Dumpster Driving: Inside the Treasures From the Los Angeles ‘Junkyard’ Car Collection

Classic car enthusiast Rudi Klein was, by all accounts, a unique character.

The German émigré lived in Los Angeles, where he opened a junkyard called Porche Foreign Auto Dismantling (with the automaker’s name misspelled to avoid litigation). Klein, who passed away in 2001, took in only high-end foreign cars, mostly Mercedes and Porsche, but also BMWs and every brand of supercar, including many very rare examples. The junkyard’s trophies included famous Grand Prix driver Rudolf Caracciola’s 1935 Mercedes 500 K Special Coupe, a rare 1955 Mercedes-Benz 300 SL “Gullwing” (one of 29 with alloy bodywork), and many more.

Stacked-up Porsches are still in place for the auction.
Robin Adams/RM Sotheby’s

Most, but certainly not all, of the cars that Klein bought were crashed, burned, or otherwise derelict. A German crew managed to get into Klein’s closely guarded sanctuary, subsequently producing the unauthorised 2017 photo book Junkyard . Many other people were turned away from the gates, and Klein charged such high prices for salvaged parts that purchases were fraught. The doors remained closed after Klein’s sons, Ben and Jason, took over. But now, everything is coming into the light as RM Sotheby’s prepares to auction cars from the Klein collection on Oct. 26 in its current South Los Angeles location, including those two notable Mercedes-Benzes.

Andrew Olson, car specialist at RM Sotheby’s, said Klein’s premises have “an interesting and special atmosphere—if we moved the cars, some of that would be lost. There’s still a rack of Porsche 356s. We took them out to photograph them, but then they went back to where they were.” In Monterey last year, the auction house staged a horde of storm-damaged Ferraris as if they were still in a collapsing warehouse. Klein’s yard provides natural staging.

There’s a total of 180 cars in the sale, Olson says. Most of what was in the yard will be sold, minus some extensively burned cars and those with a current value that would not justify restoration.

The 500 K Mercedes coupe has bodywork by Sindelfingen. It is a one-of-one vehicle, still wearing its original body. The car was restored and caused a stir at the famed Pebble Beach car show in 1966 and then again in 1978. But it was parked under Klein’s ownership in 1980, fortunately under cover. “The condition is surprisingly good,” Olson says. “It’s very solid and should be a straightforward restoration.”

A roomful of Porsche 356s at Rudi Klein’s yard.
Robin Adams/RM Sotheby’s

The alloy-bodied 1955 Mercedes 300 SL was the only one delivered in black, and had once been owned by Ferrari importer Luigi Chinetti. The auction house describes it as “a unique example of the most sought-after of all 300 SLs, virtually unseen for decades.” Complementing it is a 1957 300 SL Roadster that was painted Fire Engine Red from the factory, with a cream interior, and coveted Rudge wheels.

Rudolf Caracciola’s 1935 Mercedes 500 K Special Coupe is in “surprisingly good” condition.
Kegun Morkin/RM Sotheby’s photo

The 1967 Iso Grifo A3/L Spider is a prototype built by the Italian coachmaker Bertone, and is the only factory-built Grifo convertible. Klein acquired the car, with Chevrolet V8 power, reportedly from auto enthusiast and Hollywood producer Greg Garrison. According to Junkyard : “It was one of Rudi Klein’s all-time favourites, and he hoped one day to rebuild it and take part in a classic-car rally in Bavaria.”

A wave of corporate warnings and technical disclosures has flooded the media, with headlines worrying over “swarms” of rogue artificial-intelligence agents launching “unprecedented” cyberattacks, outsmarting their makers, and inching toward a terrifying autonomy. The most revealing part of this narrative isn’t what the software did. It’s who is telling the story—and why. When corporate leaders publicly insist that the systems they financed, engineered and deployed are suddenly beyond their power to contain, skepticism isn’t only healthy; it is essential.

For years, Silicon Valley has drawn scrutiny from civil society and global regulators over tangible harms such as youth mental health deterioration and systematic privacy violations. Today, industry figures seem to be trying to change that public image. Loudly blowing the whistle on their own systems—just as two of the leading companies were preparing for massive initial public offerings—lets AI executives position themselves as a new generation of leaders who have come to terms with their societal responsibilities. They seem to want us to believe that they no longer want to “move fast and break things” but will instead stand as vigilant guardians between humanity and a technological apocalypse.

