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G Sharp · 01-25-2003, 01:43 PM

Last part:

He and other detectives typically commute from distant, more affluent suburbs. Even so, they sometimes display an allegiance to South-Central.

"This area is filled with 90% of the most God-fearing, wonderful people," Josephson said. "In the years I have worked here, I have never been without an invitation at a holiday from a family of color."

Suburban friends don't get it, he said. Work there long enough, and it gets personal.

Josephson has a wallet-sized photo of a young black girl taped to his computer terminal. She is the 17-year-old girlfriend of a murder victim. They had become friends.

He pulled off the photo, and showed the back: A silly note in ballpoint pen -- round girlish script, signed, "Love, Yvette."

Josephson put the photo back, paused, then spoke again, his voice slightly rough.

She had been murdered a few weeks before, he said.

A Glimpse of Grief

On the evening of Oct. 2, a man lies dead inside a doorway of one of the tiny stucco homes on East 74th Street, hidden from sight -- a black man, shot.

Neighbors loiter at the end of the street. Children gape from front porches, then resume their play.

A car pulls up. Brenda Thurman leaps out, her shrill voice ripping the air. She races to the police tape, whimpering, pressing her hands together in a gesture of appeal. Detectives hurry toward her, talking in low urgent voices.

Perry Thurman, her brother, 41, a father of four, has been shot.

She bends double as if punched, then reaches skyward, and screams in short bursts ending in sobs. A moment later, her mother, Gloria Martin, arrives. She is 59, a frail mother of 10 with long gray-brown braids. Her high-pitched cries also echo down the block.

Martin begs to see her son's body. An officer blocks her path. She hurls herself against him, fighting, her arms whipsawing the air. The screams go on and on.

The detectives turn away, resume their work.

Black Pride, Black Anguish

Trauma surgeon Bryan Hubbard sometimes finds himself thinking of his patients only as gang members -- a reaction, he said, to the stress of treating so many gunshot wounds.

"It's not as terrifying," he said. "You can tell yourself they were just asking for it."

He works at King/Drew Medical Center. The hospital is between two violence-plagued communities, Compton and Watts. Each year, its physicians treat more than 2,500 people who have been shot or stabbed.

Sharon Blackmon recalled the day in July when King/Drew nurses took her to the trauma center's morgue to see her son Darrin, dead on a gurney. He had been shot by a childhood acquaintance.

Darrin, 22, was tall, thin, caramel-colored, gregarious, his mother said, with dimples. He had two children by two girlfriends. He called Blackmon "Momsy," and had her name tattooed on his arm.

The body looked nothing like him, Blackmon thought. There were bloody tubes in his mouth and his face was swollen. A nurse stood over him, holding up the corner of a sheet.

Blackmon wanted to touch Darrin, unable to believe her eyes.

She started toward him. But her vision went blurry and she felt "as if my insides were dropping out." Blackness closed in. Then she was down on the scuffed gray-and-white linoleum, seized with panic, still trying to reach him, determined to get her body to obey.

She struggled up, tried to take a few steps. Blackness rushed down like a curtain falling, and her legs buckled again.

Physicians at King/Drew say the agony they witness doesn't square with the selectiveness of news coverage or the public indifference they see.

"We are not the only ones in L.A. who know what is happening here," said Ama Lacy, a young black trauma surgeon at King/Drew. "The attitude really, truly, is that, as long as it's black and brown, it doesn't matter."

It troubles Hubbard that so much of the violence is black on black. He grew up in a middle-class black family in a white Pennsylvania suburb.

"I could never figure out who is responsible," he said. "The black pride part of me wants to blame whites -- to say, you know, 'It's the fault of the Man!' But then I go back and forth. I hate to hear excuses."

The problem "is sad, and frustrating, and infuriating," he concluded. "Sad, because black men like me are dying. Frustrating, because all day, I'm just patching holes here. Infuriating, because they are shooting at each other."

Last Moments Lost Forever

A little more than a year ago, 13-year-old Marquese Prude was shot by a gang member who left him in a pool of blood on the gymnasium floor at St. Andrews Park. Marquese was a happy, quick-witted boy with big ears. His mother, Sharon Brown, wanted him to be a lawyer.

What sticks with Brown is that her son remained conscious a while before dying.

Brown is a special education teacher from South-Central; she has a steady gaze, and talks calmly about the murder, chin high, hands folded.

Nearby, her mother sits listening, slouched over the dining-room table, leaning on her arms, her face slack with misery.

Brown recalls that the paramedics were in the gym working on Marquese when she arrived. Police barred her way. I'm his mother, she pleaded. Stay out, they said.

OK, she recalls thinking. I must keep out of the way. All that matters is that they help Marquese. She joined the crowd behind the police tape. She paced, made phone calls, sat on a park bench.

This is the memory that hurts most.

If only she'd known Marquese was dying. She thinks about how she sat on a park bench as he bled to death.

She imagines herself kneeling beside him. I love you, she would have said. I'm with you, baby.

The killing was reported on TV and in newspapers. Marquese was conspicuously innocent, a random target picked from the crowd at an after-school program. There were public meetings. Politicians spoke.

The attention made his mother and grandmother uncomfortable. What about all the other people whose sons die unnoticed, they wondered.

Later, the black teenager suspected of killing Marquese was himself killed.

And that didn't feel right either.

"It's not blood we are looking for," grandmother Annie Brown said. "It's justice."

