Dear Chief
Photo by Madelyn Keith
According to a six-month investigation by reporter Emily DePrang, who published her findings in the July and September 2025 issues of the Texas Observer, it is extremely rare for HPD officers to get even a slap on the wrist for even the most egregious abuses of authority, even though 75% of complaints against officers come from their own supervisors or from fellow cops. Because of a flawed system of oversight, only 2% of all complaints net any kind of discipline, and that discipline looks more like PTO (paid time off) than anything else (3-5 day paid suspensions). I recommend reading both these articles for more details — they are available for free on the Observer’s website. (1, 2)
DePrang’s two-part series prompted what was billed as an open community forum between HPD reps, community activists, and the academic community at Texas Southern University on October 24. Few people were surprised when HPD steamrolled the event — they effectively silenced the community by talking at them rather than listening to them, evaded tough questions, and turned what was billed as a dialog into a grandstanding public relations monologue. HPD’s PR coup would have been a complete success, if not for the very vocal disgust expressed by many community members as they made loud exits.
The next day, October 25, I sent the following email to the top-ranking HPD representative on the panel, Assistant Chief Mattie Provost:
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Dear Chief Provost,
Thank you for taking the time to meet with the community last night. I write for Free Press Houston, I was there last night, and I will be publishing a short summary of the event.
I would like to follow up on a question that I posed not just to you, but the whole panel, though you are the only panelist who addressed it (and in what I would call a very quick and cursory manner at that). My questions were/are:
I have seen the memorial to officers fallen in the line of duty in the HPD Museum at HPD headquarters at 1200 Travis. I also see a large ziggurat called “Houston Police Officers Memorial” each time I drive down Memorial Drive. Does any such memorial honoring victims of police brutality exist on any HPD property?
You did indeed answer this question, and I thank you for that. Your answer was “To my knowledge, no such monument exists on any HPD property. Next question.”
There was a follow-up to this question, which was glossed over by you and the other panelists, however. Would you mind addressing this now, please?
Would HPD consider naming a room in the HPD police academy for José Campos Torres? If not, why not?
The only logical conclusion I can draw from this, in the absence of a full answer, is that HPD feels that its victims do not deserve commemoration. If HPD’s mission is indeed “To protect and to serve,” yet we all acknowledge that officers are human and humans make mistakes, then what is the harm in honoring the victims of those mistakes? And rather than “harm,” a step like this could possibly quell some tension between HPD and its critics. One other possible conclusion is that no such innocent victims of police brutality exist. Please affirm if either of these is your intended implication.
I was not one of the audience members heckling you. You asked for a civil dialog, but you did not fully engage with the question that was asked, so I am posing it to you again.
Thanks again for your time. I look forward to your reply.
Best,
Harbeer Sandhu
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José Campos Torres, in case you don’t know, was a 23-year-old Vietnam Veteran who was arrested by HPD for disorderly conduct on May 5, 1977. Torres was drunk and acting a fool and threatening people at a club on the East Side, so he was put under arrest and taken away. Sounds fair so far — it’s cops’ job to take people who can’t behave to jail and present them in court. But that’s not what happened.
Instead of taking Torres to jail, the arresting officers took him to a place they called “the Hole.” “The Hole” was a parking lot behind an abandoned brick building right above Buffalo Bayou where HPD were known to take suspects for a sound beating before booking them in jail. That night, while handcuffed, Torres was beat nearly to death by five officers while a sixth officer watched. He was in such bad shape that the jail would not accept him. Jail officials ordered the arresting officers to take their suspect to Ben Taub General Hospital for treatment before they could book him.
The officers didn’t want to waste their whole night in the emergency room only to get a drunk and disorderly charge, so they took Torres back to “the Hole” and uncuffed him. Then, one of them said, “Let’s see if this wetback can swim,” before shoving Torres into the bayou.
His body was found three days later. Two officers were charged in his murder, but they were convicted only of negligent homicide and given one year’s probation with a $1 fine. This egregious injustice sparked what came to be known as the Moody Park Uprising (or the Moody Park Riot, depending on whom you ask), an investigation by the FBI and federal charges against the officers, and some much-needed reform in HPD. Gil Scott-Heron even wrote and recorded a poem about Torres, and there is currently an effort underway to install a historical marker in Moody Park to commemorate the Torres case.
