High Price of Blowing the Whistle : Law enforcement: The deputy who disclosed misdeeds by the so-called Rambo Squad in El Cajon jail watched his private and professional life unravel.

Days into his job as a rookie sheriff’s deputy assigned to the El Cajon jail, Jim Goodrich watched his colleagues wrench a prisoner’s arms behind his back and force his face into a cement wall while other deputies pinned him to the ground and twisted the inmate’s legs.

“He was letting out a scream that just froze me,” Goodrich said. “I had just never seen anything like that in person. I didn’t know how to react. I knew what was happening was wrong, but at the same time, I’m seeing cops do it. You can’t tell a cop to stop doing this because supposedly he’s carrying out the law.”

It was Goodrich’s first taste of the so-called “Rambo Squad,” a group of deputies that roamed the graveyard shift doling out their personal brand of justice they believed wasn’t possible through the judicial system.

Silent for three months, Goodrich went to his superiors in February, 1988. When nothing happened, he called news reporters. And finally, in what he has never publicly admitted, Goodrich appeared on television news--his image purposely distorted and voice scrambled--and described to viewers the chilling secrets that took place in the dead of night. Goodrich’s information, coupled with complaints from several inmates, including martial arts specialist Orned (Chicken) Gabriel, launched investigations by the Grand Jury, the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the American Civil Liberties Union; the suspension of 10 deputies, including five officers; and the settlement by Gabriel last week with the county for $40,000 over alleged brutality.

Gabriel, who said he was beaten by deputies because he was intent on exposing them, said Goodrich “was instrumental in helping out. I saw him as sort of a liaison between the deputies and inmates.”

Sgt. Douglas Shinebarger, who was perhaps Goodrich’s closest friend in the jail and who was himself disciplined, said Goodrich “was a major part of getting everything to come out. Here’s a guy who came in and said things weren’t right. And they weren’t right.”

But few others at the jail thought very highly of Goodrich. Many despised him for what they saw as his coddling of inmates and were further infuriated when they realized he was talking to the district attorney’s office.

Before it all ended, Goodrich would testify before the Grand Jury, talk to FBI agents, have his locker vandalized, listen to threats directed against “deputy anonymous” that were meant for him, lose his job, part with his girlfriend, face second-guessing from his family, see a psychiatrist and spin into a depression that turned to thoughts of suicide.

“Once it all started getting out, it was like a snowball rolling down a hill,” Goodrich said. “I lost control. I couldn’t fix it.”

A life in law enforcement had long appealed to Goodrich, 36, whose brother worked in the department for 13 years and left while a lieutenant to work as a business administrator for a church in Santee.

“I was interested in getting into something service-oriented (where) I had some impact on the community and a sense of accomplishment,” said Goodrich, who was born in La Jolla and lived most of his life in La Mesa.

Goodrich applied to work for the Sheriff’s Department in December, 1986, was hired the following June, entered the academy in July and was sworn in as deputy in November, 1987.

During the first few days he began work on the graveyard shift--11:30 p.m. to 7:30 a.m.--Goodrich said, he became aware of an organized group of young deputies who routinely harassed inmates. Veteran deputies warned him not to join the clique but were unwilling to report the problems themselves.

“It became real obvious that there was this fraternity kind of group,” he said. “I had to figure out what laws were being broken and what was being done about it. This was a secret thing, and it was a real difficult situation for a new guy to blow the whistle.”

“You know things are wrong but are afraid to be discredited by established people who are there,” he said. “I knew at the time that I was very fearful. But I also knew I had law and policy and procedure on my side.”

While snitching on employees at any job is difficult, whistle blowing on law enforcement officers is especially touchy because of the strong bond that develops among officers. Mistrust of officers working in a jail, where the potential for danger is constant, can make for a deadly situation.

Goodrich watched the abuse continue for about three months and said nothing.

While he tried to avoid the “Rambo Squad,” Goodrich had to make sure that he didn’t show his resentment in front of inmates, who might come to believe that he was on their side.

