As a young journalist, I was once invited to a meeting with Sheriff Bob Winter at a West Valley insurance office. One of the attendees there asked the folksy Gilroyan if there was anything he could do to help. I remember Winter excusing himself to grab some envelopes from his car and trotted in his cowboy boots across the parking lot.

The clunky and undignified spectacle highlighted the elected sheriff paradox. On one hand, the political process enabled community ties outside of an insular world of cops and bad guys. On the flip side, it created a crony system.

Winter established a sheriff’s advisory board that handed out badges to civilians that could be flashed during a traffic stop—or at the Space Video movie rental shop, as businessman George Brix did in 1984. Police were called two years later when a dispute over $32 in late fees grew heated.

Brix had kept his badge even after he forced a process server to eat a summons at gunpoint in 1981. As did another advisory board member who was convicted of false imprisonment and possession of a blackjack, and a third who was arrested on grand theft and forgery charges.

In 1986, the Mercury News found that Winter had collected $24,575 in campaign contributions from 36 holders of gun permits during the previous five years, and that almost half of the permit holders were advisory board members.

Winter resigned in 1989 following a protracted fight with the Board of Supervisors over county jail staffing costs that saw Judge Bruce Allen take control of the county’s correctional system. The supervisors created a department of corrections and appointed Charles Gillingham as Sheriff.

Laurie Smith moved up the ranks and was elected in 1998. California’s first female sheriff signaled the end of the good old boys’ network, at least as appearances go. She modernized the department a bit and the supervisors gave up on an independent corrections system and returned control of the jails to the sheriff’s department.

The beating death of a mentally ill inmate in 2015 shed light on the jail’s management problems. Sheriff Smith took criticism for poor oversight, but each election cycle she faced election challenges from command staff members endorsed by unions who were equally if not more enmeshed in the scandals.

Faced with cascading waves of criticism from deputies on the right, inmate advocates on the left and a district attorney who clashed with her over his desire to engage in warrantless eavesdropping on jailhouse telephone calls, the cornered sheriff grew tighter with her support network.

Sheriff's Advisory Board members came up to the county’s gun range for the annual Best of the West competition, fired machine guns and donated funds for law enforcement toys ranging from thermal binoculars to gun safes and search and rescue SONAR devices.

Though Winter’s badges were no longer issued, members could carry a driver’s license-sized identification card that resembled a police officer’s ID. The holy grail was a concealed weapons permit, which screamed status and connections. A speeding Ferrari driver could, according to protocol when asked for license and registration, advise an officer that he had a handgun in the glove box pursuant to a CCW.

Laurie Smith did not invent the privilege system, nor will it end when the next sheriff is elected—more than likely with the support of unions whose objectives will include securing salary increases and pensions for their members, and assuring that oversight and internal affairs investigations don’t drill too deep.

After 24 years, the county will have a new sheriff, and change is good. Sheriff Smith entered office as a reformer but came to represent the establishment. Ironically, the case against her—preferential issuance of gun permits to political supporters—was not something she brought to the office. It was an established tradition that her male predecessors got away with—but which spelled the downfall of the state’s first female sheriff.