Path of a Bullet

Inside is a Press-Telegram special report on the devastating physical, emotional and financial consequences of a single, 22-cent bullet fired from a handgun. The purpose of the report is to educate. Before you look inside, you should be aware that it contains graphic photographs and descriptions to which some readers might object. Some may believe the report is too harsh for children to view. We want to let you know about the content of the report in advance so you can take whatever steps you believe is appropriate.

If you'd like additional copies of this special report, please send $3 a copy to 'path of a bullet,' City Desk, Press-Telegram, 604 Pine Avenue, Long Beach, CA 90844. You also may buy copies at $3 each in the lobby of the Press-Telegram building.

We All Pay the Price

Three hours short of his 17th birthday, Martine Perry is lying naked on a stainless steel hospital table, life seeping out of his body.

A baby wails in a distant corner of the emergency room. An elderly woman pleads with a nurse to hold off putting a tube down her throat. And Martine lies silent, motionless, blood oozing from his head, as eight people work frantically to revive him.

“Do we have a pulse?”

“I need a 6-2.”

“You aren't going to get an H and H on that.”

“Can you feel the membrane?”

“How are his pupils?”

“They were fixed and dilated in the field. I don't think they've gotten any better.”

“I want a skull and chest right now.”

“We're going to crack this guy, right?”

“We are?”

“Well, I don't know where the bullet's gone.”

The bullet.

Where's the bullet?

And what damage has been churned in its wake?

Earlier this night, as many nights, a bullet was released. And the target was a human being.

A finger tightened on a trigger.

A firing pin struck an explosive charge, blasting a lead projectile through a gun barrel at 780 miles per hour.

When a bullet slams through a human being, it cartwheels through flesh, perhaps chewing its way through bones -- or worse, organs. It can tear chunks eight times its size from whatever is in its way.

The path of a bullet is never clean or uncomplicated.

That moment when a person chooses to kill another and pulls the trigger will immediately have an impact on dozens of people. Ultimately, that bullet will hit even you and me.

To show the devastation caused by a single bullet, the Press-Telegram followed the shooting of Martine Perry from the streets of Central Long Beach to the hospital emergency room and into the criminal justice system.

One squeeze of a trigger has tremendous costs that go far beyond the shooter and victim, their families and friends.

There is an emotional cost for each person directly involved in the case.

All of us pay a societal cost measured in fear, anger and mistrust. And of course, there's the financial cost.

The Press-Telegram estimated the financial cost of the Martine Perry shooting and found the primary economic costs -- including treatment and transportation by paramedics, emergency room care, and the police investigation as well as the estimated costs involved in jailing the suspects and bringing them to trial sometime next year -- was more than $167,000. Almost all of it absorbed by local institutions.

Add long-term incarceration, if the four suspects are convicted, and the figure nears $2 million.

All the result of one squeeze of the trigger. One 22-cent bullet.

And our estimate of the cost is likely to be lower than an average shooting because, in this case, police made immediate arrests and there were no rehabilitation expenses for the victim.

Multiply $167,000 by the number of shootings in Long Beach and you begin to grasp how gunshots affect everyone in the city.

Although no official records on the number of gunshot incidents have been kept, experts estimate there are 250 to 300 shootings yearly in the city. In 1995, 66 of those shootings were homicides.

The immediate economic cost of gunshots in Long Beach alone could easily surpass $41 million a year.

Another Saturday night

It's 8:40 p.m., just after sunset on Saturday, Sept. 7.

At Fire Station 10 in Central Long Beach, the busiest of 23 stations in Long Beach, firefighters are studying, cleaning up after mealtime, watching a little television.

Waiting for another busy Saturday night.

Whenever someone is critically hurt, the fire engine rolls, carrying a captain, engineer/driver and two firefighters. And so does the rescue unit, with two paramedics. The large response is a safety measure for dealing with crowds and traffic.

And during a gunshot incident, there's always the need for an extra person to drive the rescue unit so both paramedics can work on the patient.

Responding to the kinds of calamities they deal with is mentally and emotionally draining work.

“When somebody's dying, you can look in their eyes and see they're not going to make it,” said Eric Erwin, a paramedic at Station 10. “There are shifts where in 24 hours you see both the beginning of life and the end of life. There are some mornings where I don't remember getting home.” He lives in Temecula, an hour and a half from Long Beach.

The emotional toll can be so intense that five years ago, the Long Beach Fire Department started a program called the Critical Stress Incident Debriefing, which provides mandatory counseling to firefighters and paramedics after particularly stressful events.

They also regularly rotate paramedics from rescue units to engines to give them breaks from the job of transporting victims.

On this night, at 8:40 p.m., with the “B” shift on duty, everything's quiet.

'Kicking it'

Four blocks away, at 15th Street and Gaviota Avenue, Martine Perry is hanging around with some friends. They're “kicking it.” That means they're passing time knocking back 40-ounce bottles of Budweiser and engaging in short bursts of conversation.

They are talking about heading to a party when they spot a burgundy Buick cruising toward them. It had done a slow pass earlier.

Being members of the Eastside Longos, one of Long Beach's biggest gangs, they tense up when they spot the car slowing for a second time. They squint at the windows, but see only darkness.

Suddenly, flashes of light.

Pop, pop, pop...

Gunfire spits out of the car. At least six or seven shots.

And the red car squeals away.

Within moments, at 8:47 p.m., the intercom crackles to life in Station 10.

“Engine 10, Rescue 10, stand by. Engine 10, Rescue 10, we have a Charlie (critical) response. Gunshot wound.”

In less than a minute, Engine 10 and Rescue 10 are racing toward the scene.

Long Beach police officers John Hotchkiss and Rob Braxton are cruising through the intersection of Willow Street and Magnolia Avenue when their radio sputters: “Respond to reports of shots at 15th and Gaviota....”

By the time they arrive, the call has changed to a “245 (assault with a deadly weapon) drive-by,” and finally a “929” (person down). They know this could be bad.

At St. Mary Medical Center, doctors and nurses begin preparing an area of the emergency room for trauma surgery.

In 'automatic mode'

Police, firefighters and paramedics make their way through 50 or so onlookers toward the still form on the littered sidewalk. It is 8:50 p.m. Dusk has settled solidly into darkness.

Adrenaline pumping, the officers go into what Braxton calls “automatic mode,” pushing aside any emotional response and focusing on their immediate job.

“When you get there, you have to do a quick evaluation: Is it a life-threatening injury?” said Braxton. “If it's life-threatening, you go into preserving the crime scene because it could end up as a homicide. It takes a lot of work to protect a crime scene, especially in an area like that, where a lot of people normally hang out.”

They push back the growing crowd, help set up a perimeter with yellow police tape and begin scanning the ground with black flashlights, searching for spent cartridges and bullet fragments.

Braxton and Hotchkiss are two of 48 police personnel who will eventually be involved in this case.

When paramedics Mark Veit and Jay Shaefer reach Martine, he is unconscious, lying face up, blood running out of his nose and seeping from somewhere in the back of his skull. The ground around his head is slick with blood.

The paramedics know immediately there is little they can do for him there.

The priority is to transport him as quickly as possible to the emergency room.

