latimes--2020-12-28--COVID-19 has stolen lives, broken families, widened the wealth gap and rewired life in East L.A.

It wasn ’ t yet noon and Magda Maldonado had already overseen her second funeral of the day .
The 58-year-old director at Continental Funeral Home in East L.A. had another service scheduled in four hours , but for a moment she sat down and closed her eyes .
She thought about her grieving employees and how , in less than a week , four of them had lost loved ones to COVID-19 .
“ I don ’ t have words , ” she said , holding back tears .
Seven minutes from the funeral home , in a storefront @ @ @ @ @ @ @ weddings , Elizabeth Garibay arranged rose buds and baby ’ s breath into funeral bouquets at J & I Florist — some of the only orders that haven ’ t dwindled during the pandemic .
North of the shop , in two separate homes , high school seniors Itzel Juárez and Karen Rodríguez stared into screens , turning in virtual assignments and researching the logistics of starting college in a pandemic .
Nearby on Hammel Street , outside Our Lady of Guadalupe Church , which now runs a food pantry , Paloma Yanez @ @ @ @ @ @ @ subcompact vehicle .
She picks up veggies and milk and something warm such as tamales or orange chicken — a welcome break from the sopa de fideo , a simple soup , that has sustained her family in recent months .
It has been 284 days since California first went into lockdown and here in East L.A. — a hot spot of infection — nearly every street corner holds some sign of the virus that has stolen more than 24,000 lives statewide , the wealth gap and rewired the rhythms of how we @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
You can see it in the “ We cash all stimulus checks ” banner hanging outside a payday-loan spot on Atlantic Boulevard and in the way three women outside a clinic along Cesar Chavez Avenue quietly reposition their bodies when someone nearby lets out a rattling cough .
You can hear it , too , in the whining ambulance sirens barreling west toward White Memorial Hospital .
Across the predominantly Latino neighborhood , which spans seven square miles , more than 15,000 residents — 1 in every 10 people — have tested @ @ @ @ @ @ @ recorded tally of any region in the county and serving as a stark reminder of the virus ’ unequal impact .
Across L.A. County , as in most every corner of the nation , Black and Latino people have been hospitalized and died at — a testament to how the jobs we work , the number of people we live with , the level of healthcare we receive and our access to generational wealth shape so much about our lives and even our longevity .
Beneath the bougainvillea archway outside Continental Funeral Home @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , there ’ s a back room with a whiteboard so wide it fills an entire wall .
There , on a recent Sunday afternoon , Maldonado stared at the 69 names written in green marker , signifying the upcoming funerals planned at the East L.A. location .
Dozens of other names in purple , red and black accounted for services at locations in Ontario , Santa Ana and Hawthorne .
“ How many cases do we have active right now ?
” Maldonado asked a longtime employee , who was sitting at @ @ @ @ @ @ @ screen .
She let out a slow sigh — that was more than quadruple their typical caseload , she said , and 80 % of the current cases are COVID-19 deaths .
The funeral home ’ s Instagram feed , which was once populated with reassuring quotes about mourning , has now transformed into a steady stream of posts about COVID-19 safety protocols , including “ # MásSeguroEnCasa , ” a hashtag encouraging people to stay home .
Maldonado often thinks back to earlier in the pandemic when we knew less about how @ @ @ @ @ @ @ precaution , the funeral home temporarily barred viewings .
She can still see the expressions of anguish on people ’ s faces when they realized they ’ d never get to look into the casket and say goodbye .
These days , her mind is almost always on her employees .
She was stunned recently when the funeral home ’ s cosmetologist , who prepares bodies before viewings , showed up for his 5 p.m. shift .
Why didn ’ t you stay home , she asked , knowing his mother had just @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mother ’ s presence here , he told her .
In the early days of the pandemic , Maria Sandoval , a counselor at the funeral home , lost her nephew , Valentin Martinez , to die of complications from COVID-19 .
Less than two weeks ago , her father died after contracting the virus .
Her personal grief was now overlapping with the other suffering she ’ d witnessed since March .
The 46-year-old counselor often thinks about the family who lost four relatives to the disease and the heartbreaking moment a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ afford to bury his mother at the cemetery she ’ d picked out .
She thinks of all the small services — limited to 35 people or so— which are now held under a white awning in the funeral home ’ s parking lot and how sometimes people use FaceTime for relatives who can ’ t attend .
Because of all that she ’ s witnessed , it angers her deeply to hear people dismiss the virus ’ severity .
“ They just see a number or a statistic , ” she said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the pain .
I get to see the broken families.
” Garibay ’ s shifts at J & I Florist are long and quiet .
She and her three children arrive at the shop before 8 a.m. , giving Jacqueline , 17 , Iris , 12 and Nicolas , 6 , a few minutes to log in before their online classes begin .
On a recent weekday , as the children studied , Christmas music played in the background and Garibay focused on crafting a floral basket for a funeral .
She stuffed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of a white bucket and pierced them with the stems of three bright red gladiolus .
She added white pom-poms , red carnations and green fern fronds , filling it until the rim of the bucket disappeared .
She stepped back to examine her work .
“ This my husband could do in like 10 minutes , ” she said , chuckling .
“ I don ’ t work that fast yet.
” Still a novice , Garibay , 43 , has begun to teach herself the basics of floristry out of necessity @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was deported to Mexico , leaving her to run the business alone .
Both of Pineda ’ s parents died within two years of bringing him to the U.S. at age 11 , he said , and he quit high school at 17 to start working at a flower shop .
Seven years later , while delivering an arrangement , he met his wife .
They built a life together , dedicated to their children and their Catholic faith .
Pineda worked as the lead florist at a shop in Montebello for more @ @ @ @ @ @ @ retired .
He thought about taking a job at a shop in Beverly Hills , but he worried that the long commute from East L.A. would keep him from his wife and children .
He soon spotted a shop a block from Beth Israel Cemetery with a “ For Rent ” sign and before long he ’ d opened J & I Florist , named for his daughters ’ initials .
The couple ’ s son , Nicolas , was born two years later , and Pineda felt reaffirmed in his decision to @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Over time , however , Pineda struggled to control his alcoholism , he said .
Between 2001 and 2010 , he was arrested on three occasions related to drunk driving .
The crimes landed him in deportation proceedings , but immigration court hearings and appeals bought him many years .
