. Aggie and her husband, Harry, had a daughter, Evelyn, and a son, George. Her younger sister Leona lived with them and helped with expenses. Still, Aggie wore Leona’s hand-me-down silk stockings. One day, she asked Harry for money to buy a new pair. He said no. Aggie told him that if he wouldn’t give her money for stockings, she’d earn it herself.

She was bluffing. She hadn’t worked outside the home since 1920.

Harry, Aggie, Evelyn, George

The next day, out of nowhere, her best friend Evelyn offered her a temporary switchboard job at the Daily Record. Aggie grabbed it. The stockings would be hers.

She described her first impression of the newsroom:

“I looked out on a weird wonderland… Shirt-sleeved men attacked beaten-up typewriters, which snarled and balked. Sheets of paper snowed on a central point called the city desk, whatever that meant. Men gyrated through the crazy quilt of splintered desks and tables. It was a jumble.”

The job was supposed to be temporary. But Gertrude Price, the women’s editor (writing as Cynthia Grey), saw something in Aggie and became her mentor. Aggie helped with the annual Cynthia Grey Christmas baskets, and Gertrude encouraged her to learn the business.

Christmas baskets

Aggie loved the chaos of the newsroom, and she loved being close to a breaking story. In December 1927, the city was horrified by the murder of twelve-year-old Marian Parker by William Edward Hickman, who called himself “The Fox.”

When news of Hickman’s capture in Oregon broke, Aggie couldn’t contain herself:

“As the bulletins pumped in and the city-side worked furiously at localizing, I couldn’t keep myself in my niche. I committed the unpardonable sin of looking over shoulders of reporters as they wrote. I got underfoot. In what I thought was exasperation, Rod Brink, the city editor, said:
‘All right, if you’re so interested, take this dictation.’

I typed the dictation—part of the main running story.

I was sunk.

I wanted to be a reporter.”

William Edward Hickman [Photo courtesy of LAPL]

She began writing human interest stories, covering fashion and women’s clubs. In May 1931, her first major break came when Charles H. Crawford (a.k.a. the Grey Fox) and reporter Herbert F. Spencer were shot and killed.

Crawford was a former saloon keeper turned vice king. Spencer had worked with a political crusading weekly, the Critic of Critics. They were both involved in the shadowy network known as “The Combination”—a marriage of City Hall and organized crime.

After the murders, David H. Clark, a former deputy DA and candidate for judge, surrendered. But no one had interviewed Clark’s parents. Aggie called every Clark in the phonebook until she found them in Highland Park.

She got the interview. The result: a front-page, above-the-fold story titled Mrs. Clark Says Son is Innocent. Her first double-column byline.

Later, she scored another exclusive with Spencer’s widow. Aggie admitted she was inexperienced—and that honesty earned her the story.

Clark was acquitted. But he drifted. In 1953, he killed a friend’s wife in a drunken fight and died in Chino prison in 1954.

Aggie had found her niche—finding the doors no one else knocked on.

In 1935, she joined the Evening Herald and Express, owned by William Randolph Hearst. She stayed with Hearst the rest of her career.

By 1936, Aggie had a reputation as a reporter who could crack a case. During the Samuel Whittaker case, she interviewed the grieving husband, a retired organist, after his wife Ethel was killed during an apparent hotel robbery.

She staged a dramatic photo of Whittaker pointing his cane at the alleged killer, James Fagan Culver. But as she posed the shot, she noticed something odd: Whittaker winked at Culver.

Culver & Whittaker

Was it a tic? No. She waited. Nothing. She discreetly pulled Detective Thad Brown aside:

“Thad, ask that kid why Whittaker winked at him. Don’t let the kid wriggle out of it. Whittaker did wink at him. There’s no mistake about it.”

Brown humored her. Culver cracked. He confessed: Whittaker had staged the robbery, armed Culver with a .38, and planned to kill his wife himself. He did—then turned his gun on Culver. Culver escaped, wounded.

Whittaker was convicted and given life for his wife’s murder. On his way to San Quentin, he said:

“I hope God may strike me dead before I get to my cell if I am guilty of this horrible crime.”

He dropped dead of a heart attack.

Aggie on Norton, January 15, 1947.

In January 1947, Aggie began reporting on the body of an unknown woman found bisected in Leimert Park. She would become known as the Black Dahlia.

Many claim to have coined the name. Aggie said she got it from LAPD Lt. Ray Giese:

“This is something you might like, Agness. I’ve found out they called her the ‘Black Dahlia’ around that drugstore where she hung out down in Long Beach.”

Like it? She LOVED it.

The Jane Doe was soon identified as 22-year-old Elizabeth Short of Medford, MA. Aggie interviewed the first serious suspect, Robert “Red” Manley. Then she was pulled from the case.

She brought in her embroidery hoop while she cooled her heels in the office. Snickers followed. One reporter said:

“What do you think of that? Here’s the best reporter on the Herald, on the biggest day of one of the best stories in years—sitting in the office doing fancy work!”

She was reassigned, then yanked again. And then—she was promoted to city editor.

Dahlia conspiracy theorists say Aggie was close to solving the case. Some believe she was silenced. But promoting her to city editor—the boss of all the Dahlia reporters—was a strange way to shut her up.

Still… what if she was onto something?

When asked later if she knew who killed Elizabeth Short, she said yes—but never named him.

Mercy? Resignation? Maybe both.

Aggie understood something this city still struggles with: some crimes don’t end in arrests. They end in silence.