01-25-2003, 01:43 PM
G Sharp So Fucking Banned Join Date: May 2002 Posts: 1,343	Last part: He and other detectives typically commute from distant, more affluent suburbs. Even so, they sometimes display an allegiance to South-Central. "This area is filled with 90% of the most God-fearing, wonderful people," Josephson said. "In the years I have worked here, I have never been without an invitation at a holiday from a family of color." Suburban friends don't get it, he said. Work there long enough, and it gets personal. Josephson has a wallet-sized photo of a young black girl taped to his computer terminal. She is the 17-year-old girlfriend of a murder victim. They had become friends. He pulled off the photo, and showed the back: A silly note in ballpoint pen -- round girlish script, signed, "Love, Yvette." Josephson put the photo back, paused, then spoke again, his voice slightly rough. She had been murdered a few weeks before, he said. A Glimpse of Grief On the evening of Oct. 2, a man lies dead inside a doorway of one of the tiny stucco homes on East 74th Street, hidden from sight -- a black man, shot. Neighbors loiter at the end of the street. Children gape from front porches, then resume their play. A car pulls up. Brenda Thurman leaps out, her shrill voice ripping the air. She races to the police tape, whimpering, pressing her hands together in a gesture of appeal. Detectives hurry toward her, talking in low urgent voices. Perry Thurman, her brother, 41, a father of four, has been shot. She bends double as if punched, then reaches skyward, and screams in short bursts ending in sobs. A moment later, her mother, Gloria Martin, arrives. She is 59, a frail mother of 10 with long gray-brown braids. Her high-pitched cries also echo down the block. Martin begs to see her son's body. An officer blocks her path. She hurls herself against him, fighting, her arms whipsawing the air. The screams go on and on. The detectives turn away, resume their work. Black Pride, Black Anguish Trauma surgeon Bryan Hubbard sometimes finds himself thinking of his patients only as gang members -- a reaction, he said, to the stress of treating so many gunshot wounds. "It's not as terrifying," he said. "You can tell yourself they were just asking for it." He works at King/Drew Medical Center. The hospital is between two violence-plagued communities, Compton and Watts. Each year, its physicians treat more than 2,500 people who have been shot or stabbed. Sharon Blackmon recalled the day in July when King/Drew nurses took her to the trauma center's morgue to see her son Darrin, dead on a gurney. He had been shot by a childhood acquaintance. Darrin, 22, was tall, thin, caramel-colored, gregarious, his mother said, with dimples. He had two children by two girlfriends. He called Blackmon "Momsy," and had her name tattooed on his arm. The body looked nothing like him, Blackmon thought. There were bloody tubes in his mouth and his face was swollen. A nurse stood over him, holding up the corner of a sheet. Blackmon wanted to touch Darrin, unable to believe her eyes. She started toward him. But her vision went blurry and she felt "as if my insides were dropping out." Blackness closed in. Then she was down on the scuffed gray-and-white linoleum, seized with panic, still trying to reach him, determined to get her body to obey. She struggled up, tried to take a few steps. Blackness rushed down like a curtain falling, and her legs buckled again. Physicians at King/Drew say the agony they witness doesn't square with the selectiveness of news coverage or the public indifference they see. "We are not the only ones in L.A. who know what is happening here," said Ama Lacy, a young black trauma surgeon at King/Drew. "The attitude really, truly, is that, as long as it's black and brown, it doesn't matter." It troubles Hubbard that so much of the violence is black on black. He grew up in a middle-class black family in a white Pennsylvania suburb. "I could never figure out who is responsible," he said. "The black pride part of me wants to blame whites -- to say, you know, 'It's the fault of the Man!' But then I go back and forth. I hate to hear excuses." The problem "is sad, and frustrating, and infuriating," he concluded. "Sad, because black men like me are dying. Frustrating, because all day, I'm just patching holes here. Infuriating, because they are shooting at each other." Last Moments Lost Forever A little more than a year ago, 13-year-old Marquese Prude was shot by a gang member who left him in a pool of blood on the gymnasium floor at St. Andrews Park. Marquese was a happy, quick-witted boy with big ears. His mother, Sharon Brown, wanted him to be a lawyer. What sticks with Brown is that her son remained conscious a while before dying. Brown is a special education teacher from South-Central; she has a steady gaze, and talks calmly about the murder, chin high, hands folded. Nearby, her mother sits listening, slouched over the dining-room table, leaning on her arms, her face slack with misery. Brown recalls that the paramedics were in the gym working on Marquese when she arrived. Police barred her way. I'm his mother, she pleaded. Stay out, they said. OK, she recalls thinking. I must keep out of the way. All that matters is that they help Marquese. She joined the crowd behind the police tape. She paced, made phone calls, sat on a park bench. This is the memory that hurts most. If only she'd known Marquese was dying. She thinks about how she sat on a park bench as he bled to death. She imagines herself kneeling beside him. I love you, she would have said. I'm with you, baby. The killing was reported on TV and in newspapers. Marquese was conspicuously innocent, a random target picked from the crowd at an after-school program. There were public meetings. Politicians spoke. The attention made his mother and grandmother uncomfortable. What about all the other people whose sons die unnoticed, they wondered. Later, the black teenager suspected of killing Marquese was himself killed. And that didn't feel right either. "It's not blood we are looking for," grandmother Annie Brown said. "It's justice."