“ Unfortunately , ” he said , “ over the course of my life I committed certain errors that I should not have.
” During a check-in visit with immigration authorities in December 2019 , after his final appeal was denied , Pineda @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and deported to Mexico .
He opened a shop in Mazatlán , but realized he was hemorrhaging so much money that it made more sense to join an established florist .
He now lives in a small town in Jalisco , a five-hour drive down the coast from Puerto Vallarta , in a two-bedroom home he bought four years ago for $ 26,000 .
After decades of watching the immigration system separate families , he said , he decided it made sense to have a backup plan .
Back in East L.A. , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ rent at both their home and the flower shop , so she and her three children moved into a single room at a friend ’ s home .
On the hardest days , she pleaded to God for strength and as she gained confidence in her floral skills , she started sending her husband photos of her arrangements .
“ Está chingón !
” he ’ d tell her .
It looks badass .
Then , in March , the flower shop was forced to shut down and since reopening in May , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Garibay added a plastic barrier around the cash register .
Nearby , a wall decal reads “ Choose joy ” and a sign on the counter features a prayer to St. Martin of Tours : “ God bless my business , my work and my clients.
” Customers occasionally try to barter for lower prices , saying they could find something cheaper in the downtown L.A. flower district .
“ Where ’ s Celso ?
” they sometimes ask .
Unsure of what to say , Garibay simply says that he ’ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ family will join him in Jalisco after the school year ends , but Garibay is worried about their children .
Nicolas is young enough to adjust , she thinks , but she wonders how Iris , who is shy and struggles with Spanish , would adapt .
“ Because of them , I am here , ” Garibay said .
“ But my husband is there .
I can not divide myself in two.
” Their eldest , Jacqueline , has applied to four schools in the California State University system with dreams @ @ @ @ @ @ @ For a long time , she told herself that if her father ever got deported , they ’ d all move to Mexico to be with him .
Now she ’ s not as sure .
On the first day of December , Itzel , a senior at Collegiate Charter High School , spent much of her day refreshing Instagram account .
She was waiting for an update from QuestBridge — a national nonprofit that connects students from low-income backgrounds with top universities — about the status of her application .
Groggy and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , 17 , wandered into her mother ’ s bedroom and hit refresh again .
This time a new post popped up , saying the decisions were in .
She took a deep breath and logged into the nonprofit ’ s website .
Then , she screamed .
Her sisters rushed in and their mother ran out of the shower to join them as they jumped up and down .
Still dripping with water , the proud mother began dialing everyone she knew to tell them the news : Her daughter had gotten @ @ @ @ @ @ @ days later , Rodríguez , a senior at the Humanitas Academy of Art and Technology , got identical news and broke down in tears .
A full ride to Stanford feels good any year , but getting in now — amid a global pandemic that has decimated college enrollment numbers , particularly in poorer school districts — felt especially momentous .
It was testament , both girls said , to their wide support systems .
Rodríguez , 18 , thought of the friend who had texted her , “ I ’ ll be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ before she received her decision , and Itzel thought of the many educators who had checked in on her after her aunt died of cancer earlier this year .
Itzel thought , in particular , of Celeste Davidson , an interventionist who met her one day in detention and committed to mentoring her .
The weekend Itzel ’ s application was due , Davidson stayed up past midnight , refusing to go to bed until she knew the application had been submitted .
But her most steadfast champion , Itzel said , has @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , who was brought to the U.S. from Mexico at age 9 .
Because she never had the opportunity to study at a university , González said , she has always stressed the importance of manifesting their educational goals to her daughters .
“ A plan , ” she often told them , “ not just a dream.
” For González , who works the night shift at UPS , loading boxes onto delivery trucks , her daughter ’ s admission to Stanford was a bright spot in an otherwise bleak year .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ contracted COVID-19 and became gravely ill .
Her partner couldn ’ t travel , so he asked her to make the trip to the Mexican state of Puebla to ensure that his mother , who was hospitalized , received proper medical attention .
González , who hadn ’ t returned to Mexico since leaving as a young girl , was terrified of getting infected , but ultimately made the trek .
While there , in her quest to secure an oxygen tank for her mother-in-law , she got exposed to the virus .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ positive and had to miss work for several weeks , devastating the family ’ s finances .
Although the Stanford news buoyed her spirits , the idea of her daughter leaving home pains her .
She knows she won ’ t be there to soothe Itzel if she gets sick and she worries about her daughter ’ s safety as a student of color on campus .
“ I ’ m not ready .
I ’ ll probably never be ready , ” she said .
“ But this is her time .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ You can almost hear the despair in Yanez ’ s voice as she reflects on everything the pandemic has taken from her family .
Her husband , Benny , a forklift driver , has arthritis in both knees but returned to work from disability leave in September , eager for a full paycheck .
Almost immediately , his hours were cut .
Her 7-year-old son , Benny Jr. , an introvert , had finally started to open up , making a core group of friends at Our Lady of Guadalupe Elementary School on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ online , the 43-year-old watched as her second-grader zoned out on Zoom , constantly talking about how much he missed his friends .
And , in an instant , the outings she had once relished , such as picking up groceries for her family , felt exceedingly risky , given her health history with diabetes .
She yearned for a home with a yard or some green space — somewhere Benny Jr. could run around — but all they could afford to rent right now was the top story of a home , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
As an escape from their tight quarters , Yanez and her son sometimes drive to Obregon Park and run around in the grass together .
When it ’ s not locked , her son frolics in the playground .
“ It ’ s just been a struggle , you know ?
” Yanez says , fighting back tears .
“ We ’ re behind on most bills .
I can ’ t work because of my illnesses and we ’ re just barely getting by .
It ’ s tough , but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” And so far , she said , her faith — and her parish — have helped sustain her .
Her son ’ s school , located in the parish , loaned Benny Jr. and about 50 other students iPads with built-in hot spots .
The school also awarded the family a scholarship to cover a third of the $ 3,150 annual tuition .
She and her husband considered the possibility of putting Benny Jr. in a public school , she said , but want to do everything they can to keep him @ @ @ @ @ @ @ impressed and humbled by the efforts of her son ’ s teachers — Laura Flores , Jessica Salazar and Angelica Carrillo — who have worked hard to keep him engaged , while also maintaining a challenging curriculum .
And almost every weekday morning recently , Yanez has pulled up to the school ’ s food pantry , which is funded by the federal government ’ s Seamless Summer Option program .