Deputies asked him if he was an “inmate lover” and told him he didn’t know how to treat “crooks.” They explained that judges and the legal system had gone easy on inmates for too long, and that it was up to deputies to administer whatever punishment they felt necessary.

All the while he worked at the jail, Goodrich said he never saw an inmate get an outright beating. Instead, deputies used “pain-compliance holds,” which concentrate pain on various body pressure points, such as striking a flashlight on an especially sensitive nerve.

“We all knew the nerve points in the body and were taught where to cause the most pain and (to avoid) key points that could cause death,” he said. “We were trained very well into how to exert that pain.”

Deputies entered cells at all hours, squeezed fruit over prisoners’ heads and then refused them showers, emptied shampoo onto their bedsheets, threw them against walls and trampled their belongings.

After trashing the cells, deputies would switch on the prison intercom and listen for complaints. Inmates who were critical would get repeat treatment within minutes.

Other forms of abuse, documented in the department’s internal affairs report, included use of the “extreme wall position.” Under this form of punishment, inmates were placed against a wall, arms and legs spread wide, for long periods. Typically, inmates strained to hold themselves up until their muscles quivered.

When he couldn’t stand it any longer, Goodrich said, he reported the abuses to two sergeants on the graveyard shift in February, 1988. He was told his complaint was passed up the line, to the station’s lieutenants and captain, but nobody spoke with Goodrich until late September of that year, when his work locker was vandalized and he realized he could not return to the jail. Internal affairs investigators called him at that time.

When the abuse continued, Goodrich began calling newspaper reporters. He also called KNSD-TV (Channel 39), intending to pass along information. He was asked to come to the TV studio. Reluctantly, and with assurances that he wouldn’t be identified, Goodrich told his story.

The following day, the jail was ablaze with accusations. Deputies spoke of little else that day but betrayal and revenge. In law enforcement circles, many likened the television appearance to abandoning a fellow deputy under attack.

“Deputies were screaming in the briefings and carrying on openly,” he said. “It was so intense. I almost quit right then. I felt that I had done my job and my duty, and I was afraid for my life. I wanted to let the system do the rest.”

Deputies never directly accused Goodrich of being TV’s “Deputy Anonymous,” but they stopped talking to him. Friends at the jail informed Goodrich that he was the “Rambo Squad’s” prime suspect, and if they ever could prove he appeared on Channel 39, they would retaliate.

By April 1988, Gabriel, a martial-arts expert imprisoned over failure to pay child support, began complaining to reporters and the American Civil Liberties Union about an alleged beating at the hands of seven deputies in late March.

Gabriel, a karate black belt, also complained that his personal mail was often opened, that the food was bad, and that the jail was overcrowded. Other inmates had voiced similar complaints in the newspapers.

The ACLU, FBI and the Sheriff’s Department internal affairs unit investigated. In late May, Sheriff John Duffy concluded that the inmates had fabricated stories of beatings to gain publicity. Goodrich said he was never interviewed.

Meanwhile, deputies wanted to know who was leaking information to the press. They talked openly about getting “deputy anonymous” and someone placed a McDonald’s job application on the briefing board. “Deputy anonymous, good luck in your new job,” it said.

Goodrich was granted a transfer to the day shift in July, 1988. A month later, district attorney investigator Carlos Rebelez called him and took a taped statement to play for the Grand Jury. In September, FBI agents interviewed Goodrich.

In late September, Goodrich asked that he not have to work at any jail. At the time, FBI and district attorney investigators were at the El Cajon jail almost daily. He was told to speak with internal affairs and placed on administrative leave.

At home, Goodrich’s life quickly unraveled. He argued constantly with his girlfriend, a booking clerk at the jail, about his obsession with the “Rambo Squad.”

His family feared retribution from the Sheriff’s Department and questioned his manner of leaking information. His brother, Ralph, a former sheriff’s lieutenant, said he should have kept his whistle-blowing within the department. Goodrich’s young nephew wondered when officers were going to come to his house and confront Goodrich or other family members.