As the ambulance screams its way to St. Mary 14 blocks away, the two men work quickly and silently. Veit inserts IVs, tries to staunch the bleeding, and scrambles to find bullet damage. Shaefer works to keep the airway open.

Martine is wheeled into the emergency room at 8:55 p.m.

'There's no pulse'

Eight members of the trauma team -- a trauma surgeon, emergency physician, surgical resident, radiology technician, respiratory therapist and three nurses -- converge on him.

Questions and answers in the language of doctors sail through the cold room.

The evaluation of the seriousness of Martine's condition quickly shifts to establishing whether he has already died.

“There's no pulse.”

“He's got a rate of 80.”

“I don't believe it.”

“Hey, this guy's still warm.”

“Let's keep going.”

Martine remains unresponsive to treatment, and the focus shifts to the bullet. If it is lodged in an organ, that might explain Martine's deteriorating condition. They're hoping to find something -- anything -- that might be fixable.

Everyone is aware that time is running out.

“Where is the bullet? Where is the bullet?”

“Want to do anything beside the epis?”

“He's got blood in his abdomen. He's got blood in his abdomen.”

Suddenly, a doctor doing a more thorough examination of Martine's head finds the exit wound.

“It's a through and through,” he announces with resignation. “I didn't see that until now.”

The final question has been answered. There is no remaining bullet. Only its path through Martine's head.

He is not responding because the bullet shredded too much of his brain.

The green blips on the heart monitor are there only because of the CPR being given by nurses.

No amount of skill, medicine or technology could have saved him.

The emotional letdown in the room is perceptible.

But Dr. Mark Joyner, who had noted earlier Martine still felt warm, isn't ready to stop. He grabs the IV bag and climbs onto the table, hoping to create some blood pressure in Martine's body.

Now fighting to maintain the body in shape for possible organ donation, he squeezes the bag. But there's no blood pressure.

Finally, he steps down.

“I'm going to call this at 21:20,” he says, using military time to announce the time of death at 9:20 p.m.

Two hours and 40 minutes before his 17th birthday, 35 minutes after he was shot, Martine Perry's life officially ends. He is unclothed and alone on a blood-streaked table, partially covered by a white plastic body bag. His throat slit open for an airway tube, which remains obtrusively in place. A bloodied oxygen mask sits next to his mouth.

Just above his knee is a large green tattoo in Old English lettering: ESL. East Side Longos. The name of his gang.

When kids are shot

Once Joyner declares the efforts over, the trauma team disbands, cleans up and moves on. Some to attend other patients. Others to fill out reports.

“It's always tragic, especially to see kids shot,” Joyner says. “We see (wounds) in the chest, belly, head. In this case, he had a few vital signs and you always try to do whatever you can.”

“For me, I don't feel the emotional impact until I've had time to reflect,” says Dr. John McCall, one of the three doctors who worked on Martine. “As pieces of information (about the victim) come in, you feel the emotional impact.”

And the pieces of information quickly begin to slip in.

A picture of Martine Perry begins to emerge: His mother has been dead for years. The father was found at a bar. A brother is in jail.

Joyner, hospital social worker Deborah Schiewitzmsw, and Braxton head to the family waiting room. Inside are nine people, including Martine's father, Jack Perry.

Joyner approaches Perry to say the words a parent hopes to never hear: Sorry. Got bad news to tell you.

As three teen-age girls begin to sob, Perry leaps from his chair with arms raised, fists clenched. Joyner, startled, steps back and raises his arms.

But Perry's motions are simply an expression of grief, not anger. Perry's friends step forward to console him. Three boys in baggie pants rush out of the room, one punching the wall.

“He's the worst part of the job,” Joyner says later. “You see all these kids and you tend to forget that they've got families. In this job you get kind of -- I don't want to say nonchalant -- but you learn how to joke and try to make sure it doesn't overwhelm you. You develop a hard shell. If you're too emotionally worked up you can't think.

“But when it's kids, it's hard,” he continues. “And it doesn't have to be trauma. Some days I wake up and think it's almost cruel having kids these days. It doesn't seem society's getting any better.” Joyner has a daughter.

Perry asks to see his son. Despite Schiewitzmsw's concern that the scene may be too bloody, too traumatic, Perry insists and she escorts him to the body.

He stands over the cold form, silently, just looking, for an excruciatingly long two or three minutes.

Finally, the father steps away and says softly to Schiewitzmsw: “He wasn't a hard-core gangbanger. He didn't even carry a gun. But he knew this would happen. He kept saying, `Sooner or later, they're going to come for me in an ambulance.”

Perry pauses.

Then, in a breaking voice, says, “I loved my son. I loved him so much.”

The father moves back to his son, bends over him in a slow, gentle motion, and kisses him tenderly on the cheek.

The father's presence dramatically alters the hospital scene. Before Perry showed up, the police and caregivers could protect themselves behind a veneer of emotional disconnectedness.

“It really doesn't affect me until I see the family,” Hotchkiss says.

And the social worker, there to help the family deal with the emotional impact, is not immune herself.

“It's hard,” she says. “Families come in asking, `Why?' And there is no answer.”

Gangs and Scouts

Jack Perry isn't asking why, but rather, could it have been different?

He knew his son was involved in a gang. But felt powerless.

Four days after the killing, Perry sits in the one-bedroom apartment he and Martine shared and relates what he knows of his son's story.

A boy whose mother died of cancer when he was 6 was left to live alone with an alcoholic father. There were times when Perry had no job, times when Martine stayed with others -- four years with a half-sister at one point -- and times when Perry was near-suicidal, before finding religion.

Over the last two years, Perry saw signs of Martine's increased gang involvement. The buzz-cut hair. The baggy clothes.

“I couldn't afford to buy Martine many things,” says Perry, unemployed for 2 1/2 years. “But one day he showed up wearing a brand-new pair of expensive tennis shoes. I asked him, `Where did you get the shoes.' He never answered. But I knew.”

Perry believes one of his stepsons, an Eastside Longo named Alex, who regularly brought his gang friends around, helped draw Martine into gang life.

Martine's gang friends say it was less tangled than that: They all grew up as friends. And as they grew older, the neighborhood gang evolved naturally from the neighborhood clique.

However it happened, by age 16 Martine was a puzzle of contradictions.

He was a Boy Scout in Troop 25 -- for five years -- right up until last year. Despite the changing addresses and living arrangements, he kept making it to his Scout meetings.

Scoutmaster Andy Hale, who drove Martine to the meetings for those five years, says Martine's behavior made him a role model for other youngsters: a quiet leader who was inducted into the Scout honor group Tribe of Tahquitz when he was 15.

“I've had a reputation for taking boys nobody would take,” says Hale, who has been Scoutmaster for 17 years. “Send me a dozen Martines. He had the intelligence and aptitude to be successful. Successful in life. Successful as a husband and father.”

Hale says that during the time Martine was in the troop, he didn't show signs of gang membership. “He had no tattoos when I last had him in camp two years ago,” Hale says.

Martine was also a kid who saved, for 13 years and through countless moves, a book of pictures and poetry, handmade and held together by colored strings and ribbons. His grandmother gave it to him when he was 3 years old.