She covered L.A.’s most deranged crimes. As city editor, she won dozens of awards and the respect of her newsroom. On her 10th anniversary, her crew gave her a giant novelty baseball bat—like the one she kept on her desk to scare off pesky Hollywood types. It read:

“To Aggie, Keep Swinging.”

Aggie keeps swinging. Photo courtesy of LAPL.

Reporter Will Fowler said in his autobiography:

“The last thing I remember Aggie saying to her friends who came to celebrate at her retirement party was: ‘Please don’t forget me.’”

She had a bat on her desk and a city full of secrets.

We couldn’t forget her if we tried.

NOTE: If you want to know more about Aggie’s crime reporting, get a copy of the my book, THE FIRST WITH THE LATEST!: AGGIE UNDERWOOD, THE LOS ANGELES HERALD, AND THE SORDID CRIMES OF A CITY.

Thanksgiving and a Revolver

The holidays aren’t joyful for everyone. Family gatherings, liquor, and year-long grudges can combust over anything—from the TV remote to the last slice of pie. Holiday homicides often boil down to too much booze and too much togetherness.

For the Thorpes, the trigger wasn’t a turkey leg or a slice of pie—it was the uninvited arrival of an ex-husband.

On Thanksgiving evening, November 27, 1952, Seal Beach officers rolled to 131 6th Street after a call from Frances Conant Thorpe. She told police that her ex-husband, Al McNutt, had stopped by to offer holiday greetings to her and her current husband of eight months, Herman. Frances and Herman had been drinking and arguing all day. McNutt’s appearance pushed things over the edge. A struggle followed, and Herman wound up dead.

Frances offered three incompatible versions of the shooting.
First, she told Officer William Dowdy that Herman had committed suicide.
Then, she told Deputy Coroner Walter Fox that she shot him twice during a scuffle.
Finally, she told District Attorney Investigator M.D. Williams that Herman had tried to shoot her; she fell, hit her head on a case of root beer, blacked out for hours, and awoke to find him dead on the bedroom floor.

The facts shredded all three stories.

Herman’s autopsy revealed nothing consistent with suicide. The position of the weapon beneath his body and the trajectory of the fatal chest wound made self-infliction impossible. There was no gunshot residue on his hands and no powder burns on his skin. But there were traces of gunpowder on Frances’ bathrobe and on her left hand.

Investigator Williams noted that Frances’ attitude was evasive, and her stories “didn’t hold together.”

Dr. Raymond Brandt’s autopsy established Herman’s time of death as 1:30 p.m.—a full hour earlier than Frances claimed. Doctors dismissed her blackout story outright. One said it would be “medically impossible to be blacked out so long, even if she was intoxicated.”

The jury rejected her stories, too. After six hours and twenty-eight minutes of deliberation, they found Frances guilty of manslaughter. She was sentenced to up to ten years in prison.

Thanksgiving in Seal Beach didn’t end with dessert—it ended with a revolver, a bad lie, and a dead husband.

Irresistible Impulse, Part 2

In the grip of an irresistible impulse, Delora saw a girl laid out like a doll, arms crossed, a green necktie cinched tight. The girl in the vision, six-year-old Donna Isbell, slept in the next room. Her eight-year-old brother Roy Jr., was asleep nearby. Their parents, Roy Sr., a petty officer at Los Alamitos Naval Station, and Garnett, who worked nights at Douglas Aircraft, weren’t home.

Unable to find a green necktie, Delora took one of Mr. Isbell’s black socks. That would have to do. She tore the sheet from Donna’s bed, stuffed a corner into the girl’s mouth, then wound the sock around her neck and pulled.

Donna didn’t cry out. She lifted her arms once, then went still.

Delora waited, then pulled again.

Roy, asleep just feet away, didn’t stir.

Delora obeyed the impulse that had tormented her for a long time. Maybe now it would end.

She sat on the living room sofa and lit a cigarette. The smoke steadied her for a moment, then the fear crept in—cold and absolute. She couldn’t explain what she had done—not even to herself.

She walked barefoot to the house next door and knocked. No answer. A few doors down, she found Dr. Sidney G. Willner.  “Something’s wrong… at the house. Come with me,” she said. Then, almost to herself: “I must have done it. There was no one else there.”

They walked in silence. Dr. Willner wondered what she meant. Even if she had told him, nothing could have prepared him for what he found.

Dr. Willner called the Sheriff’s Department.

Deputies took Delora to the nearest substation for questioning. Because Delora was a teenage girl, the department brought in Detective Sergeant Lena Barner to assist Captain J.M. Burns with the questioning.

 As investigators questioned the high school sophomore, they noticed her emotional distance. Sergeant Barner said when she asked Delora why she did it, “She just sat there and stared.”

The only times she showed emotion were when she saw Donna’s body at the scene and when Roy and Garnett Isbell entered the substation. Roy and Garnett were devastated.

Delora babysat Donna and Roy, Jr. several times before the murder, and she and the children got along well. The family had no reason to fear her.

As Donna’s parents tried to process their grief, Delora answered investigators’ questions.

She said quietly, “I often felt like strangling my brothers and sisters.”

She harbored violent impulses toward her siblings for a long time. Her feelings, coupled with her constant fights with her mother, were the reasons she was allowed to move from Colorado to Southern California two years earlier.

Women and girls rarely commit murder—especially in 1951. The story made headlines across the country. It was horrifying. And strange.

Was it a movie? A psychotic break? Something older and darker inside her? Could someone commit such a brutal act… and not be evil?

NEXT TIME: Wrapping up Delora’s story.

Photographs courtesy USC Digital Library. Los Angeles Examiner Photographs Collection