It is on hiatus for the holidays , but during the busiest day this summer , Principal Nancy Figueroa said about 1,900 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ itself is struggling as well .
School enrollment is down 17 % and the church is operating on about half the revenue it did last year — a drop due , in part , to the cancellation of a four-day fiesta that typically brings in about $ 60,000 .
“ It ’ s hard to lose that , ” said Jose Ruiz , the parish ’ s business manager .
Still , he said , they ’ ve managed to give about $ 7,000 in small , one-time grants , which families have @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , funerals or medical bills .
While the church began offering small , socially distanced Masses again in mid-July , most parishioners , including the Yanez family , still prefer to watch virtually from home .
She hasn ’ t missed a Sunday yet , Yanez said .
Over the last several months , Father Marco Solis said , he has watched in admiration as his congregation has united amid profound suffering and fear .
We are called to serve one another , he said , to lighten another ’ s loads .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ he sees that happening all around him .

Marisa Gerber, Andrea Castillo, Julia Barajas, Andrew J. Campa

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It wasn’t yet noon and Magda Maldonado had already overseen her second funeral of the day.
The 58-year-old director at Continental Funeral Home in East L.A. had another service scheduled in four hours, but for a moment she sat down and closed her eyes. She thought about her grieving employees and how, in less than a week, four of them had lost loved ones to COVID-19.
“I don’t have words,” she said, holding back tears.
Seven minutes from the funeral home, in a storefront with signs boasting specials for quinceañeras and weddings, Elizabeth Garibay arranged rose buds and baby’s breath into funeral bouquets at J&I Florist — some of the only orders that haven’t dwindled during the pandemic.
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North of the shop, in two separate homes, high school seniors Itzel Juárez and Karen Rodríguez stared into screens, turning in virtual assignments and researching the logistics of starting college in a pandemic.
Nearby on Hammel Street, outside Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, which now runs a food pantry, Paloma Yanez pulls up most mornings in her black subcompact vehicle. She picks up veggies and milk and something warm such as tamales or orange chicken — a welcome break from the sopa de fideo, a simple soup, that has sustained her family in recent months.
It has been 284 days since California first went into lockdown and here in East L.A. — a hot spot of infection — nearly every street corner holds some sign of the virus that has stolen more than 24,000 lives statewide, widened the wealth gap and rewired the rhythms of how we mourn, learn, work and worship.
You can see it in the “We cash all stimulus checks” banner hanging outside a payday-loan spot on Atlantic Boulevard and in the way three women outside a clinic along Cesar Chavez Avenue quietly reposition their bodies when someone nearby lets out a rattling cough. You can hear it, too, in the whining ambulance sirens barreling west toward White Memorial Hospital.
Across the predominantly Latino neighborhood, which spans seven square miles, more than 15,000 residents — 1 in every 10 people — have tested positive for COVID-19, marking the highest recorded tally of any region in the county and serving as a stark reminder of the virus’ unequal impact.
Across L.A. County, as in most every corner of the nation, Black and Latino people have been hospitalized and died at disproportionately high rates — a testament to how the jobs we work, the number of people we live with, the level of healthcare we receive and our access to generational wealth shape so much about our lives and even our longevity.
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The funeral home
Continental Funeral Home director Magda Maldonado scans a color-coded whiteboard with upcoming funerals in East L.A. and other locations. She is overseeing quadruple the typical number of cases, with 80% of them COVID-19 deaths. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
Beneath the bougainvillea archway outside Continental Funeral Home and past the table with hand sanitizer, there’s a back room with a whiteboard so wide it fills an entire wall.
There, on a recent Sunday afternoon, Maldonado stared at the 69 names written in green marker, signifying the upcoming funerals planned at the East L.A. location. Dozens of other names in purple, red and black accounted for services at locations in Ontario, Santa Ana and Hawthorne.
A family member holds a portrait of Julio Aguilar at Continental Funeral Home in East Los Angeles. Aguilar, 74, died Nov. 28 from complications of COVID-19. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
“How many cases do we have active right now?” Maldonado asked a longtime employee, who was sitting at his computer.
He squinted at the screen.
“176.”
She let out a slow sigh — that was more than quadruple their typical caseload, she said, and 80% of the current cases are COVID-19 deaths.
The funeral home’s Instagram feed, which was once populated with reassuring quotes about mourning, has now transformed into a steady stream of posts about COVID-19 safety protocols, including “#MásSeguroEnCasa,” a hashtag encouraging people to stay home.
Maldonado often thinks back to earlier in the pandemic when we knew less about how the virus spread and, as a precaution, the funeral home temporarily barred viewings. She can still see the expressions of anguish on people’s faces when they realized they’d never get to look into the casket and say goodbye.
“It was traumatizing.”
These days, her mind is almost always on her employees.
She was stunned recently when the funeral home’s cosmetologist, who prepares bodies before viewings, showed up for his 5 p.m. shift. Why didn’t you stay home, she asked, knowing his mother had just died of COVID-19. I feel my mother’s presence here, he told her.
Sister Dolores, right, and Dulce Chavez touch their mother, Edith Fernandez, as Dolores’ husband Antonio Elizalde and son Valentine, 12, stand beside the casket at Continental Funeral Home. Fernandez died of complications from the virus. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
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In the early days of the pandemic, Maria Sandoval, a counselor at the funeral home, lost her nephew, Valentin Martinez, the first sworn LAPD employee to die of complications from COVID-19. Less than two weeks ago, her father died after contracting the virus.
Her personal grief was now overlapping with the other suffering she’d witnessed since March. The 46-year-old counselor often thinks about the family who lost four relatives to the disease and the heartbreaking moment a young man realized he couldn’t afford to bury his mother at the cemetery she’d picked out.
She thinks of all the small services — limited to 35 people or so— which are now held under a white awning in the funeral home’s parking lot and how sometimes people use FaceTime for relatives who can’t attend. Because of all that she’s witnessed, it angers her deeply to hear people dismiss the virus’ severity.
“They just see a number or a statistic,” she said. “But I get to see the pain. I get to see the broken families.”
The florist
Elizabeth Garibay prepares a floral arrangement while her son Nicolas Pineda, 6, watches videos at the family business, J&I Florist in East Los Angeles. Business is down more than 50%, but orders for funerals haven’t dwindled much during the pandemic. (Gary Coronado / Los Angeles Times)
Garibay’s shifts at J&I Florist are long and quiet.