But to police, he was a known gangbanger who, at the very least, was into marijuana. He was arrested twice for it, the last time in May for sales and transportation. And Martine Perry, a.k.a. “Lil Stalker,” was also a witness to the beating death of a homeless man last year, allegedly at the hands of Martine's fellow gang members. He was the witness who never showed up in court, despite being served a subpoena.

In the end, all those images melted into a very clear, simple picture: a victim lying naked and dead on an emergency room table.

Unbelievable

As Perry sits alone in the apartment he once shared with Martine and continues telling his son's story, he explains that, despite the tragic ending, he feels no resentment toward the gang.

They were Martine's friends, he says. And they have been a major source of support after Martine's death, dropping by regularly to speak with him.

The gang has even offered to pay for the funeral.

Through car washes and donations from neighbors and friends, they raise $3,000 and give half to Perry to cover much of the $2,754 funeral bill.

The gang's presence is obvious at the funeral. There are scores of flowers, paid for with their remaining share of the money, and they all wear black T-shirts with Martine's gang monicker -- “Lil Stalker” -- along with the date of his death printed on them.

Martine wears a suit and a black cap with the same inscription.

By the time people stop filing by Martine's casket, he is blanketed with pictures of religious figures. A bottle of Jose Cuervo tequila is cradled in his right arm, placed there by his gang friends.

As the casket is lowered into the ground -- right next to his mother -- there are tears in the eyes of many of his homeboys, and some of them are hugging their families. One pays tribute by pouring Budweiser, Martine's favorite, into the grave.

“Unbelievable,” says Oscar, who says he is not officially a Longo, but hangs out with them. He lives next door to where the shooting occurred.

Unbelievable. That's a word Martine's friends use again and again, as if they had never considered the concept of one of them someday ending up alone and dead on a grimy sidewalk.

“I hope it doesn't happen again,” Oscar, 17, continues. “It's the first fatality at 15th and Gaviota (where their clique of the gang hangs out).”

But it's not the first shooting there.

He points to his next-door neighbor, 17-year-old Junior, who was shot once in the head and three times in the back. A huge scar is visible through Junior's buzz cut.

The two talk about how they'd like to get away from the violence.

“I saw how my mom was suffering when I got shot,” Junior says. “I don't want her to have to go through that pain. But it's hard to get away. They're there. You're there. But if you make it to your older years, you realize it's a mistake.”

It's kill or be killed

Three weeks later, the bullet's journey still has not come to an end.

Six of Martine's homeboys gather at 15th and Gaviota.

“That bullet could have hit me or anybody else,” says a 16-yearold who was with Martine when he was shot. “It was unbelievable.”

Does he feel any guilt for nurturing the violence that caused Martine's death?

“Probably,” he says softly.

The others are more defensive.

“He got shot in the back and cheek,” says one, pointing to another. “Look at his car there. It still has a bullet hole.”

“And he got shot in the head,” another says, pointing to Junior.

“It's kill or be killed,” one declares.

The ones who will pay for whatever choices these 15-, 16-, 17year-olds make will be another group of friends, family, police, firefighters, paramedics, doctors, nurses, and counselors.

And, of course, taxpayers.

Tracking Down the Suspects

Homicide detectives got a break from an unexpected source in the Martine Perry case. Gang members handed the suspected drive-by killers to them on a platter.

Two of Martine's gang friends saw the shooting and tailed the suspects' car to a building 20 blocks away. They watched the occupants of the car go into an apartment and kept an eye on the door until police arrived.

The suspects were captured within 90 minutes of the crime.

“The case is relatively simple when you get the suspects handed to you,” said Long Beach homicide Detective William MacLyman.

“In most cases, you have 'whowho cases' -- who is the victim and who did it,” he said.

All too often, witnesses claim they saw nothing.

Such cooperation cut the investigative process in this case by countless hours, but there was still much to do before the suspects could be charged with murder. And there's still a lot more to do before they will be brought to trial.

The investigative process began just minutes after the Sept. 7 shooting.

MacLyman and his partner, Detective Craig Remine, were the on-call team that week -- off duty but available on a moment's notice. They'd already been called out on a stabbing death earlier that week, and when his home phone rang at 9:15 that Saturday night, MacLyman knew it was time to go to work.

The two detectives were on the scene just 50 minutes after the 16-year-old Martine was shot. Patrol officers had already cordoned the area where blood was drying in wide splotches on the sidewalk and were interviewing residents, searching for possible witnesses.

The detectives spent the next half-hour working with officers there.

Together they searched for evidence, and photographed and sketched the scene. The sketch, showing the distance between the shooter and the victim, and the location of the evidence, such as bullet casings, would help to recreate the crime scene at the trial.

The detectives were collecting the evidence when they were called to the 900 block of Freeman Avenue, where the suspects were.

Another group of officers had converged on Freeman within 10 minutes of the shooting. Some watched the apartment while others kept onlookers at bay.

They'd been there about 40 minutes when a woman came out of the apartment to dump trash. Officers grabbed her and put her in the back seat of a patrol car for safekeeping. When another woman came out to check on her about 20 minutes later, they grabbed the second woman and put her in another car.

MacLyman said the women were detained for their own safety. “You wouldn't want them to return to an apartment where a hostage situation could take place,” he said.

About 10:15 p.m. police shouted, “Come out with your hands up!”

A female and five males emerged.

MacLyman and Remine arrived in time to see the surrender.

Searches by police turned up a .380-caliber semiautomatic handgun in a bedroom closet, and a 9 mm assault pistol with a 30-round clip of ammo in the trunk of the Buick.

After staging a “field show-up,” an impromptu lineup to see if the witnesses could identify any of the people from the apartment, they took all eight to the downtown police station for questioning.

The detectives interviewed them, one by one, until 6 a.m., then let the three females and one of the males go.

MacLyman said witness statements, information from the interviews “and other information,” helped build a case against the four suspects – three men, ages 21 through 25, and a 16-year-old boy. The adults were booked into the city jail on suspicion of murder.

According to Remine, the adults are documented as gang members in a statewide police computer. The boy, who is from Vallejo, is believed to be a gang member, although he is not documented.

Since juveniles can be held at the station only six hours, he was shipped off to Los Padrinos juvenile hall in Downey in the early morning hours for booking. When they finished with the adults, the detectives began the process of getting charges filed against the boy. Cases against minors generally are prosecuted in Juvenile Court, apart from adult defendants.

The detectives went off-duty about 10:30 Sunday morning, nearly 14 hours after Martine Perry was shot.

On Monday, Sept. 9, they dictated separate reports on interviews with all of those who had been questioned, including witnesses, to create a package, or “murder book,” on each of the suspects.

The report on the juvenile's interview was very short since he invoked his right to remain silent.

“He wouldn't give us the time of day,” Remine said.

The next day, the same day an autopsy was performed on Martine Perry's body, a deputy district attorney reviewed the package and charged each of the three adult suspects with murder. The juvenile was charged about the same time.

“When you get a case filed with the DA, you've done the bulk of the investigation, but there are always additional follow-ups and additional investigation to be done,” MacLyman said.

“After your case is filed, you are gathering the loose ends to present your case at trial. You're usually working on it right up to the moment of the trial.”

Loose ends in the Perry case include the two guns, shell casings and two spent bullets picked up from the street. They've all been sent to the Los Angeles County Sheriff's ballistics lab for testing.

