A Familiar Path in Months Before Fatal Shooting
Murder of Police in Oakland
By SOLOMON MOORE and JESSE McKINLEY NY Times
OAKLAND, Calif. — When Lovelle Mixon walked out of a prison last fall in the remote town of Susanville, Calif., he knew exactly where he was headed: back to Oakland, back to his family and back to his life of dreams and zero prospects.
Less than five months later, Mr. Mixon’s life would end in a violent confrontation with Oakland police officers that left five dead — Mr. Mixon and four officers — after he turned a routine traffic stop into a shootout. But between his release from prison and his death, Mr. Mixon, 26, had dropped innumerable hints that he had fallen from the straight and narrow path that his friends and family dearly wished for him and embarked on one that led to a nervous phone call from the side of the road.
“He was saying that they were talking on the radio, that they were probably calling for backup, you know how they do,” the uncle, Curtis Mixon, said of the cellphone call, just before the shootout. “Then he said he had to go.”
The police and witnesses have painted a savage picture of Mr. Mixon as a man who stood over his victims, fatally shooting two officers on a street in midday before fleeing into an apartment building, where two SWAT team members died and another officer was injured. Others have portrayed him as a man failed by an overloaded and flawed California penal system where thousands of former inmates flout the parole law and thousands of others skate by in programs where each agent regularly handles dozens of parolees.
But in the months leading up to the shooting, Mr. Mixon seemed to mix the elements of both the striving and the sinister, struggling to find legitimate employment — he took a real estate class, for example, a nonstarter in a down economy — but also buying a gun.
“I told him, ‘Man, you’re in a no-win situation. You’re a parolee. If they catch you, you’re going back to prison,’ ” said his cousin Jermaine Mixon, who said Mr. Mixon had showed him a gun that he would eventually turn on police officers on Saturday. “Lovelle said he was going to put the gun away. But I guess he was carrying it with him.”
In recent weeks, Mr. Mixon had started to carry himself with an unexpected swagger, something his cousin said he might have owed to a new profession: pimping, an occupation that paid for the 1995 Buick Park Avenue he was driving when police pulled him over.
“That’s not something he wanted to stay in,” his cousin said, “but he couldn’t find anything else to pay the bills.”
At the same time, he had also begun to chafe under the parole board rules. When released in November, Mr. Mixon seemed to take his parole seriously. Records show he reported for several drug tests and to meetings and a job placement program.
But whatever illegal activities Mr. Mixon was engaged in were easy to hide. Mr. Mixon was supervised by an agent from one of Oakland’s three parole units, which have three dozen officers and nearly 2,000 parolees. His agent, who has not been identified, handled 70 parolees.
It is a ratio that even corrections officials lament.
“If there’s any one thing I could change with a magic wand, it would be to reduce that caseload,” said Gordon Hinkle, a spokesman for the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.
His agency has 124,000 parolees, according to the latest data, but the whereabouts of 13.5 percent of them are unknown.
Mr. Mixon’s grandmother Mary Mixon said her grandson repeatedly tried to make appointments with his parole officer, only to be stood up after hours of waiting. Relatives said the officer often belittled him in front of others, called him a criminal and threatened to revoke his parole a second time.
Mr. Hinkle said he doubted that account. “In Mr. Mixon’s case, his agent did everything by the book,” he said.
Mr. Mixon was designated a “high control” case and was supposed to meet at least twice a month with his parole officer, parole officials said.
Mr. Mixon had also shown disdain for authority before his death, going to Modesto, Calif., without informing his parole officer, in violation of his parole. Once there, he had confided to his father, John A. Mixon, that he fully expected to land back in prison.
“He told me that he was ready to go back to jail just so he could change his parole officer,” John Mixon said.
Mr. Mixon’s first stint in state prison began in 2002, for assault with a deadly weapon in a carjacking in San Francisco. He served a little less than five years with good behavior under California’s determinate sentencing program, under which almost all prisoners receive parole, calculated in advance. And while relatives said he had to fight to prove himself because of his size — he was 5 foot 7 and weighed 150 pounds — the corrections department has no record of violations.
When he was released, Mr. Mixon established a pattern that would later play out to tragic ends: a couple of months of seemingly good behavior, followed by a descent into trouble. Even if the authorities did not know it, rules were being broken: One picture of his welcome-home party in October 2007 shows a bowl full of marijuana buds.
Still, there were signs Mr. Mixon was trying to behave. He got a job with a janitorial service and made his parole appointments. But in late January 2008, he came under suspicion of a homicide in Alameda County. While Mr. Mixon was never charged in that case, a search revealed a drug scale and stolen laptop computer in his possession. It was enough to send him back to prison for nine months, this time to Susanville, 200 miles from home.
When he walked out of prison on parole in November, Mr. Mixon had spent the better part of six years behind bars. Once again, he behaved for a while, but relatives said they began to worry that he was coming apart several weeks ago. Law enforcement, too, had taken notice, after he missed three appointments, prompting an arrest warrant. According to the Oakland Police Department, Mr. Mixon had also become the main suspect in a February rape, linked by a DNA sample.
Mr. Mixon’s uncle, Curtis, said his nephew had become depressed and emotionally withdrawn and was difficult to reach by phone.
Whether it was the warrant or the possible rape charge that played in Mr. Mixon’s head when he was pulled over, no one can know. His uncle was the last person to speak to him, on the cellphone, moments before his nephew drew his gun. He was describing the traffic stop and said he would call him back as the police pulled him over.
“But he was probably thinking about that piece he had in the car,” Mr. Mixon’s uncle said, “and he wasn’t about to go back to jail.”