On Sept. 28, the day he talked to internal affairs for the first time, Goodrich learned that his locker had been vandalized, and that two shifts of deputies had failed to report it.

Someone had taken a pair of bolt-cutters, opened the locker, and smeared shoe-polish on his jackets and clothing. Someone had taped “good riddance” on his locker. The district attorney investigated the incident as intimidating a Grand Jury witness.

Goodrich said he realized that he couldn’t go back to work and used compensatory, vacation and sick time. He was then placed on administrative leave.

In late November, over two days and 7 1/2 hours, Goodrich spoke before the Grand Jury for the first time. In the waiting room, he ran into some of his superiors, whom he had not seen since he left the jail.

Goodrich relived his days on the graveyard shift once again, after having explained everything to two sergeants, to the district attorney’s Rebelez for the taped statement, to the FBI and to internal affairs.

He recalled testifying in front of 12 grand jurors, who sat in a semicircle around him. One juror was so taken by Goodrich’s testimony and his bleak future with the Sheriff’s Department that he offered Goodrich a job in the construction business. The deputy politely declined.

Soon after testifying, Goodrich sank deeper into depression.

“I was mentally disconnected,” he said. “I had my career taken from me. My personal life was hell. My family was judging me. I was emotionally disconnected with everything. I felt almost nothing except paranoia and fear.”

His girlfriend and her children held him together.

“If I didn’t have them, it’s likely I would have killed myself,” he said. “I saw no end to it all.”

Goodrich started seeing a psychiatrist in December, 1988, and continued to do so each week for seven months.

At some point during this time, Goodrich contemplated suicide. Putting a gun barrel into his mouth and firing might have left him brain-dead, he rationalized. But hanging a rope from the ceiling, wrapping it around his neck and leaning in such way as to cut off circulation and then slowly squeezing the life out of him was more painless.

“As a cop, you become aware of the body’s weak points and you become conscious of foolproof ways to kill someone,” he said. “The best way is how the inmates in jail do it. With a rope. You hang a rod, and have the rope, and pass out eventually. . . . It’s so morbid to even talk about it.”

Goodrich applied for disability retirement in March, 1989, because he felt he couldn’t go back to work. He had to prove he couldn’t handle the emotional or physical stress of the job. He said county officials told him they could not provide him a job other than working in the jail.

The following month, Duffy called Goodrich into his office and said he was supportive of the deputy’s actions. Duffy also wanted the names of the “Rambo Squad” deputies. Goodrich had already given internal affairs the names seven months before and was certain Duffy already had them. He repeated the names.

Goodrich was frightened of some members of the “Rambo Squad.”

“Two or three of them should not be cops,” he said. “They are scary, dangerous people. I was more scared of them than any single inmate I could think of. I got to know murderers who had done horrendous things who didn’t scare me as much.”

By August of last year, the grand jury released its findings, confirming much of what Goodrich had previously revealed about jail abuse. Duffy told the grand jury that he was going to discipline deputies and high-ranking officers, including demotions and firings. Eventually, it was discovered that nobody was demoted or fired.

Goodrich left town for three months last November and took a job as a security guard at Mammoth Mountain. During this time, his life returned to normal and he met a new girlfriend.

The county tried to find him a job but nobody would hire him. Each time he interviewed, people wanted to know why he left the Sheriff’s Department. Goodrich believes that employers were reluctant to hire someone who had a bad experience with a law enforcement agency.

In March, he took graphics design classes at Platt College. And, in May, he won his case for retirement. He now earns 50% of his salary plus medical benefits for doing nothing.

He said he would have been satisfied with any county job for slightly less than he was making as a deputy, but it was not offered to him. Goodrich said others in the department probably believe all he wanted was a free ride.

Goodrich is still looking for a job as he ponders his days as a whistle-blower.

“If you blow the whistle, you’re probably going to pay a price,” he said. “But the bottom line is, do you want to pay the price or do you want to live with yourself in not reporting it?”

“There’s no question I would have done it again. But maybe I would have reported it, left town, and started a new life.”