MacLyman said they're in no hurry to get the ballistics report back. “It is not needed until the trial, which probably is a year away.”

Gun Ownership Path Often Doesn't Lead to Killers

When they searched the apartment where the suspected killers of Martine Perry fled after the drive-by shooting, police found a compact .380-caliber chrome Lorcin semiautomatic handgun in a bedroom closet. And there was a meaner-looking blue-steel AA Arms 9 mm assault pistol in the trunk of the older-model Buick allegedly used by the killers.

The federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms traced the guns and found that Carlito Duran bought the Lorcin, a $90 Saturday night special, in Bellflower at the Powder Horn, 10124 E. Artesia Blvd., on May 8, 1995.

Duran, 23, who lived at the Freeman Avenue apartment where the gun was found, was taken to police headquarters for questioning after the shooting, but was released after detectives determined he had not been at the scene of the shooting.

Three other adults and a juvenile who were at Duran's apartment when police arrived have been charged with murder.

The ATF's trace on the 9 mm weapon was not absolutely conclusive, but it is probably one bought in Compton in 1991 at Boulevard Auto Parts, which sells only guns at 1316 N. Long Beach Blvd.

The ATF would not release the name of the buyer since the gun, which retails for $199, had apparently changed hands.

Only one in three traces successfully identify a retail dealer, according to the ATF.

Some guns are too old to trace, and problems with distributor records account for some failures.

Although it is yet to be determined which, if either, of the guns is the murder weapon, homicide Detective William MacLyman said the Lorcin is the likely choice.

Ballistics tests should provide conclusive evidence. Both guns were sent to the Los Angeles County sheriff's ballistics lab in late October for testing, but results are not yet available.

The fact that police have guns to test for ballistics makes the Martine Perry case fairly unusual.

“Most murder weapons are not recovered, or not recovered so quickly,” said MacLyman. “Most of the time, the killers dispose of the murder weapons.

They know they can be traced.”

A trace can sometimes tie a weapon to a crime, and a suspect to a weapon.

A successful ATF trace identifies the links in the chain throughout the country, from the manufacturer, to the dealer, then to the original buyer. A California statewide system, which local police agencies use for most of their gun traces, identifies buyers of handguns sold in the state.

It's no secret that the gun buyer is not always the gun user, and that people who want guns but can't buy them legally -- felons and juveniles, mostly -- can find ways to get them.

For one thing, there's an active black-market economy. Guns stolen from homes, businesses and parked cars -- an estimated 300,000 nationwide every year -- are a hot street commodity.

Some 3,000 weapons were stolen from retailers during the 1992 Southland riots, and many of those continue to be recovered on Los Angeles County streets, according to a report by Julius Wachtel, resident agent in charge of the ATF field office in Long Beach.

Police say a black-market buyer can pick up a good quality handgun at well below the regular retail price of $300 to $350.

How many guns are sold on the black market in Los Angeles County everyday remains an open question.

“It's impossible to say,” said ATF Special Agent John D'Angelo in Los Angeles.

But buying stolen guns is just one of several ways gang members and others manage to get possession of a Baretta 9 mm handgun, a Tech 9 semiautomatic or the popular AK-47 assault weapon.

The ATF traced a small percentage -- 1,764 -- of the guns recovered by police in Long Beach, South-Central Los Angeles, San Diego and Santa Ana between Jan. 1 and Nov. 10, 1994, and found five other major sources for the so-called crime guns:

• Corrupt “kitchen-table” dealers who are licensed to sell at home. Some buy in large quantities from distributors, then resell “off the books,” or without the state-mandated paperwork.
• Dishonest commercial or storefront dealers who sell off the books or close their eyes to obvious “straw purchases.” A straw purchase, for example, is one in which a man and a woman walk into a gun store; he selects the firearm he wants, and she uses her identification and pays for it.
• Straw purchasers who buy for people who can't legally acquire firearms because of age requirements (21 to buy a handgun; 18 to buy a long gun), or criminal record, or who want to buy them anonymously. Gang members frequently have their girlfriends buy guns for them. In one case, two handguns used in a gang-related drive-by murder were purchased by a father for his underage sons.
• Interstate traffickers who bring guns from states with highly permissive gun laws -- such as Arizona, Nevada and many of the Southern states -- to California, where laws are tougher. In California, gun transfers must go through a dealer. Background checks and a 20-day waiting period are mandatory. (The wait will be cut to 10 days, starting April 1.)
• Unlicensed street dealers who buy from various sources for resale, often to gang members. Such dealers prefer to use straw purchasers to buy guns from commercial sources, including retail outlets in Arizona.

According to the ATF study, gang members in Inglewood used straw purchasers in Phoenix to buy nearly 1,000 firearms from retailers. Many of those guns were recovered in crimes in Los Angeles, including one used in the attempted murder of a Los Angeles police officer.

Given the circuitous exchange patterns for some guns, knowing the original
buyer may not help solve a crime.

“The person who purchases a gun in a gun store is not necessarily the person who used it, and more often is not,” said ATF Special Agent D'Angelo.

Nonetheless, a trace may pay off in other ways.

“A gun trace is often the first information we get in a gun trafficking scheme,” D'Angelo said.

While police agencies generally attempt to trace only the guns involved in crimes, a relatively new program -- Youth Crime Gun Interdiction Initiative -- allows some to do more extensive tracing through a partnership with the ATF.

The Inglewood Police Department, for instance, has attempted since early October to trace all guns coming into the department, said Inglewood Lt. Ron Wood, a criminal investigations supervisor.

That includes, Wood said, those “taken in for safe keeping by officers who go out on a domestic violence call. We can take weapons from the house for 48 hours for cooling off.”

“The thrust is to look at where the guns are coming from, the length of time they have been on the street, and whether there is one store where they keep coming from.”

The ultimate goal, he said, is to help eliminate the sources of illegal sales.

In a related partnership with the ATF, Project Lead, which began six months ago, Inglewood has had AFT trace guns used in crimes. The newer program is an extension of that one.

There have been no dramatic results from either so far, but Wood is hopeful that the tracing effort will pay off. “I think eventually there will be some good out of it, but who can tell at this point?

“We are kind of expanding what New York City has done,” Wood said. “They claim they have lowered crime with 100 percent tracing.”

The Price of Justice

When gunfire ripped through the night and abruptly ended the life of Martine Perry, the cumbersome and expensive wheels of justice began to turn.

It's a cycle that will take months -- perhaps years -- to complete. And the cost to taxpayers could easily approach $2 million dollars.

Already, with no dates set for trial of the four suspects, the cost of a single bullet is mounting day by day.

The overall cost of justice in this case, nearly $1.8 million, does not include the overhead of running institutions like jails and courthouses, the benefits county and state workers receive, prison inflation or expenditures on the jury. Nor does it consider possible appeals of the guilty sentences.

The three adults charged in the crime -- Fautua Frank Utu, 25, of Hawaiian Gardens and two Long Beach men, Valu Eliu Molioo, 21, and Aldo Enrique Hernandez, 22 -- are confined in the Men's Central Jail near downtown Los Angeles. That costs $51 a day for each of the three -- $18,615 a year, if they stay that long. There are two inmates in each cell. They are served three meals a day, and they watch television in the dayrooms. The ratio between inmates and deputies is 8 to 1.

The juvenile, Luis Felipe Gutierrez, is being held at Los Padrinos Juvenile Hall in Downey at a cost of $88 a day, or $32,120 a year. (The Press-Telegram usually does not identify juveniles accused of crimes, but is doing so in this case because of the seriousness of the offense.)

Most kids at Los Padrinos have their own small rooms. The heavy doors don't have bars, but still could be described as cells. The kids also get three meals a day AND medical care, and they get to watch TV in the dayrooms. They also go to school every day, so there are additional educational costs for juvenile offenders.

Minor or adult?

While the three adults in the case are going though the preliminary stages that precede a trial, proceedings against Gutierrez are under way to determine whether he should be tried as a minor or an adult.

Determining that involves a fitness hearing and an investigation by the Probation Department, the county agency that oversees minors in the criminal justice system much as the Sheriff's Department handles adult inmates.

A Probation Department fitness report to the court considers such criteria as the juvenile's criminal sophistication and previous delinquent history, any previous attempts to rehabilitate the child, and the seriousness of the offense. The fitness report is usually done by one person, but more may get involved, depending on the case. The investigator reviews the police report and may interview witnesses.

While it usually takes just a few weeks for the Probation Department to complete its investigation and file a fitness report, officials say the entire process of determining fitness can last anywhere from a few weeks up to six or even eight months. Again, it depends on the complexity and gravity of the case. It also is dependent on how smoothly the court calendar proceeds. If a defense attorney or prosecutor gets sick or goes on vacation, for example, it could be postponed. Or, the people involved may have mutually exclusive schedules.

Gutierrez's fitness hearing, originally set for Oct. 8, has been postponed.

It's now set for Monday.

Deputy District Attorney Michael Billotta expects Gutierrez to be tried as an adult. He also expects him to be tried with the other defendants, which would save money. But it's possible the judge could order him tried separately. A separate trial would cost more, because many of the resources spent on the one trial would have to be duplicated in the other.

If the boy is tried as a minor, his case would proceed separately in Juvenile Court.

Delays are the rule

The three adults were arraigned in Long Beach Municipal Court a few days after they were arrested the night of the killing on Sept. 7. All three pleaded not guilty.

The next step, the preliminary hearing, took place Oct. 22 after a few postponements. Each time, the defendants were bused to Long Beach. At one such non-event, a judge, five lawyers, several courtroom bailiffs, a court clerk and a court reporter dealt with the matter for the better part of an hour.

The purpose of the preliminary hearing is to give the Municipal Court judge the opportunity to determine if sufficient evidence exists to send the case to Superior Court for arraignment in that court and trial. The answer – as it usually is -- was yes. And again the defendants pleaded not guilty.

The trial is supposed to occur within 60 days of the preliminary hearing.

Occasionally that happens, but the waiting period is often much longer.

Delays are the rule in court. They could be caused by vacations, illness, holidays, or the parties being called away on other cases. One thing is certain: Virtually no one involved in this case expects it to start on time.

One defense attorney says it will be at least six months before the trial can begin.

The lawyers involved in this case expect the trial to last one to three weeks. The average length of a murder trial in Los Angeles County is 11 days.

Each of the defendants is entitled to his own counsel. The courts have determined that the defense attorneys in a case cannot come from the same agency; that could constitute a conflict of interest, or, at least the appearance of a conflict. Hence, if the Public Defender's Office represents one defendant, it cannot be assigned to another. The court has established an Alternate Public Defender's Office to avoid such conflicts, but in a case with four defendants, obviously that doesn't solve the problem. So private attorneys are appointed to represent some defendants. Another reason the court may appoint a private attorney may be simply that the Public Defender's Office or Alternate Public Defender is swamped and can't take on any more cases at a particular time.

Last year, the Los Angeles County District Attorney's Office tried 395 murder trials, and, according to the latest figures for 1996, that pace is continuing. During the first six months of this year, the office tried 198 murder cases.

But the legal expenses are only part of the costs. If the four defendants in the Martine Perry case are convicted and serve 20 years in prison, the state would spend at least $1.7 to keep them behind bars at today's costs.

Finding Solutions

When gunfire ripped through the night and abruptly ended the life of Martine Perry, the cumbersome and expensive wheels of justice began to turn.

It's a cycle that will take months -- perhaps years -- to complete. And the cost to taxpayers could easily approach $2 million dollars.

Already, with no dates set for trial of the four suspects, the cost of a single bullet is mounting day by day.

The overall cost of justice in this case, nearly $1.8 million, does not include the overhead of running institutions like jails and courthouses, the benefits county and state workers receive, prison inflation or expenditures on the jury. Nor does it consider possible appeals of the guilty sentences.

The three adults charged in the crime -- Fautua Frank Utu, 25, of Hawaiian Gardens and two Long Beach men, Valu Eliu Molioo, 21, and Aldo Enrique Hernandez, 22 -- are confined in the Men's Central Jail near downtown Los Angeles. That costs $51 a day for each of the three -- $18,615 a year, if they stay that long. There are two inmates in each cell. They are served three meals a day, and they watch television in the dayrooms. The ratio between inmates and deputies is 8 to 1.

The juvenile, Luis Felipe Gutierrez, is being held at Los Padrinos Juvenile Hall in Downey at a cost of $88 a day, or $32,120 a year. (The Press-Telegram usually does not identify juveniles accused of crimes, but is doing so in this case because of the seriousness of the offense.)

Most kids at Los Padrinos have their own small rooms. The heavy doors don't have bars, but still could be described as cells. The kids also get three meals a day AND medical care, and they get to watch TV in the dayrooms. They also go to school every day, so there are additional educational costs for juvenile offenders.

Minor or adult?

While the three adults in the case are going though the preliminary stages that precede a trial, proceedings against Gutierrez are under way to determine whether he should be tried as a minor or an adult.

Determining that involves a fitness hearing and an investigation by the Probation Department, the county agency that oversees minors in the criminal justice system much as the Sheriff's Department handles adult inmates.

A Probation Department fitness report to the court considers such criteria as the juvenile's criminal sophistication and previous delinquent history, any previous attempts to rehabilitate the child, and the seriousness of the offense. The fitness report is usually done by one person, but more may get involved, depending on the case. The investigator reviews the police report and may interview witnesses.

While it usually takes just a few weeks for the Probation Department to complete its investigation and file a fitness report, officials say the entire process of determining fitness can last anywhere from a few weeks up to six or even eight months. Again, it depends on the complexity and gravity of the case. It also is dependent on how smoothly the court calendar proceeds. If a defense attorney or prosecutor gets sick or goes on vacation, for example, it could be postponed. Or, the people involved may have mutually exclusive schedules.

Gutierrez's fitness hearing, originally set for Oct. 8, has been postponed.

It's now set for Monday.

Deputy District Attorney Michael Billotta expects Gutierrez to be tried as an adult. He also expects him to be tried with the other defendants, which would save money. But it's possible the judge could order him tried separately. A separate trial would cost more, because many of the resources spent on the one trial would have to be duplicated in the other.

If the boy is tried as a minor, his case would proceed separately in Juvenile Court.

Delays are the rule

The three adults were arraigned in Long Beach Municipal Court a few days after they were arrested the night of the killing on Sept. 7. All three pleaded not guilty.