By SOLOMON MOORE and JESSE McKINLEY NY Times
OAKLAND, Calif. — When Lovelle Mixon walked out of a prison last fall in the remote town of Susanville, Calif., he knew exactly where he was headed: back to Oakland, back to his family and back to his life of dreams and zero prospects.
Less than five months later, Mr. Mixon’s life would end in a violent confrontation with Oakland police officers that left five dead — Mr. Mixon and four officers — after he turned a routine traffic stop into a shootout. But between his release from prison and his death, Mr. Mixon, 26, had dropped innumerable hints that he had fallen from the straight and narrow path that his friends and family dearly wished for him and embarked on one that led to a nervous phone call from the side of the road.
“He was saying that they were talking on the radio, that they were probably calling for backup, you know how they do,” the uncle, Curtis Mixon, said of the cellphone call, just before the shootout. “Then he said he had to go.”
The police and witnesses have painted a savage picture of Mr. Mixon as a man who stood over his victims, fatally shooting two officers on a street in midday before fleeing into an apartment building, where two SWAT team members died and another officer was injured. Others have portrayed him as a man failed by an overloaded and flawed California penal system where thousands of former inmates flout the parole law and thousands of others skate by in programs where each agent regularly handles dozens of parolees.
But in the months leading up to the shooting, Mr. Mixon seemed to mix the elements of both the striving and the sinister, struggling to find legitimate employment — he took a real estate class, for example, a nonstarter in a down economy — but also buying a gun.
“I told him, ‘Man, you’re in a no-win situation. You’re a parolee. If they catch you, you’re going back to prison,’ ” said his cousin Jermaine Mixon, who said Mr. Mixon had showed him a gun that he would eventually turn on police officers on Saturday. “Lovelle said he was going to put the gun away. But I guess he was carrying it with him.”
In recent weeks, Mr. Mixon had started to carry himself with an unexpected swagger, something his cousin said he might have owed to a new profession: pimping, an occupation that paid for the 1995 Buick Park Avenue he was driving when police pulled him over.
“That’s not something he wanted to stay in,” his cousin said, “but he couldn’t find anything else to pay the bills.”
At the same time, he had also begun to chafe under the parole board rules. When released in November, Mr. Mixon seemed to take his parole seriously. Records show he reported for several drug tests and to meetings and a job placement program.
But whatever illegal activities Mr. Mixon was engaged in were easy to hide. Mr. Mixon was supervised by an agent from one of Oakland’s three parole units, which have three dozen officers and nearly 2,000 parolees. His agent, who has not been identified, handled 70 parolees.
It is a ratio that even corrections officials lament.
“If there’s any one thing I could change with a magic wand, it would be to reduce that caseload,” said Gordon Hinkle, a spokesman for the California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation.
His agency has 124,000 parolees, according to the latest data, but the whereabouts of 13.5 percent of them are unknown.
Mr. Mixon’s grandmother Mary Mixon said her grandson repeatedly tried to make appointments with his parole officer, only to be stood up after hours of waiting. Relatives said the officer often belittled him in front of others, called him a criminal and threatened to revoke his parole a second time.
Mr. Hinkle said he doubted that account. “In Mr. Mixon’s case, his agent did everything by the book,” he said.
Mr. Mixon was designated a “high control” case and was supposed to meet at least twice a month with his parole officer, parole officials said.
Mr. Mixon had also shown disdain for authority before his death, going to Modesto, Calif., without informing his parole officer, in violation of his parole. Once there, he had confided to his father, John A. Mixon, that he fully expected to land back in prison.
“He told me that he was ready to go back to jail just so he could change his parole officer,” John Mixon said.
Mr. Mixon’s first stint in state prison began in 2002, for assault with a deadly weapon in a carjacking in San Francisco. He served a little less than five years with good behavior under California’s determinate sentencing program, under which almost all prisoners receive parole, calculated in advance. And while relatives said he had to fight to prove himself because of his size — he was 5 foot 7 and weighed 150 pounds — the corrections department has no record of violations.
When he was released, Mr. Mixon established a pattern that would later play out to tragic ends: a couple of months of seemingly good behavior, followed by a descent into trouble. Even if the authorities did not know it, rules were being broken: One picture of his welcome-home party in October 2007 shows a bowl full of marijuana buds.
Still, there were signs Mr. Mixon was trying to behave. He got a job with a janitorial service and made his parole appointments. But in late January 2008, he came under suspicion of a homicide in Alameda County. While Mr. Mixon was never charged in that case, a search revealed a drug scale and stolen laptop computer in his possession. It was enough to send him back to prison for nine months, this time to Susanville, 200 miles from home.
When he walked out of prison on parole in November, Mr. Mixon had spent the better part of six years behind bars. Once again, he behaved for a while, but relatives said they began to worry that he was coming apart several weeks ago. Law enforcement, too, had taken notice, after he missed three appointments, prompting an arrest warrant. According to the Oakland Police Department, Mr. Mixon had also become the main suspect in a February rape, linked by a DNA sample.
Mr. Mixon’s uncle, Curtis, said his nephew had become depressed and emotionally withdrawn and was difficult to reach by phone.
Whether it was the warrant or the possible rape charge that played in Mr. Mixon’s head when he was pulled over, no one can know. His uncle was the last person to speak to him, on the cellphone, moments before his nephew drew his gun. He was describing the traffic stop and said he would call him back as the police pulled him over.
“But he was probably thinking about that piece he had in the car,” Mr. Mixon’s uncle said, “and he wasn’t about to go back to jail.”
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