Bad City: Peril and Power in the City of Angels

The tip about the dean of the University of Southern California’s medical school hinted at something so salacious, so depraved, so outrageous, that it seemed too good to be true. Or too awful, if you weren’t a journalist.

It came to the Los Angeles Times through a staff photographer, Ricardo DeAratanha. He got the tip at a house party, purely by chance, and emailed it the next day to a colleague. DeAratanha wrote, “I came across someone last night, who witnessed an apparent coverup involving the Dean of the School of Medicine at USC. It involved lots of drugs and a half dressed unconscious young girl, in the dean’s hotel room.” He went on to say that the tipster would have more details.

The day after that, another colleague forwarded Ricardo’s email to me, writing, “Ricardo has been trying to find someone to drop this tip on. Everybody’s been a little skittish about it. I told him you’re the one who would know how to handle it.”

More often than not, the most tantalizing tips become a fool’s errand, a fruitless prospecting for truth from rumors and exaggerations and outright fabrications. Sometimes they are anonymous, sometimes not. The anonymous ones might arrive from an encrypted email account or a hand-scrawled letter with no return address. A large number of these tips, dispiritingly so, are about racist cops and thieving politicians and sexually abusive bosses. Others are meant to exact revenge against business partners in ventures gone south. Unfaithful spouses, especially if they’re famous, are a favorite target. So are the lawyers and judges who handled the resulting divorces. It gets even worse when the custody of children is in play.

And yet no matter how colorful they are in the details, no matter how important the story they promise to tell might be, the tips that are particularly over-the-top usually lead nowhere.

But not this one.

This tip was about Dr. Carmen Puliafito, a Harvard-trained eye surgeon, inventor, and big-dollar rainmaker who straddled the highest reaches of the medical world and academia. He was a wizard in the operating room and an innovator in the laboratory. Puliafito estimated that he raised $1 billion for USC. He brought a brainy refinement to the charity circuit of Hollywood and Beverly Hills, mixing as easily with designer-dressed movie stars as he did with the residents in lab coats at the Keck School of Medicine. But as luridly improbable as it seemed at first, the tip about Puliafito not only was on the mark, it merely scratched the surface. And what was revealed beneath that surface was a deep vein of corruption and betrayal that webbed through the Los Angeles establishment and corroded some of the city’s most essential institutions, my own newspaper included.

The scandals that followed led to the downfall of powerful men. But it was a close call, a near miss, and many innocent and vulnerable people were hurt along the way. As of this writing, not all of them had gotten the justice they deserved.

A fog scented by canyon pines greeted Devon Khan when he stepped from his front door. It was early in the morning of March 4, 2016, the day of the overdose, and Khan was on his way to work. The low sun lighting the ridges of the San Gabriels promised there would be no rain. The mountains provided a painterly backdrop to the north side of Pasadena, where Khan lived with his wife and their ten-year-old daughter. He was forty-four years old and the reservations supervisor at the Hotel Constance, a boutique inn on the edge of Pasadena’s central business district. A veteran of the hotel industry, Khan had bounced from property to property as better opportunities presented themselves. He had worked at the old Ritz-Carlton in Pasadena and its successor, the Langham Huntington. Khan did stints at the Mondrian and Sunset Tower, the West Hollywood haunts of the wealthy and celebrated. Hospitality at this level was a demanding and humbling gig. The default expectation was that every need, wish, whim, and mood of the guests will be catered to, and must be abided with a smile. Even for the guests who were out of line, deference and discretion remained the watchwords. Khan understood that. Polite, soft-spoken, eager to please, and handsome, with a striking resemblance to Los Angeles Laker Rick Fox, he considered himself an excellent fit for the business.

But only to a point. There were limits to what Khan would tolerate to keep his job.

On this Friday morning, he drove the usual way to the Constance, a two-mile jaunt past the palms and tall conifers on Hill Avenue. The avenue ran surveyor-straight from the more affordable neighborhoods on the north end, with their auto body shops and nail salons, south toward the domains of high-walled estates with lawns as broad as meadows. Pasadena was an old-money enclave of L.A. The fortunes that had built it came from the early railroads and banks and land developments, not the movie riches that greened Beverly Hills. Halfway along the drive on Hill Avenue sat the 110-year-old clapboard house where Khan and his late mother had lived for a while, when the structure was a women’s shelter. Khan was a middle schooler at the time, and his mother was a crack cocaine addict. One of her principal dealers was her father. Khan’s grandfather was a charmer who drove a Cadillac convertible and took a special liking to him, a sentiment Khan could never return.

The family was from Kentucky, by way of Ohio and Michigan, and Khan’s mother had moved with him and his older brother to L.A. in hopes of a fresh start. Their fathers were no longer around. Khan’s father was a businessman, model, and songwriter. One day in Detroit, as he walked out of a pharmacy, he was shot in the stomach on the orders of a man whose housing fraud scheme he threatened to expose. The bullet nearly killed him, and he later became schizophrenic, which confined him to a mental institution for the rest of his days. Khan’s mother had left him long before the shooting. She was loving and engaging and smart, and had studied social work at the University of Louisville. But drugs were her undoing, and L.A. did not change that. Seeing the house on Hill Avenue always reminded Khan of how far he had come in life—from the bouts of homelessness, the weeks spent sleeping on the couches of people he barely knew, the long periods of living with his mother’s friends while she did another stretch in jail, and the lonely hospitalizations that came with his battle against sickle cell anemia. Khan had navigated and survived it all, and he would marvel to himself that he was a Pasadena homeowner. Four years ago, he and his German-born wife, Tanja—they had met when she was a flight attendant for Lufthansa—bought the house on Wesley Avenue, a tidy white bungalow boutonniered with a robust growth of bougainvillea. Tanja and their daughter loved Pasadena as much as he did.

Devon Khan was a family man who had put down roots, and he was always mindful of how much he had and how much he had to lose.

A few minutes after 7:00 A.M., he parked across the street from the Hotel Constance. With its butter-smooth arches and cast-stone friezes, the seven-story Constance was a 1926 showpiece of Mediterranean Revival architecture that fronted a corner of Colorado Boulevard, the route of the Rose Parade. Khan was the first of the Constance morning shift to arrive, as he usually was. He liked to get a jump on the overnight reservations, many of which came from the eastern time zones. Khan spent most of the hours in his office off the lobby, making sure the online reservations were processed, fielding questions about rates—the routine tasks. Around 4:00 P.M., he was preparing to head home when he got the MOD—manager on duty—call from the front desk.

Khan was the highest-ranking employee on the premises; the other managers were in a meeting at the hotel corporate offices across the street. He was annoyed that he had to handle the call, in part because he had been denied a promotion to front office manager, the person who normally would deal with whatever headache the call signaled. Khan believed he was more than qualified for the position. He had to wonder if he was passed over because he sometimes questioned the actions of the guests or his superiors. That’s who he was. One time, at a different property, a Russian businessman who was a frequent guest blew up at one of Khan’s colleagues when she asked him for an ID card required for entry to the hotel’s membership-only spa. Khan came to his coworker’s defense, telling the Russian that was no way to speak to people. The Russian complained, and Khan got written up. At another hotel, a manager instructed Khan to downgrade a guest’s suite reservation to make the premium room available for a legendary actress who arrived without a booking. The guest is a nobody—stick him in a regular room, the manager said. Khan made his displeasure known, which was not appreciated. On one occasion, he had to consider if his being Black was a factor, if a white executive viewed him as, well, uppity.

He walked to the front desk to inquire about the MOD call. “What’s the issue?”

A clerk told him that the guest in 304 wanted to stay another night and specifically in that room. The guest sounded “jittery.” The problem was that 304 had already been reserved by another party who was due to check in at any time. And the room was prized for its balcony. Before Khan could suggest a solution, the desk phone rang. It was the housekeeping supervisor; she needed a manager on the third floor right away.

Okay, Khan thought, the guest probably wants to make a complaint.

He quickly checked the computer for 304. The room was registered to a Carmen Puliafito. Khan didn’t recognize the name. Puliafito—was Carmen a man or a woman?—wasn’t listed as a repeat patron or VIP. Khan took the elevator to the third floor. As he stepped out, the housekeeping supervisor and the hotel security guard were waiting for him in the hallway. Beyond them, outside 304, a bellman waited with a cart piled with luggage and unpacked clothing. Khan was confused. Why is the guest demanding to extend his stay in the room if all of his luggage is on the cart? He must have agreed to move to another room.

Then the housekeeping supervisor told Khan there was an unconscious woman in 304.

“Unconscious?”

She nodded and looked toward the closed door of the room with concern.

“I’ll get my eyes on her,” Khan said.

It was hotel protocol that Khan could not simply walk into the room. He knocked. An older man with a wan, off-center face opened the door halfway and asked if Khan had the key to his new room. The man appeared to be in his sixties and was dressed in rumpled jeans and a stretched-out polo shirt. He had dimmed, spidery eyes, and his thinning hair went in several different directions. Clearly, he’d had a rough night and a rough day that followed. Khan knew all the tells: drugs and alcohol. The only question was how much had been consumed in 304, particularly by the woman. He couldn’t see her from the doorway. Khan decided that the quickest and least confrontational way to check on her was to remain courteous and help the man move her and their belongings to the second room. He told him he would be right back with the key. Looking relieved, the man thanked him and closed the door.

And that’s when Khan got the rest of the story from the housekeeping supervisor and security guard. They said that the day before, when the man and woman were out, a housekeeper had found drugs scattered around the room. The security staff was alerted and took photographs of the drugs. What type of drugs they were wasn’t apparent. Management did not ask the man and woman to check out. When it came to drinking and drugging, the policy of the Constance and most other hotels was to live and let live, unless the staff witnessed laws being broken or someone getting hurt. Prudishness was bad for the partying side of the business. And no one had actually seen the occupants of 304 take drugs. The photos were a precautionary measure, in case the guests did get out of hand in a way management couldn’t ignore or if there were legal issues down the road.

There was more from the supervisor and security guard—all of it news to Khan, because none of it had to do with reservations. At the man’s request, the bellman had already brought a wheelchair to 304 to move the woman. They said she was in the chair at that moment, out cold.

Khan hurried down to the lobby to get the key to a new room—312 was available. When Khan returned, the man let him into 304, resigned that he could no longer keep him out. Khan stepped into the room and drew himself up at what he saw. The woman, blond and very young, looked as if she had been plopped into the wheelchair like a sack of feed. Her head rested heavily on her shoulder, her gossamer hair matted on her brow. She wore only a white hotel robe and pink panties. Her limbs hung straight down, as if they were weighted; one leg dangled off the chair where a footrest was missing. Khan could not be sure she was breathing.

“Ma’am?” he said. “Ma’am? Ma’am?” Nothing.

Khan took in the room, which was 1920s small, updated in a swirly modern decor, and with the balcony that offered a view of the boulevard. Strewn over the carpet were empty beer bottles, a plastic bag of whip-it cartridges—the small canisters of nitrous oxide inhaled for an illicit high—a half-inflated balloon used to enhance that high, and a palm-size container for a butane torch, the type favored for a meth pipe. Burn marks scarred the bed. The room had a sweet-and-sour odor of sweat.

“Ma’am?” Not a sound.

It didn’t take a medical degree to conclude she had overdosed. Drug debris everywhere.

The man was silent. He was old enough to be the woman’s father or even her grandfather.

Khan noticed a small camera tripod sitting on top of the television. What kind of degenerate is this guy?

“Are you okay, ma’am?”

There wasn’t the slightest flutter along the alabaster face, although Khan could see she was breathing, if only faintly. He decided to move her and the man to 312—and leave 304 in just the state it was in for the police. He asked the man to lift her leg where the footrest used to be so it wouldn’t drag on the floor. Khan guided the chair out of the room and into the hallway, the man awkwardly keeping up with the woman’s calf in his hand. If we were down in the parking lot wheeling away a woman like this, people would think we were carting off a murder victim.

“Can you hear me, ma’am?” Khan said as they rolled through the hallway. Even the one-legged ride didn’t stir her.

Before he gave the man the new key, he asked for an ID. The man produced his driver’s license: Carmen Puliafito. So the room was registered to him, not the woman. Once they were inside 312, Khan told Puliafito he would call 911. Puliafito looked stricken, as if this was just the beginning of the day’s troubles.

“That’s not necessary,” Puliafito said. “She just had too much to drink.” He paused. “Listen, I’m a doctor.”

A doctor? Bullshit. A doctor would have called the paramedics himself. This squeezed-out old man was just another john, a fool with enough cash for an afternoon rollick at the Constance. Now he was panicked about getting busted—and a scumbag for trying to deny the girl help. She could be Khan’s daughter. She certainly was somebody’s daughter.

“I’m caring for her,” Puliafito said.

Khan knew he had to choose his words carefully. He said, “I would be derelict in my responsibilities if I didn’t seek medical attention for her.”

With that, Khan walked out of the room and returned to his office to call 911. A woman dispatcher answered.

“Firefighter paramedics.”

“Hi. I’m calling from the Hotel Constance in Pasadena.”

Khan gave her the address and said a woman needed help.

“She’s up in her room, passed out, unresponsive.”

“Is she breathing?”

“Yes.”

The dispatcher asked him to transfer the call to the room, and he did so.

Khan had no way of knowing if Puliafito answered—or if anyone answered—when the call was transferred.

“Hello?” Puliafito said.

“Hi, this is the fire department. Did you call for 911?”

“Uh,” Puliafito said, “not me, basically.” He was rattled. “Um, I had, ah, my girlfriend here had a bunch of drinks, and, uh, she’s breathing…”

“Is she breathing right now?”

“Yes, she’s absolutely breathing.” Now Puliafito’s voice was edged with annoyance. “Absolutely breathing.”

“Is she vomiting at all?”

“No, she’s sitting up in bed, she’s passed out. I mean, I’m a doctor, actually, so…”

“Okay, all right.”

“She’s sitting up in bed with normal respirations, I mean…”

“You have her sitting up?”

“Well, she’s sitting up now, yeah.” More annoyance.

“Is she awake now?”

“No, she’s sort of, very groggy, you know. So…”

“Okay, just make sure she doesn’t fall over. We’re going to be there shortly to check her out, okay?”

“Okay, fine, fine, fine. Thank you.” He sounded like he couldn’t wait to get off the line.

“Do you know how much she drank?”

“You know, a bunch. I mean, I came in the room, and there were lots of, uh, you know, cans of…”

“Okay, but did she take anything else with it or just the alcohol?”

“I think just the alcohol.”

“All right, we’re going to be there shortly, sir.”

And they were. Khan heard the sirens approach as he phoned the offices across the street in search of a manager; a higher-up needed to be there to deal with the authorities. The HR director picked up and said she’d be right over. The sirens got louder and louder and then went silent. A fire engine and a paramedic wagon had pulled up to the curb on the lobby side of the hotel. Two firefighter paramedics walked into the lobby with a gurney in tow, the rumbling noises of the boulevard following them through the door. Right behind them was an older firefighter, a tall man with graying hair. As Khan directed them to the elevator, the older firefighter began asking questions.

“Do you know what kind of drugs are involved?”

“Let’s go to the room,” Khan said, by way of an answer.

On the third floor, the two paramedics headed to 312 with the gurney while Khan led the older firefighter into 304. The firefighter got an eyeful of the paraphernalia on the floor and the scorched bed. The security guard had opened the guest safe and, sure enough, inside was a small plastic bag of white powder. Khan had seen enough of the powder around his mom to recognize it as crystal meth.

“Don’t let anyone in here until the police get here,” the firefighter said. “Leave this room exactly how it is.” He left to join the paramedics.

The police still had not arrived, so another staffer made a second 911 call to make sure they were on their way. By that time, the hotel general manager had returned from the corporate offices. Khan briefed him as they stood looking at the mess in 304. In the hallway, the paramedics had the woman on the gurney and were loading her into the service elevator. In attempts to rouse her, they called out, “Sarah? Sarah? Can you hear us, Sarah?”

Sarah.

A chill came over Khan. His daughter’s name was Sarah. It drove home that he was a witness to a father’s nightmare—someone’s daughter strapped to a gurney, unconscious, looking as if she may never wake up. Helpless, voiceless, her life in the hands of strangers. Khan again thought of the man’s attempts to stop him from calling the paramedics. And he thought of the tripod on the TV. He figured the man—this Puliafito—used it to film on his phone whatever was happening in the room that led to the overdose.

“When the police get here, you should tell them to get the guy’s phone,” Khan said to the general manager. “I’m sure there’s some nasty stuff on there.”

There was nothing left for Khan to do. Five minutes later, he was driving home. He didn’t wait to see what he assumed would be the cops hooking the man in handcuffs and hauling him away.