She and her three children arrive at the shop before 8 a.m., giving Jacqueline, 17, Iris, 12 and Nicolas, 6, a few minutes to log in before their online classes begin. On a recent weekday, as the children studied, Christmas music played in the background and Garibay focused on crafting a floral basket for a funeral.
She stuffed wet, foam bricks into the base of a white bucket and pierced them with the stems of three bright red gladiolus. She added white pom-poms, red carnations and green fern fronds, filling it until the rim of the bucket disappeared. She stepped back to examine her work.
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“This my husband could do in like 10 minutes,” she said, chuckling. “I don’t work that fast yet.”
Still a novice, Garibay, 43, has begun to teach herself the basics of floristry out of necessity. Her husband, Celso Pineda, was deported to Mexico, leaving her to run the business alone.
Both of Pineda’s parents died within two years of bringing him to the U.S. at age 11, he said, and he quit high school at 17 to start working at a flower shop. Seven years later, while delivering an arrangement, he met his wife. They built a life together, dedicated to their children and their Catholic faith.
Pineda worked as the lead florist at a shop in Montebello for more than a decade, until his boss retired. He thought about taking a job at a shop in Beverly Hills, but he worried that the long commute from East L.A. would keep him from his wife and children.
He soon spotted a shop a block from Beth Israel Cemetery with a “For Rent” sign and before long he’d opened J&I Florist, named for his daughters’ initials. The couple’s son, Nicolas, was born two years later, and Pineda felt reaffirmed in his decision to pick a shop close to home.
Over time, however, Pineda struggled to control his alcoholism, he said. Between 2001 and 2010, he was arrested on three occasions related to drunk driving. The crimes landed him in deportation proceedings, but immigration court hearings and appeals bought him many years.
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“Unfortunately,” he said, “over the course of my life I committed certain errors that I should not have.”
Iris Pineda, a sixth-grade student at Eastmont Intermediate School, does extra credit math assignments online while her mother, Elizabeth Garibay, prepares arrangements J&I Florist in East Los Angeles. (Gary Coronado / Los Angeles Times)
During a check-in visit with immigration authorities in December 2019, after his final appeal was denied, Pineda was detained by Immigration and Customs Enforcement and deported to Mexico. He opened a shop in Mazatlán, but realized he was hemorrhaging so much money that it made more sense to join an established florist.
He now lives in a small town in Jalisco, a five-hour drive down the coast from Puerto Vallarta, in a two-bedroom home he bought four years ago for $26,000. After decades of watching the immigration system separate families, he said, he decided it made sense to have a backup plan.
Back in East L.A., Garibay knew she couldn’t afford rent at both their home and the flower shop, so she and her three children moved into a single room at a friend’s home. On the hardest days, she pleaded to God for strength and as she gained confidence in her floral skills, she started sending her husband photos of her arrangements.
“Está chingón!” he’d tell her. It looks badass.
Across the predominantly Latino neighborhood of East L.A., more than 15,000 residents — 1 in every 10 people — have tested positive for COVID-19. Above, passengers pack a bus on Whittier Boulevard. (Luis Sinco / Los Angeles Times)
Then, in March, the flower shop was forced to shut down and since reopening in May, sales have fallen by more than half. Garibay added a plastic barrier around the cash register. Nearby, a wall decal reads “Choose joy” and a sign on the counter features a prayer to St. Martin of Tours: “God bless my business, my work and my clients.”
Customers occasionally try to barter for lower prices, saying they could find something cheaper in the downtown L.A. flower district.
“Where’s Celso?” they sometimes ask.
Unsure of what to say, Garibay simply says that he’s not around.
Pineda hopes his family will join him in Jalisco after the school year ends, but Garibay is worried about their children. Nicolas is young enough to adjust, she thinks, but she wonders how Iris, who is shy and struggles with Spanish, would adapt.
“Because of them, I am here,” Garibay said. “But my husband is there. I cannot divide myself in two.”
Their eldest, Jacqueline, has applied to four schools in the California State University system with dreams of becoming a crime scene photographer. For a long time, she told herself that if her father ever got deported, they’d all move to Mexico to be with him.
Now she’s not as sure.
The students
Itzel Juárez, 17, left, a senior at Collegiate Charter High School in East Los Angeles, with her mother Idalit González. To Itzel, who received a full ride to Stanford, González is her greatest source of inspiration and support. (Gary Coronado / Los Angeles Times)
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On the first day of December, Itzel, a senior at Collegiate Charter High School, spent much of her day refreshing Instagram account.
She was waiting for an update from QuestBridge — a national nonprofit that connects students from low-income backgrounds with top universities — about the status of her application. Groggy and anxious after a sleepless night, Itzel, 17, wandered into her mother’s bedroom and hit refresh again. This time a new post popped up, saying the decisions were in.
She took a deep breath and logged into the nonprofit’s website. Then, she screamed. Her sisters rushed in and their mother ran out of the shower to join them as they jumped up and down. Still dripping with water, the proud mother began dialing everyone she knew to tell them the news: Her daughter had gotten a full ride to Stanford.
Ten days later, Rodríguez, a senior at the Humanitas Academy of Art and Technology, got identical news and broke down in tears.
A full ride to Stanford feels good any year, but getting in now — amid a global pandemic that has decimated college enrollment numbers, particularly in poorer school districts — felt especially momentous. It was testament, both girls said, to their wide support systems.
Karen Rodríguez, 18, is a senior at the Humanitas Academy of Art & Technology in East Los Angeles and has been admitted early to Stanford University — with a full scholarship. (Gary Coronado / Los Angeles Times)
Rodríguez, 18, thought of the friend who had texted her, “I’ll be praying for you,” the night before she received her decision, and Itzel thought of the many educators who had checked in on her after her aunt died of cancer earlier this year.
Itzel thought, in particular, of Celeste Davidson, an interventionist who met her one day in detention and committed to mentoring her. The weekend Itzel’s application was due, Davidson stayed up past midnight, refusing to go to bed until she knew the application had been submitted.
But her most steadfast champion, Itzel said, has always been her mother, Idalit González, who was brought to the U.S. from Mexico at age 9.
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Because she never had the opportunity to study at a university, González said, she has always stressed the importance of manifesting their educational goals to her daughters.
“A plan,” she often told them, “not just a dream.”