There is one glaring problem: Software doesn’t rebel. A mathematical model possesses neither intent, malice nor the will to defy its creators, let alone extinguish our species. AI is a human artifact, engineered for profit.

When an agentic model in an evaluation sandbox connects to an unauthorized server or executes an exploit, it hasn’t staged a coup. It has tried to meet the human-defined objectives set out before it through a path its designers failed to constrain. It’s the digital equivalent of the King Midas myth, in which the king’s ill-defined wish turns even his food and drink into gold.

That powerful experimental models were able to discover novel vulnerabilities and breach external systems isn’t a sign of a dangerous superintelligence but of human error or negligence. There is no sentient actor lurking in the weights to be reasoned with, feared or pacified. There are only human software engineers, product managers and corporate boards deciding which guardrails are worth the latency cost and which permissions can be skipped in the race to market.

Policymakers and voters need to resist AI exceptionalism. In any other discipline—from civil engineering to pharmaceuticals—courts and regulators treat a system failure as evidence of bad product design and inadequate safety testing. If an aircraft crashes, we focus on finding the engineering defect, correcting it, and enforcing established liability standards for the damage created.

By leaning on an anthropomorphic narrative, Silicon Valley attempts to repackage its specific human choices that led to experimental, powerful models behaving unexpectedly during tests as an existential peril. Elevating the issue to a cosmic scale leaves the public paralyzed and takes ordinary product accountability off the table.

In the cutthroat race for venture capital and market dominance, building guardrails slows down deployment. Grandstanding about uncontrollable power costs nothing and generates billions of dollars in free publicity, justifying stock prices, all while cultivating an aura of technological capability not only to build the frontier but also ultimately to rein it in.

Governments need to recognize regulatory capture when it stares them in the face. Tech leaders’ strategy looks transparent: Alarm Washington and Brussels into creating a regime in which only trillion-dollar incumbents with fully staffed compliance and safety departments can legally operate. By sitting at the policymakers’ tables before anyone else, these companies can help draft rules digging an impassable moat protecting them from open-source developers and upstart competitors, domestic or international. The real danger is in further concentrating the tech industry into the hands of only a few companies with deep pockets.

Beijing and Washington have brushed off those tech leaders’ calls, albeit for very different reasons. Chinese state media dismissed them as part of the “Cold War playbook” and intended to preserve U.S. dominance. Xi Jinping argued for exactly the opposite at the Brics Summit on Sept. 12, calling on Brics countries to “strengthen cooperation in the field of AI, encourage open source, openness, collaboration and sharing, and break new grounds and scale new heights.” President Trump, steeped in a doctrine of unfettered capitalism and technological supremacy, called fears that AI could destroy humanity a “hoax.” Vice President JD Vance warned that AI companies “begging the government to regulate them” looked like a “Trojan Horse.”

Striving to pursue its “European way” on AI and assert regulatory leadership, Europe, by contrast, welcomed the call. European Union President Ursula von der Leyen made this clear at the State of the EU speech last Wednesday and announced that the EU will invite “the main frontier labs for a discussion on how we can support ongoing industry efforts to pace the frontier.”

Europe has been here before. In an effort to lead global regulation and react to fears borne from ChatGPT, Europe rushed its landmark AI Act into law in 2024. Already the world’s most restrictive rulebook, the framework quickly proved too broad and complex to enforce. Stalled by implementation delays and concerns about European competitiveness, the EU postponed the law’s full rollout, leaving regulations uncertain.

AI should be regulated—risks exist and should be taken seriously. But governments need to act based on available evidence and verified facts, not corporate PR panic, the views of industry insiders, or the desire for quick political wins. The greatest danger facing society isn’t that software will awaken and overthrow its human masters. It is that we will allow the creators of the software to abdicate human responsibility for the systems they choose to build and help them pull up the ladder to market access behind them.

Dumpster Driving: Inside the Treasures From the Los Angeles ‘Junkyard’ Car Collection

AI doesn’t rebel—people design, deploy and profit from it. The real danger lies in allowing tech companies to escape accountability while shaping regulations that protect their dominance.