The next step, the preliminary hearing, took place Oct. 22 after a few postponements. Each time, the defendants were bused to Long Beach. At one such non-event, a judge, five lawyers, several courtroom bailiffs, a court clerk and a court reporter dealt with the matter for the better part of an hour.

The purpose of the preliminary hearing is to give the Municipal Court judge the opportunity to determine if sufficient evidence exists to send the case to Superior Court for arraignment in that court and trial. The answer – as it usually is -- was yes. And again the defendants pleaded not guilty.

The trial is supposed to occur within 60 days of the preliminary hearing.

Occasionally that happens, but the waiting period is often much longer.

Delays are the rule in court. They could be caused by vacations, illness, holidays, or the parties being called away on other cases. One thing is certain: Virtually no one involved in this case expects it to start on time.

One defense attorney says it will be at least six months before the trial can begin.

The lawyers involved in this case expect the trial to last one to three weeks. The average length of a murder trial in Los Angeles County is 11 days.

Each of the defendants is entitled to his own counsel. The courts have determined that the defense attorneys in a case cannot come from the same agency; that could constitute a conflict of interest, or, at least the appearance of a conflict. Hence, if the Public Defender's Office represents one defendant, it cannot be assigned to another. The court has established an Alternate Public Defender's Office to avoid such conflicts, but in a case with four defendants, obviously that doesn't solve the problem. So private attorneys are appointed to represent some defendants. Another reason the court may appoint a private attorney may be simply that the Public Defender's Office or Alternate Public Defender is swamped and can't take on any more cases at a particular time.

Last year, the Los Angeles County District Attorney's Office tried 395 murder trials, and, according to the latest figures for 1996, that pace is continuing. During the first six months of this year, the office tried 198 murder cases.

But the legal expenses are only part of the costs. If the four defendants in the Martine Perry case are convicted and serve 20 years in prison, the state would spend at least $1.7 to keep them behind bars at today's costs.

Why Kids Kill

They have time on their hands, violence in their lives and guns within reach.

That is the profile of young murderers offered by juvenile justice experts who study them.

Ask them why young people kill, and they blame parental abuse or neglect, youthful selfcenteredness and impulsiveness, constant exposure to violence through TV and movies and the increasingly ready access to guns.

“A lot of crimes which would be assaults turn into homicides due to the availability of firearms,” says David Disco, who supervises the Los Angeles County district attorney's juvenile division.

Still, a fundamental question is why kids 14, 15, or 16 years old so often seem to resort to violence -- with or without weapons -- to make their points, solve their problems, and take their stands.

Life experience, the experts say.

They choose a route with which they have great familiarity.

A recent study in Sacramento found that half of 132 kids who had been arrested between ages 9 and 12 had been the subject of reports of abuse or neglect.

Many kids have never seen a conflict resolved in any way other than physically.

“A lot of people express themselves with their hands,” says John Schmocker, a Long Beach attorney who has represented teen-age killers. “Their children tend to be more physical also.”

They may begin at a very early age to express anger, hostility or disappointment through actions rather than words.

And no one tells them not to.

Many kids don't have a sense of right and wrong, because they don't have parents who teach them, says Kathleen Heide, a psychotherapist and University of South Florida criminology professor who has studied young murderers.

Moreover, the concept of consequences doesn't occur to kids, says Reneau Kennedy, a Harvard Medical School psychologist whose area of expertise is murder.

“All you're thinking about is the emotion surging within you and the .25 in your hand,” she says.

Some experts disagree with her notion about consequences. Bill Haney, a Pepperdine University law professor, says even a 6-year-old knows what's good and bad.

“He's not going to steal from a bully because he knows he'll get his teeth rearranged,” says Haney, who works with juvenile offenders.

Yes, they have a conscience, he says, but “in some instances, it's like a switch they turn on and off.

“They understand what they're doing, whether it's greed or vengeance,” Haney says. “Their whole lives operate around consequences. They think it through. In the main, what they do is calculated.”

And what they do is motivated by a self-centeredness that overrides any fear of consequences, he says. All that counts is what they want at a given moment.

“It's like a greed comes over them,” Haney says.

Or a situation gets out of hand.

“They get caught up in things and they don't know how to get out,” says attorney Schmocker. “They're engaged in a relatively petty crime, and when it starts to get worse they have no ability to extricate themselves.”

A 16-year-old may be trying to steal a bicycle when his victim begins chasing him, says Schmocker, who is appealing the conviction of a teen-ager who was found guilty of killing a Long Beach graduate student and gondolier for his bike in 1993.

Actions may be motivated by fear, the attorney says.

“Some of our children are rather hypervigilant,” he says. “They can be quick to take offense, to figure they're in danger.”

Especially if they've been victimized in the past.

“They're afraid to go to school. They've been beaten up one too many times.”

Adding fuel to an already potentially worrisome set of societal circumstances is the violence on TV and in movies, experts say. From an early age, children begin to form fantasy impressions about violent acts, and those don't disappear overnight.

One young gunman, after shooting a person and watching his own friend die, told Kennedy he hadn't known a bullet would inflict such damage.

“He didn't realize what it would be like to be shot because that wasn't the way it was on TV,” she says. “There is profound shock that the fantasy they're living actually ended with a consequence.”

The consequences would be less dire if kids weren't armed.

“(Guns are) generally available, incredibly deadly and there's no time for reflection when they're used,” says attorney Schmocker. “We have firearms in the hands of children who have not had time to develop discretion, judgment and self-control.”

Combined with gangs, drugs and alcohol, guns are lethal.

“More and more younger gang members, ages 13 and 14, are often the ones handed the guns because their (criminal) exposure is less,” says Vickie Hix, supervising deputy district attorney of the Orange County Juvenile Court.

Hix blames violent juvenile crime on parents who do not supervise or guide their children.

“They need someone to set limits for them,” she says, “to say no and mean it.”

A Young Murderer Recalls the Day He Said: "Daddy, I Killed Someone"

After killing a man, Lamar Proby went home and went to sleep.

“That's the only way I could stop thinking about it. Sleep,” he says.

It was brief refuge. For months afterward, every time he tried to sleep, the murder flashed in his mind, over and over. He saw the bullet hole in his victim's chest. He saw the man slump to the floor without a sound.

He felt no remorse, no regret. But the scene continued to play over and over in his head. For years he relived again and again those few seconds when, as a 14-year-old gangbanger, he killed a defenseless stranger.

Today, Proby is a 19-year-old inmate at the California Youth Authority's maximum security institution in Whittier, serving 10 years for first-degree murder. His reflections offer some insight into the mind of a young murderer.

Proby, who grew up in South-Central Los Angeles, began getting into trouble after his parents separated when he was 11. He moved in with his father because he thought his mother was too strict.

“He was at work all day, so I could do what I wanted,” Proby says.

He joined a gang, not because he needed protection, not because of peer pressure, but “for the fun of it.”

He loved the excitement of pulling off robberies with his fellow gangbangers, and he loved the money, which he spent on Guess? clothes and Nike shoes. When he needed to get to a party across town, he'd steal a car.

He smoked marijuana, drank beer and gin.

Instead of going to school, he went to so-called ditching parties, or rode the Blue Line to Long Beach, where he'd walk around, killing time. If school officials called to complain about his truancy, he'd erase the message before his dad got home from his construction job.

He bought a .25-caliber gun for $50 or $60 from a friend, who kept a stash of weapons in the trunk of his car.

“I knew from right and wrong,” Proby says, “but my plan was not getting caught.”

One October afternoon in 1991, he and two friends decided to rob a Los Angeles fashion boutique.

While his friend grabbed fistfuls of jewelry from a glass case, Proby pointed a gun at the sales clerk.

“I pushed him against the wall, and then I tried to open the cash register.

He came toward me and tried to grab the gun. I pushed him away. He came toward me again, and I shot him in the chest.

“If he got the gun from me, I felt he was going to shoot me with it,” he says.

The boys bolted from the store and gathered at a friend's house to split up the jewelry. Then Proby went home and slept. When his father got home from work, Proby tried to tell him what happened.

“I said, ‘Daddy, I killed someone.’ He said, ‘Stop playing with me.’ I said, ‘I'm serious,’ but he didn't believe me.”

That night, Proby saw a story about the murder on the TV news.

“I went in my room and turned the music up loud and sat there,” he says. “I was hoping I wouldn't get caught.”

The next morning, without saying why, Proby moved into his mother's home. It was to place some distance between himself and the crime scene.

The next month, he got caught -- after another holdup. After he and his friends robbed a 7-Eleven market, police tailed them to a motel room and arrested them.

“We tried to throw the gun out the window, but it got stuck in an air conditioning vent,” he says.

Police traced the gun to the fatal bullet. Proby pleaded guilty to first-degree murder in December, and in 1992, he was committed to the CYA.

He's scheduled to be released in 2002, since juvenile offenders in California can be held only until their 25th birthday, but he'll be eligible for parole in 1999.

Even after he was behind bars, Proby didn't feel sorry for his victim, a man in his 30s with a wife and two children.

“I just felt because I didn't know him, why should I feel anything for him,” he says.

Then one day a CYA counselor asked, “What if your father had been in that store?”

“I pictured him behind the counter,” Proby says. “I pictured how his family was feeling and the pain they were going through.”

He finally understood what he had done.

Six weeks ago, Proby wrote a letter to the victim's widow, asking her forgiveness.

“I told her I was sorry for what I had done,” he says. “I know all the pain and suffering I caused. I asked her if she could ever forgive me for what I had done.”

He hasn't received a reply.

“I can understand if she don't forgive me, because I took her husband's life,” he says.

Yet, he doesn't think he should spend the rest of his life in prison. And he doesn't think he should be written off.

“I'm not a bad person,” he says. “I'm just a person who wanted to have fun. That's what everybody was doing then.”

Proby copes with what he did then by not dwelling on it.

“If I keep worrying about it, it'll bring me down. I look forward to the future.”

He plans for what he insists will be a crime-free life once he gets out.

Like many CYA inmates, Proby has come to feel remorse. He has also earned a high school diploma. He wants to become a truck driver.

“I don't want to come back here,” he says.

He has a 50-50 chance. Half of all juvenile offenders wind up back behind bars.

At least one CYA counselor believes Proby will reach his goal.

“There's no doubt in my mind he's going to be successful when he gets out,” says James Threatt.

Ask Proby what he'd say to other youths embarking on the same path he took when he was 11, and he says, “I'd tell them the way they're going is not the right way.

“Look where I'm at. An institution, jail,” he says. “You might be having fun out there right now, but when you get locked up here, it ain't no more fun.”

Paralyzed by Gunfire

Gilbert Salinas’ tan work boots are spotless, uncreased, practically brand new. They keep his feet warm, but that's about all they're good for.

They've never slogged through mud or gotten grass-stained or soaked up saltwater.

Boots that do nothing will stay looking new for a long time. And former gang member Salinas, 22, hasn't walked in 5 1/2 years.

He's been in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down since March 10, 1991, when he was 17 and a fellow gang member accidentally shot him in the spine while trying to convert a semiautomatic handgun to fully automatic.

Doctors said he would never walk again, and so far, they've been right.

Three days a week he has physical therapy at Rancho Los Amigos Medical Center in Downey. During each hour-long session, he stretches his withered legs, a process that is helping straighten them out, but makes his underutilized stomach and hip muscles sore.

“They're going to fit me for my braces soon,” Salinas says. But before he gets hip-to-ankle braces, he'll first have to go through outpatient surgery for his ankles, which aren't responding to therapy.

Doctors will cut into his ankle muscles to help them stretch, then put his legs in casts for six weeks, putting therapy on hold. But it's a necessary evil.

“If I tried to walk now (in braces), I could fall, or my ankles could be ruined,” Salinas says. After five years of idleness, six weeks is a small price to pay for a chance at a meaningful life.

During the past 10 years, the spinal injury patient population at Rancho has shifted from being mostly diving and vehicle accident victims to more than half people who were paralyzed by gunshot wounds.

For Salinas, rehabilitation is a way to get on with his life, five years and a three-year prison stint after the bullet ripped into his spine, lodging in his lower back and leaving him with very little movement and very little sensation from his hipbones down. He doesn't wallow in his limitations, but he is acutely aware of how much different his life is today from the way it was.

“The first questions I asked the doctor, was ‘Am I going to be able to have kids?’” he said, “but I can take care of my business.” He is sexually active, but suffers from recurrent bladder infections.

About six months after the shooting, he regained a little feeling in his thighs, but that's been the extent of his recovery.

Today, he lives with a friend's grandmother in a house with a wheelchair ramp. She has diabetes and is a double amputee, so her home was set up for wheelchairs when he moved in. Salinas has been there since getting out of prison in Chino, where he was serving time on a robbery conviction after he was paralyzed. Sometimes he still sees his homies -- but he left the Clara Street gang in Cudahy, and he doesn't hang out anymore.

“I'll get invited to the fights,” he said, “but I know what happens afterward, so I just disappear.” Some nights, he goes out to dance clubs, to Peppers or Baby Dolls, but doesn't have a steady girlfriend.

“There's just too much stress right now,” he said. “My life's just too tough. I want to be able to give her stuff and be there for her.”

Like most paraplegics, Salinas was severely depressed after the shooting.

But that is diminishing.

“I just told myself that I'm not as bad as the other people there,” he said. “The hospital showed me that it could have been worse.”

He could have had flap sores like some of Rancho's bedridden quadriplegics -- bedsores that eat flesh away to the bone. In such cases, surgeons have to make skin grafts, a procedure that can run up to $60,000 or $70,000.

Even quadriplegics who can get around -- in breath- or mouth-operated motorized wheelchairs -- are sick more often than paraplegics. Health is a daily battle. Like Salinas, they cope with frequent bladder infections. They often have fevers and hot flashes and dizziness, all from simple exposure to even the mild weather.

Among Rancho patients, though, talk about such difficulties is secondary to a strong focus on simply getting better. Progress is sometimes slow, but they all cling to the success stories.

“Patty ( Madison, 19), one of our girls, was shot, and she was paralyzed for a couple of months,” said Fidel Valenzuela, coordinator for Rancho's Teens on Target antigang support group. “She's walking now, but she's still supposed to use her ankle braces.”

Someday, Salinas hopes to walk, too, of course, and he also hopes to be able to overcome his nine years as a gangbanger.

“That's all I was, was a mad dog,” Salinas said. “I'd kick in the door and shoot everybody. I'd take their car, their money, their clothes, their shoes.”

There's a chance he could someday walk with the support of leg braces and a walker. That would most likely be the extent of his recovery. But he's motivated about turning his life around. And realistic about the extra effort that will take.

“For every step you take,” he said, “I'm pushing like mad.”

Teens on Target

They've learned from their experience and now several paralyzed former gang members are spreading the word.

Teens on Target, a Rancho Los Amigos-based counseling and support group, helps other teens turn their own lives around.

The members give talks and workshops at Rancho, area middle schools, and also at Los Padrinos Juvenile Hall in Downey.

There are no hard and fast requirements to join. You don't have to be partially paralyzed or have gang ties, though most members are and do. But you have to want to improve your life and help others improve theirs.

Teens on Target meets 5-7 p.m. Thursdays in the conference room in the 900 building at Rancho Los Amigos Medical Center, 7601 E. Imperial Highway, Downey. For information, call coordinator Fidel Valenzuela, (310) 401-8166.

A Prescription for Peace

It's called “cracking a chest.”

Surgeons take giant surgical shears, snip apart a person's rib cage, and then use huge metal spreaders to lay the chest open.

It's one of the most dramatic and gruesome procedures in medicine. Dr. Doug McConnell has done it dozens of times, often because of diseases such as cancer or heart disease. But more and more often, McConnell has been finding himself elbow-deep in some 15-yearold's chest because of gunshots. After one such incident, as McConnell explained to a family that their son and brother had survived the chest operation but was still at death's door, the sister of the victim was puzzled.

“You got the bullet out, didn't you?” she asked McConnell.

McConnell realized it was time for some in-your-face education about what a gunshot really does.

“Where the fairy tale ends and reality begins, (kids) are totally confused about that,” McConnell said.

McConnell, 51, thought that if he could share with kids what he sees after someone takes a gunshot in the chest, or head, or gut, it would make an impression. Perhaps even convince some kids straddling the fence or still watching from afar to steer a course away from gun-toting friends. He wanted to show youngsters that a bullet the size of the end of a fountain pen can rip a hole the size of an apple out of flesh and bones. That sometimes even the best medical intervention can't save someone's life because the bullet has shattered such a large chunk of brain, or heart, or lung.

He pulled out his video camera and begin taping images, not sure exactly where it would all lead, but feeling a need to help solve the growing problem of youth gun violence.

Then, in October 1995, McConnell was seated at a community dinner next to eight strangers. One of them happened to be Carl Cohn, superintendent of the Long Beach Unified School District.

McConnell told Cohn about his idea. The educator loved it.

A few days later, a 13-year-old named Marcos Delgado was shot in downtown Long Beach. Another 13-year-old named Raymond Aioletuna was arrested. Both were middle school students.

That shooting happened on a Saturday afternoon. By Monday morning, Cohn was on the phone with McConnell discussing how to bring home the reality of gunshots to his students.

That week, there was a meeting with representatives of the Long Beach Police and Fire departments, the area's main trauma hospitals -- St. Mary and Long Beach Memorial medical centers -- and the Press-Telegram.

A three-segment video was produced.

It opened with blood dripping off a young man's hand into a huge pool on the floor of an operating room. He had been shot in the chest and his left side was spread open in an effort to save him. The operation was not successful.

The second segment showed a youngster who had suffered a spinal cord injury from a gunshot wound. The youngster lay motionless except for an occasional twitch.

McConnell shot the first two segments. The third, shot by the Jordan High School video club, showed paramedics treating a man who had put up his hands in an effort to stop a shotgun blast. His hands were bloody stumps.

McConnell tested the three segments at the second Public Safety Summit in January, and before middle school and high school students later in the spring.

People were moved and disturbed by the raw footage. The students said it was a great start.

But they said the video would have even more impact if there were images showing a bullet going through flesh or other objects. And they wanted to know more about the victim, and see how the violence affected family and friends.

The issues introduced in that video became the basis of this “Path of a Bullet” special section: the emotional effect on police, firefighters and caregivers, and the financial cost to everyone.

McConnell's video and this section are the result of a cooperative effort.

The hospitals and the police and fire departments committed to giving McConnell and the Press-Telegram access to their people and facilities.

On the video project, former Long Beach Police Chief Bill Ellis accompanied McConnell to a shooting range and filmed melons being blasted with 9 mm rounds. Farmer John's donated a pig's rear quarter, and they pumped 9 mm, 45-, .38-, and .357-caliber bullets into the flesh.

“The entrance wound was the size of a pencil,” McConnell said of the pig. “But at the back there was a hole big enough to scoop bone out with my hand.”

Those images are now part of the video. With the help of the school district's video department, McConnell is also shooting tape of paramedics and caregivers at Memorial and a closing segment by Ellis. Both will be included in the video.

Schools Have a Lesson Plan Against Youth Crime

Carl Cohn is at Wilson High School on a student-free teachers' workday, and teacher John Crutchfield spots an opening.

“Have you heard about the Peace Colors program we've got going?” Crutchfield asks.

Everywhere Cohn turns these days, it seems somebody's talking anti-violence.

In five years as superintendent of the Long Beach Unified School District, Cohn has gained a reputation for breaking new ground and caring passionately about youth handgun violence.

Three years ago, that combination spurred Cohn to implement a school uniforms policy for kindergarten-through-eighth grade-students. That policy was hailed by Attorney General Janet Reno last year and President Bill Clinton this year as a positive move to curb gang violence in and around schools.

Cohn was also the catalyst for Dr. Doug McConnell's harsh video about the effects of a gunshot wound (see the related story on this page). The video project inspired this special section.

“You know, we're not going to stop gang violence, but we might save the lives of a few youngsters,” Cohn said.

When the video is completed, it will be shown to students in grades 7 to 12, probably in a social science class. Parents will have the chance to see the video before it is widely shown, so they can decide whether they want their children to see it.

It's part of what Judy Seal, vice-president for education for the Long Beach Community Partnership, calls, “repeated inoculation to the virus of youth crime.” Seal has been working closely with Cohn and McConnell on the youth violence problem.

“When we look at issues of youth violence, we can quickly become reactionary,” she said. “But that's not going to carry us to where we need to be.”

Seal says the idea is to provide better counseling and support services in middle schools and high schools, bring reality-based education -- such as McConnell's video and this section -- into classrooms, and develop school-based centers for at-risk middle school students to provide them tutoring and expose them to successful adults.

Exposure and expression are two key words.

Cohn points to the work of Wilson history and English teacher Erin Gruwell as an example of what he'd like to nurture in the schools. Gruwell teaches students about tolerance by exposing them to survivors of the Holocaust and the ethnic cleansing in Bosnia. And she encourages students to write their feelings about the violence they experience in their lives.

Some of their essays will be published in a book Gruwell is putting together called “An American Diary: Victims of an Undeclared War.”

“The bottom line is spending more time on academics,” Cohn said. “More time on academics means less time on violence. If we can get youngsters excited about learning, and teach great poetry and great literature and outstanding history, for me that's a better way to go than relying on some magic (anti-violence) course.”