Somber Crowd Says Farewell to Sheriff Block

With the ringing words of an ancient Hebrew prayer and the blare of a silver trumpet, Los Angeles County Sheriff Sherman Block was laid to rest Sunday, just two days before the election that he had hoped would herald his fifth term as sheriff of the nation’s most populous county.

“May his repose be peace,” prayed Sheriff’s Department chaplain Rabbi Henry E. Kraus, his voice bouncing out into the sun-drenched Hollywood Bowl, where Block’s funeral service was held.

Block died Thursday after doctors were unable to stop a hemorrhage in his brain. He was 74.

His death came during the last days of the most difficult electoral campaign the late sheriff had ever fought. And his supporters have vowed to fight on in the wake of Block’s death, just to keep the office away from his challenger, retired division chief Lee Baca.

The funeral drew many of the state’s most prominent politicians, including Gov. Pete Wilson, gubernatorial foes Gray Davis and Dan Lungren, Los Angeles Mayor Richard Riordan and all five members of the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors.

But mostly, it was a memorial to a man described by his rabbi as “the Sandy Koufax of law enforcement,” a Jewish deli counterman who at 32 became the oldest recruit in the Sheriff’s Academy class of 1956, and who joined the nearly all-white and all-Christian department and rose to be its leader.

Several thousand uniformed law enforcement officers--from khaki-shirted sheriff’s deputies to city police in dress blues--formed a sea of colors and faces as they gave Block’s flag-draped coffin a last salute.

Deputies stationed high above the crowd cocked their rifles loudly and, in perfect precision, fired into the air, and a formation of camouflage-colored department helicopters flew overhead.

Still, it was difficult, even on this day of prayer and remembrance, to escape the politics that characterized not only the longtime sheriff’s last campaign, but even the last days and hours of his life.

Even during the eulogy with which he opened the funeral service, Rabbi Jerry Cutler made a veiled reference to the Baca camp, calling them “vicious gossip mongers” for saying during the campaign that the sheriff’s ill health might render him unable to serve.

For his part, Baca, who initially had been asked to stay away from the service by the sheriff’s supporters, entered the Bowl quietly, sitting in the back and saying only that he “wished to pay his respects to the family” and the man he had called a mentor.

To some of the more than 5,000 people in attendance, Baca’s presence signaled the beginning of reconciliation in a department that has been racked with ill feelings since the former protege had taken on the boss.

As he moved slowly toward his chair, the candidate, a tall man whose warm grip is not the glad-handing shake of most politicians, was greeted with handshakes and hugs by deputies and department heads.

“I’m glad you’re here,” a deputy told him, accepting a deep hug. Baca nodded. Another official approached, offering a hand and receiving another hug.

Baca’s allies in the department, many of them very high-ranking, “were outcasts,” one supporter said, as the challenger moved through the crowd toward his seat. “It’s time now for some healing.”

Putting Aside Differences

The politicians in the crowd did manage to put aside their differences to honor Block.

Davis and Lungren, fierce competitors for the governorship in Tuesday’s election, sat just two seats apart, and the five supervisors joined together at the podium to support board Chairwoman Yvonne Brathwaite Burke as she delivered one of many eulogies.

Burke, who served on the board when Block was appointed sheriff in 1982, recalled him as someone who was strong-willed enough to get things done but flexible enough to listen when the board demanded changes.

Burke, who along with her board colleagues would have the power to appoint a new sheriff should Block’s name beat Baca at the polls Tuesday, defended the late sheriff against accusations that he should be held responsible for recent deaths in the jails and other problems that have beset the department.

“In the midst of demonstrations and concerns over inmate deaths, I never heard anyone say” that Block was to blame, Burke said.

She remembered him as someone who cared deeply about the county’s young people, instituting several programs designed to keep youngsters away from gangs, violence and drugs.

Just last month, Burke said, Block rededicated the former Firestone sheriff’s station as a youth center, and “the children who were in attendance that day will never forget him.”

Block, said Riordan, had “grit, determination, integrity and compassion to others.”

Of all the speakers, Wilson came closest to alluding to what some consider the saddest element of Block’s passing--that this determined, colorful, respected man was deprived of a golden retirement by his decision to seek another election.

“It seems wrong and terribly unfair that this public servant was deprived of the golden years,” Wilson said. “Wrong. For Sherm, the golden years were doing what he loved the best.”

Moreover, Wilson said, Block’s colleagues were prevented from saying goodbye in the way they might have if the sheriff had retired last year, instead of revving up for another campaign.

“All those parties we would have attended for Sherm--they were never held,” Wilson said. “We never got the chance to thank Sherm. Sherm deprived us of that, because he was just too busy being sheriff to retire.”

The service was carefully organized, with rows of chairs marked off for elected officials and family friends, and uniformed deputies acting as ushers.

At the same time, perhaps reflecting the deep emotion felt by many and the degree to which Block’s death caught his employees and friends off guard, the atmosphere was surprisingly, almost starkly, open.

There was no one keeping the press or other members of the public away from mourners or dignitaries, and anyone could sign Block’s memorial book and make the long walk across the familiar Hollywood Bowl stage to the sheriff’s coffin.

Along the way, a jumble of objects reminded mourners of the regular use for this space: There was a closed grand piano, pushed to the side, and every few feet a potted ficus tree provided a spot of color against the all-white acoustical shapes that line the inside of the Bowl shell to provide acoustical assistance to the orchestras whose music generally fill this Hollywood canyon.

Suddenly, there was the stark brilliance of blood-red roses, crushed together in the shape of a giant heart. “We love you, Papa,” read a ribbon across the flowers. It was from Block’s grandchildren, Matt and Katy.

The very next sight was Block himself, his face in the open casket such a contrast to the glowing roses that one could cry just from the shock of it.

Stage left of the casket was a row of six black chairs for speakers.

A Somber Farewell

Jay Grodin, the close friend whom Rabbi Kraus introduced as the “adopted son” of Block and his wife, Alyce, sat on the far end, clasping his hands as the midday sun played across his face.

He was the last speaker, and the only one to win applause.

He would speak of Block, Grodin said, not as a politician or a public servant, but as a man.

“He was a self-effacing person who knew who he was and where he came from,” said Grodin, who serves as chairman of Block’s campaign committee. “He was quite witty.”

Block, Grodin said, would keep people entertained for hours with stories of his days as a vice cop on the Sunset Strip in the 1960s and was an accomplished songwriter.

He addressed himself to Block’s grandchildren, asking them to look around and see all of the people who came to honor the man they called “Papa.”

Later, at Hillside Memorial Park in Culver City, deputies in white gloves and campaign hats carried Block’s coffin into a shady courtyard. Deputies stood at attention and saluted, some tearfully.

Rabbi Kraus led a brief prayer in Hebrew and spoke quietly to Alyce Block.

As a bagpipe moaned, deputies lifted the American flag off the coffin and folded it.

The music faded and, with only the breeze moving through the olive trees, Undersheriff Jerry Harper presented the flag to Alyce Block. Her lips trembled and they hugged. Her daughter Barbara, a sheriff’s captain, sobbed and clutched her own daughter.

Workers lowered the coffin.

Kraus threw the first shovel of dirt, followed by Alyce and the family.

“Thank you, my friend, and goodbye,” Grodin had said earlier, before the family left the crowd at the Hollywood Bowl and moved to this more private place.

“We’ll all miss you.”

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Times staff writer Joe Mozingo contributed to this story.