For González, who works the night shift at UPS, loading boxes onto delivery trucks, her daughter’s admission to Stanford was a bright spot in an otherwise bleak year.
In October, González’s in-laws contracted COVID-19 and became gravely ill. Her partner couldn’t travel, so he asked her to make the trip to the Mexican state of Puebla to ensure that his mother, who was hospitalized, received proper medical attention.
González, who hadn’t returned to Mexico since leaving as a young girl, was terrified of getting infected, but ultimately made the trek. While there, in her quest to secure an oxygen tank for her mother-in-law, she got exposed to the virus. Back in Los Angeles, she tested positive and had to miss work for several weeks, devastating the family’s finances.
Although the Stanford news buoyed her spirits, the idea of her daughter leaving home pains her. She knows she won’t be there to soothe Itzel if she gets sick and she worries about her daughter’s safety as a student of color on campus.
“I’m not ready. I’ll probably never be ready,” she said. “But this is her time. I have to let her go.”
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The family
Paloma Yanez, right, and her son, Benny Jr., 7, parishioners of Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, pick up bags of groceries at a food pantry in East Los Angeles. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
You can almost hear the despair in Yanez’s voice as she reflects on everything the pandemic has taken from her family.
Her husband, Benny, a forklift driver, has arthritis in both knees but returned to work from disability leave in September, eager for a full paycheck. Almost immediately, his hours were cut.
Her 7-year-old son, Benny Jr., an introvert, had finally started to open up, making a core group of friends at Our Lady of Guadalupe Elementary School on Hazard Avenue. But when classes moved online, the 43-year-old watched as her second-grader zoned out on Zoom, constantly talking about how much he missed his friends.
And, in an instant, the outings she had once relished, such as picking up groceries for her family, felt exceedingly risky, given her health history with diabetes. She yearned for a home with a yard or some green space — somewhere Benny Jr. could run around — but all they could afford to rent right now was the top story of a home, which they share with an elderly couple.
As an escape from their tight quarters, Yanez and her son sometimes drive to Obregon Park and run around in the grass together. When it’s not locked, her son frolics in the playground.
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Paloma Yanez and her son, Benny Jr., stop by a park. “It’s just been a struggle, you know?” says Yanez, a wife and mother, of recent hardships. Her faith — and her parish — have helped sustain her, she says. (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
“It’s just been a struggle, you know?” Yanez says, fighting back tears. “We’re behind on most bills. I can’t work because of my illnesses and we’re just barely getting by. It’s tough, but we have faith things will get better.”
And so far, she said, her faith — and her parish — have helped sustain her.
Her son’s school, located in the parish, loaned Benny Jr. and about 50 other students iPads with built-in hot spots. The school also awarded the family a scholarship to cover a third of the $3,150 annual tuition. She and her husband considered the possibility of putting Benny Jr. in a public school, she said, but want to do everything they can to keep him where he is.
She has been impressed and humbled by the efforts of her son’s teachers — Laura Flores, Jessica Salazar and Angelica Carrillo — who have worked hard to keep him engaged, while also maintaining a challenging curriculum.
And almost every weekday morning recently, Yanez has pulled up to the school’s food pantry, which is funded by the federal government’s Seamless Summer Option program. It is on hiatus for the holidays, but during the busiest day this summer, Principal Nancy Figueroa said about 1,900 meals were handed out.
A woman shops in a store along Whittier Boulevard in East Los Angeles, which has the highest recorded tally of any region in L.A. County. (Luis Sinco / Los Angeles Times)
The parish itself is struggling as well.
School enrollment is down 17% and the church is operating on about half the revenue it did last year — a drop due, in part, to the cancellation of a four-day fiesta that typically brings in about $60,000.
“It’s hard to lose that,” said Jose Ruiz, the parish’s business manager. Still, he said, they’ve managed to give about $7,000 in small, one-time grants, which families have used to cover the cost of rent, funerals or medical bills.
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While the church began offering small, socially distanced Masses again in mid-July, most parishioners, including the Yanez family, still prefer to watch virtually from home. She hasn’t missed a Sunday yet, Yanez said.
Over the last several months, Father Marco Solis said, he has watched in admiration as his congregation has united amid profound suffering and fear. We are called to serve one another, he said, to lighten another’s loads.
And these days, he said, he sees that happening all around him.


latimes--2020-12-28--Column: Newsom shouldn't ignore an effort to recall him. Here's how he can fight it

Conservatives are trying to yank Gov .
Gavin Newsom from office .
But their recall drive is probably doomed .
This is why : — California is not the politically competitive state it was 18 years ago .
Democrats now have a lopsided advantage .
All that said , Newsom would be foolish to kiss off the threat .
He should prepare for the attempted recall to qualify for a special election ballot in late summer or fall .
Because — as Davis found out in 2003 — once a recall petition gathers enough signatures to force a statewide vote @ @ @ @ @ @ @ for the target .
“ My best advice is don ’ t ignore it , ” says political consultant Garry South , the longtime strategist for Democrat Davis .
South learned that lesson firsthand when Davis became only the second governor in the nation ’ s history to be recalled .
“ Have your ducks in a row before it qualifies , ” South says .
“ You need to do three things : “ Do some polling to see whether the recall has legs .
“ Second , set up a war @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through a recall .
They have the playbook .
“ Third , scope out every person who ’ s identified with the recall .
Opposition research them.
” Translation : Dig up dirt that can be smeared all over the enemy .
Newsom ’ s political team isn ’ t saying what it ’ s doing , if anything .
“ We don ’ t want to be dismissive because all it takes is one billionaire or a few multimillionaires ” to finance effective signature-collecting , says Newsom political advisor Dan Newman .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ appropriate level of attention .
But the governor has his hands full with the pandemic.
” “ Is this what voters want us spending time and money on versus getting everybody vaccinated and reopening schools and businesses ?
” Newman adds .
“ Is a special election a good use of $ 100 million in taxpayers ’ money at a time when small businesses are in trouble ?
” South thinks there ’ s a 50-50 chance the proposed recall will qualify for the ballot .
Backers got an early Christmas present when @ @ @ @ @ @ @ deadline for collecting signatures by 120 days .
He agreed with proponents that the pandemic made it unfairly difficult to solicit signatures .
Their new deadline to turn in 1.5 million voter signatures is March 17 , St. Patrick ’ s Day .
Sponsors say they ’ ve collected around 800,000 .
But they ’ ll need around 2 million to make up for invalid signatures .
Most have been collected by mail sent to Republican households .
“ It ’ s going to be close , but I think it ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ” says veteran GOP consultant Dave Gilliard .
He was a strategist in the Davis recall and is also advising the current effort .
But unlike Davis , Newsom has been relatively popular .
His job approval ratings have been around 60 % in independent polling .
Davis ’ ratings were in the low 30s for several reasons : He was unable to handle an electricity crisis caused mostly by Texas power pirates that resulted in rolling blackouts throughout California .
The state budget was bleeding billions in red ink .
He raised @ @ @ @ @ @ @ legislation providing driver ’ s licenses for immigrants here illegally .
Newsom is accused by recall advocates of being inconsistent in his pandemic managing .
First , he ordered “ nonessential ” workers to stay at home and closed businesses and public schools .
Then he relaxed the restrictions — and later he tightened them again .
Meanwhile , he recently got tagged with being a hypocrite for attending a lobbyist friend ’ s birthday dinner with several other unmasked couples at a fancy wine country restaurant , the French Laundry .
It @ @ @ @ @ @ @ exposure Newsom has urged other Californians to avoid .
And he ’ s charged with incompetence because his administration sent out hundreds of millions of dollars in unemployment benefits to scammers , mostly using prisoners ’ names .
So , Newsom ’ s high approval numbers may have slipped since the last round of public polling .
But there ’ s no Schwarzenegger waiting to pounce .
The Hollywood action hero was warming up to run for governor in 2006 when Davis ’ term was to expire .
But the “ Terminator ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the recall election .
And it was all over once he announced on the “ Tonight Show.
” “ The power of celebrity .
That ’ s what ’ s different ” between the Davis recall and today , says former Schwarzenegger spokesman Rob Stutzman .
“ Arnold was the most famous person in the world next to the pope.
” By contrast , the most likely Republican to run in a Newsom recall election is barely known outside of San Diego .
He ’ s that city ’ s former mayor , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ President Bush had the good sense to avoid getting involved in the California recall .
But President Trump , who tweets incessantly and loves media attention , undoubtedly would find the recall brawl irresistible .
Former San Francisco Mayor Willie Brown recently wrote in his San Francisco Chronicle column that Newsom should paint the recall attempt in Trump red .
“ If Newsom can make it about Trump , Newsom wins , ” the Democratic sage wrote .
Trump is highly unpopular in California .
Moreover , the GOP brand has lost its @ @ @ @ @ @ @ voters outnumbered Republicans by only roughly 8 percentage points .
Currently the gap is nearly 22 points .
Two more differences between then and now .
In 2003 , Democratic Lt. Gov .
Cruz Bustamante broke his promise and ran for governor in the recall .
He was trounced , but many voters thought they could recall Davis and still have a Democratic governor , Bustamante .
It ’ s hard to imagine any Democrat betraying Newsom like that .
Back then , wealthy Rep. Darrell Issa of San Diego County dreamt of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ donated nearly $ 2 million to pay for signature collecting .
There ’ s no such benefactor around today , at least so far .
But the best way for Newsom to fight the recall is to get us all vaccinated , send kids back to their classrooms and reopen restaurants and other businesses .
And stay away from dinner parties at expensive restaurants .

California Gov. Gavin Newsom is facing a recall effort that he shouldn’t ignore, even it if it is unlikely to succeed, columnist George Skelton writes.
Conservatives are trying to yank Gov. Gavin Newsom from office. But their recall drive is probably doomed. This is why:
— Newsom is not Gray Davis.
— Kevin Faulconer is not Arnold Schwarzenegger.
— Donald Trump is not George W. Bush.
— California is not the politically competitive state it was 18 years ago. Democrats now have a lopsided advantage.
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All that said, Newsom would be foolish to kiss off the threat. He should prepare for the attempted recall to qualify for a special election ballot in late summer or fall.
Because — as Davis found out in 2003 — once a recall petition gathers enough signatures to force a statewide vote, events can spiral out of control for the target.
“My best advice is don’t ignore it,” says political consultant Garry South, the longtime strategist for Democrat Davis. South learned that lesson firsthand when Davis became only the second governor in the nation’s history to be recalled.
“Have your ducks in a row before it qualifies,” South says. “You need to do three things:
“Do some polling to see whether the recall has legs.
“Second, set up a war council, including people who have been through a recall. They have the playbook.
“Third, scope out every person who’s identified with the recall. Opposition research them.”
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Translation: Dig up dirt that can be smeared all over the enemy.
Newsom’s political team isn’t saying what it’s doing, if anything.
“We don’t want to be dismissive because all it takes is one billionaire or a few multimillionaires” to finance effective signature-collecting, says Newsom political advisor Dan Newman.
“We’re giving it an appropriate level of attention. But the governor has his hands full with the pandemic.”
“Is this what voters want us spending time and money on versus getting everybody vaccinated and reopening schools and businesses?” Newman adds. “Is a special election a good use of $100 million in taxpayers’ money at a time when small businesses are in trouble?”
South thinks there’s a 50-50 chance the proposed recall will qualify for the ballot.
Backers got an early Christmas present when a Sacramento Superior Court judge extended the deadline for collecting signatures by 120 days. He agreed with proponents that the pandemic made it unfairly difficult to solicit signatures. Their new deadline to turn in 1.5 million voter signatures is March 17, St. Patrick’s Day.
Sponsors say they’ve collected around 800,000. But they’ll need around 2 million to make up for invalid signatures.
Most have been collected by mail sent to Republican households.
California The pandemic fuels long-shot recall effort against Gov. Gavin Newsom Newsom faces the real chance of a statewide special election to remove him from office in 2021, a longshot effort but one that would be a stunning rebuke for a governor whose pre-pandemic approval ratings seemed to make him untouchable.
“It’s going to be close, but I think it’s going to be on the ballot,” says veteran GOP consultant Dave Gilliard. He was a strategist in the Davis recall and is also advising the current effort.
But unlike Davis, Newsom has been relatively popular. His job approval ratings have been around 60% in independent polling.
Davis’ ratings were in the low 30s for several reasons:
He was unable to handle an electricity crisis caused mostly by Texas power pirates that resulted in rolling blackouts throughout California. The state budget was bleeding billions in red ink. He raised the so-called car tax and signed unpopular legislation providing driver’s licenses for immigrants here illegally.
Newsom is accused by recall advocates of being inconsistent in his pandemic managing. First, he ordered “nonessential” workers to stay at home and closed businesses and public schools. Then he relaxed the restrictions — and later he tightened them again.
Meanwhile, he recently got tagged with being a hypocrite for attending a lobbyist friend’s birthday dinner with several other unmasked couples at a fancy wine country restaurant, the French Laundry. It’s the kind of potential virus exposure Newsom has urged other Californians to avoid.
And he’s charged with incompetence because his administration sent out hundreds of millions of dollars in unemployment benefits to scammers, mostly using prisoners’ names.
So, Newsom’s high approval numbers may have slipped since the last round of public polling.
But there’s no Schwarzenegger waiting to pounce. The Hollywood action hero was warming up to run for governor in 2006 when Davis’ term was to expire. But the “Terminator” seized the priceless opportunity to run in the recall election. And it was all over once he announced on the “Tonight Show.”
“The power of celebrity. That’s what’s different” between the Davis recall and today, says former Schwarzenegger spokesman Rob Stutzman. “Arnold was the most famous person in the world next to the pope.”
By contrast, the most likely Republican to run in a Newsom recall election is barely known outside of San Diego. He’s that city’s former mayor, Kevin Faulconer.
In 2003, Republican President Bush had the good sense to avoid getting involved in the California recall. But President Trump, who tweets incessantly and loves media attention, undoubtedly would find the recall brawl irresistible.
Former San Francisco Mayor Willie Brown recently wrote in his San Francisco Chronicle column that Newsom should paint the recall attempt in Trump red.
“If Newsom can make it about Trump, Newsom wins,” the Democratic sage wrote.
Trump is highly unpopular in California. Moreover, the GOP brand has lost its statewide appeal. In 2003, Democratic voters outnumbered Republicans by only roughly 8 percentage points. Currently the gap is nearly 22 points.
Two more differences between then and now.
In 2003, Democratic Lt. Gov. Cruz Bustamante broke his promise and ran for governor in the recall. He was trounced, but many voters thought they could recall Davis and still have a Democratic governor, Bustamante. It’s hard to imagine any Democrat betraying Newsom like that.
Back then, wealthy Rep. Darrell Issa of San Diego County dreamt of being elected governor. So, he donated nearly $2 million to pay for signature collecting. There’s no such benefactor around today, at least so far.
But the best way for Newsom to fight the recall is to get us all vaccinated, send kids back to their classrooms and reopen restaurants and other businesses. And stay away from dinner parties at expensive restaurants.


latimes--2020-12-29--L.A. County hospitals, at the breaking point, turn away ambulances

At Los Angeles County-USC Medical Center , the breaking point came Sunday night .
There was not one available bed for at least 30 patients who needed intensive or intermediate levels of care , and the hospital had to shut its doors to all ambulance traffic for 12 hours .
Some patients , including the very sick who required intensive oxygen , experienced wait times as long as 18 hours to get into the intensive care unit .
The front entrance of Community Hospital of Huntington Park was closed to the public Monday ; the back of the building saw @ @ @ @ @ @ @ weekend , with one security guard saying the vehicles arrived as frequently as every half hour .
And Memorial Hospital of Gardena on Monday was running at 140 % capacity , forcing officials to ask for a four-hour suspension of new ambulance calls so it could move patients .
The hospital is struggling to keep enough oxygen and supplies on hand amid the crunch of COVID-19 patients who need it .
“ It ’ s a crisis — there ’ s no doubt about it , ” said Memorial Hospital Chief Executive Kevan @ @ @ @ @ @ @ coming.
” The crisis at Los Angeles County hospitals hit new levels as patients continued to stream in during the holiday weekend , and the medical system is bracing for a new wave of coronavirus spread arising from Christmas travel and gatherings .
L.A. County ’ s cumulative COVID-19 death toll is expected to climb past 10,000 this week .
Hospitals are so inundated that they ’ ve resorted to placing patients in conference rooms and gift shops .
But even so , many facilities are running out of space .
Virtually all @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to divert ambulances with certain types of patients elsewhere during most hours .
On Sunday , 94 % of L.A. County hospitals that take in patients stemming from 911 calls were diverting some ambulances away .
“ But soon , there won ’ t be any places for these ambulances to go , ” said Dr. Christina Ghaly , the L.A. County health services director .
“ If every hospital is on diversion , then no hospital is on diversion.
” The number of people with COVID-19 inside L.A. County ’ s ICUs @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , rising to 1,449 on Sunday , the most recent data available .
Every day over the last week , there has been a net daily increase of 35 COVID-19 patients in ICUs — down slightly from 44 in mid-December but at a pace that ’ s packing even more critically ill patients into crowded facilities .
As of Monday morning , there were 54 available ICU beds across L.A. County , and half were for pediatric patients .
Two-thirds of staffed ICU beds in L.A. County are filled with COVID-19 patients .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , but it ’ s especially more pronounced and more serious for some of the smaller hospitals , ” Ghaly said .
“ Many hospitals have reached a crisis point and are having to make many tough decisions about patient care.
” There was evidence of this Monday in Huntington Park .
With Community Hospital closed to visitors , East 58th Street became a waiting room .
Cars waited outside the packed hospital parking lot , headlights on in the rain , as passengers waited for loved ones inside .
Occasionally , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , to approach the hospital ’ s new main entrance , the “ ambulance entrance.
” A Los Angeles Fire Department ambulance arrived , sirens blaring , and the driver unloaded a patient on a gurney .
A single blanket hung off the side of the gurney , not fully covering the patient from the rain .
Hospital staff took the patient ’ s temperature and gave him a wrist tag .
After checking him in , the firefighters wheeled the patient back out to the parking lot and into one of two @ @ @ @ @ @ @ covering that served as the tent ’ s door , the patient could be seen shuffling to a seat as a hospital staff member , holding a clipboard , spoke to him .
At Gardena Memorial , officials used the four-hour suspension of ambulance deliveries to move some patients home — or at least out of the hospital ’ s 10-bed ICU and into an expansion area previously reserved for postoperative patients — to make room for 18 others in need of intensive care .
“ You have to be very resourceful and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ways that you haven ’ t before , ” Metcalfe , the hospital CEO , said .
It ’ s a task that is proving increasingly difficult , as those resources are dwindling .
COVID-19 patients require “ triple the amount of oxygen , ” Metcalfe said , so supplies that might typically last a week now last three days .
Even oxygen storage tanks on the hospital grounds are draining quickly because of increased demand , he said .
If a hospital were to run out of oxygen completely , it would @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Metcalfe said .
“ Patients that are on these respirators that have high-flow oxygen , they could die , ” he said .
“ You would try to use a [ manual oxygen ] bag , but if you ’ ve got 40 or 50 people , you don ’ t have enough staff that you can do that.
” The hospital is triaging new arrivals and sending home people who aren ’ t very sick , or those who can receive outpatient care , in order to keep numbers down @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the business 40 years , ” Metcalfe said , “ and I ’ ve never seen anything like this.
” Larger hospitals are doing what they can to keep accepting patients .
Kaiser Permanente is postponing nonurgent and elective surgeries and procedures at its facilities throughout California .
The pause will remain in effect through Jan. 10 in Kaiser ’ s Southern California region and through Jan. 4 in Northern California , according to statements from the healthcare consortium .
In Southern California , Kaiser is not scheduling any new elective surgeries through @ @ @ @ @ @ @ could — with doctors no longer pulling out all the stops to save a life and instead strategizing about where to most effectively use resources and equipment .
“ We ’ re at a turning point .
If it continues to get worse , many hospitals will begin rationing care , ” said Dr. Elaine Batchlor , CEO of Martin Luther King Jr. Community Hospital in Willowbrook , a 131-bed facility that had 215 patients Monday .
Huntington Hospital in Pasadena also warned of that possibility for patients and their families .
Should @ @ @ @ @ @ @ our hospital faces a shortage that will affect our ability to care for all patients , ” officials wrote , then a clinical committee consisting of doctors , a community member , a bioethicist , a spiritual care provider and other experts “ will review the cases of all patients who are critically ill ” and “ make necessary decisions about allocating limited medical resources based on the best medical information possible.
” “ This unburdens bedside staff from making any decisions about triaging care when resources are scarce , ” the hospital @ @ @ @ @ @ @ flagship county public hospital on the Eastside , officials are trying to improvise , but as they saw Sunday night , the steady flood of patients makes that difficult .
“ We were just completely overwhelmed , ” said Chief Medical Officer Dr. Brad Spellberg , adding that the hospital is trying to “ daily , hourly , cobble together solutions to get us through this crisis.
” Conditions at the county hospital — one of the largest trauma centers in the western United States — have been steadily worsening since Thanksgiving , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ arriving each day .
On Monday , there were about 240 COVID-19 patients in all areas of the hospital , according to Spellberg , nearly twice the amount it was seeing during the surge in July .
In an effort to free up some beds in the ICU , the hospital on Monday opened a space previously reserved for postoperative recovery to accommodate intermediate-level COVID-19 patients , since operating rooms are now closed to all but emergency cases .
Like many other hospitals in the region , L.A. County-USC has constructed field hospitals @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with intake outside the ER .
But it ’ s not just the influx of patients contributing to bed shortages , Spellberg said .
Many COVID-19 patients stay in the hospital far longer than average ICU patients , with some on mechanical ventilators occupying beds for six , eight or even 12 weeks .
And the anticipated “ Christmas bump ” hasn ’ t even begun .
“ If there is a Christmas surge , we probably have not experienced it yet , ” Spellberg said , noting that cases arising from that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ week or two .
He added : “ If that happens , Los Angeles County will turn into what New York was in April.
” Times staff writers Jaclyn Cosgrove and Harriet Ryan contributed to this report .

Alejandra Reyes-Velarde, Hayley Smith, Rong-Gong Lin II, Luke Money

At Los Angeles County-USC Medical Center, the breaking point came Sunday night.
There was not one available bed for at least 30 patients who needed intensive or intermediate levels of care, and the hospital had to shut its doors to all ambulance traffic for 12 hours. Some patients, including the very sick who required intensive oxygen, experienced wait times as long as 18 hours to get into the intensive care unit.
The front entrance of Community Hospital of Huntington Park was closed to the public Monday; the back of the building saw a steady stream of ambulances over the weekend, with one security guard saying the vehicles arrived as frequently as every half hour.
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And Memorial Hospital of Gardena on Monday was running at 140% capacity, forcing officials to ask for a four-hour suspension of new ambulance calls so it could move patients. The hospital is struggling to keep enough oxygen and supplies on hand amid the crunch of COVID-19 patients who need it.
“It’s a crisis — there’s no doubt about it,” said Memorial Hospital Chief Executive Kevan Metcalfe. “And they just keep coming.”
The crisis at Los Angeles County hospitals hit new levels as patients continued to stream in during the holiday weekend, and the medical system is bracing for a new wave of coronavirus spread arising from Christmas travel and gatherings. L.A. County’s cumulative COVID-19 death toll is expected to climb past 10,000 this week.
Hospitals are so inundated that they’ve resorted to placing patients in conference rooms and gift shops. But even so, many facilities are running out of space. Virtually all hospitals in L.A. County are being forced to divert ambulances with certain types of patients elsewhere during most hours. On Sunday, 94% of L.A. County hospitals that take in patients stemming from 911 calls were diverting some ambulances away.
“But soon, there won’t be any places for these ambulances to go,” said Dr. Christina Ghaly, the L.A. County health services director. “If every hospital is on diversion, then no hospital is on diversion.”
Advertisement
The number of people with COVID-19 inside L.A. County’s ICUs has broken records for 16 consecutive days, rising to 1,449 on Sunday, the most recent data available. Every day over the last week, there has been a net daily increase of 35 COVID-19 patients in ICUs — down slightly from 44 in mid-December but at a pace that’s packing even more critically ill patients into crowded facilities.
As of Monday morning, there were 54 available ICU beds across L.A. County, and half were for pediatric patients. Two-thirds of staffed ICU beds in L.A. County are filled with COVID-19 patients.
“All hospitals are experiencing this strain, but it’s especially more pronounced and more serious for some of the smaller hospitals,” Ghaly said. “Many hospitals have reached a crisis point and are having to make many tough decisions about patient care.”
There was evidence of this Monday in Huntington Park. With Community Hospital closed to visitors, East 58th Street became a waiting room. Cars waited outside the packed hospital parking lot, headlights on in the rain, as passengers waited for loved ones inside. