One Last Headline

WHEN BILL ROBINSON finally lost his battle with cancer and slipped away on Thanksgiving eve, it was somehow fitting that whoever was working the holiday shift at The San Diego Union-Tribune didn’t deem his passing to be front-page news. Robinson would have wanted it that way.

He’d been on the front page thousands of times in his 30-year career as the voice of the San Diego Police Department. But he preferred to remain in the background, to direct the spotlight rather than bask in it. He even shot down attempts at a retirement party when he finally bid the “cop shop” farewell for good in February 2004.

Bill was not your gold-watch type of guy, but he certainly was a master of his profession. At his funeral, he won lavish praise from three of the six police chiefs under whom he’d served—Mayor Jerry Sanders, San Diego County Sheriff Bill Kolender and current San Diego Police Chief William Lansdowne.

They all said pretty much the same thing, as did the parade of journalists who also took the podium at Glen Abbey Mortuary’s Chapel of the Roses to eulogize Robinson: that he was a great guy, and that his fervent belief in the public’s right to know gave San Diegans a much clearer picture of what goes on at its police department—and a much better understanding of what it means to be a police officer. This, even though he was a civilian— a regular guy who wore neither badge nor uniform.

To us journalists, Bill wasn’t just a source of information; he was a teacher. And to the police officers he served so long and well, Bill was the ultimate handler. He believed that if journalists had questions, they should get answers—and not from some press release or police report, but from the officers closest to the situation. Journalists were given access, and the result was some of the finest police reporting in the country.

Not a bad legacy for the man born as Billy Joe Robinson in Brady, Texas, on August 16, 1941. His mother died five days after he was born, and he was raised by relatives. Robinson left Texas to join the Marines and spent four years at Camp Pendleton. He fell in love with Southern California and, after his discharge, settled here, graduating from Cal State Fullerton in 1970 with a bachelor’s degree in mass communication.

He joined the San Diego Model Cities Program as public information officer and, in April 1975, took command of the press office at SDPD headquarters on Market Street, serving under Chief Ray Hoobler. Bill weathered nearly three decades of horror, violence and grief. He was one of the first respondents to the crash of PSA Flight 182 in North Park in 1978 and fielded press inquiries from all over the world. He trudged through the carnage, soaking it all in, and still did his job. Eight months later, he started having flashbacks and suffered a stroke. A year later came another stroke.

The way he handled the PSA incident, and so many others—from the San Ysidro massacre to officer shootings—really showed Bill’s professionalism. Was he affected by what he saw? Of course; Bill was a sensitive man with a big heart. Did he let it affect his job? No way. Bill knew what had to be done, and he did it.

But there was more to Bill Robinson than police work. He had a dry sense of humor and a mischievous twinkle in those teen-idol blue eyes of his. We had a wild time on a cruise to Mexico in 1988. At a Roy Orbison concert, Bill was mesmerized and sang along to virtually every song.

When Bill’s only son, Scott, the light of his life, went to Mexico with his mother, Raquel Martinez, to fight bulls, Bill was philosophical: “Oh well, I was the one who married a bullfighter,” he said with a sigh. “What was I expecting— June Cleaver?”

In his final days, I doubt Bill could have been any happier. Scott had returned years before, and he stayed with Bill, tending to his needs. Raquel, whom he had eventually divorced, came back as well, remaining at his side until he died.

At his funeral, a neighbor spoke. She had watched as Bill’s family rallied around him when the going got tough. Watched as Scott, the son Bill loved so much, devoted his life to caring for his dad.

“He was my best friend,” Scott said when it was his turn to speak.

Scott’s tears were contagious—and matched by those of hardened cops and cynical journalists. They knew they had lost one of the best.

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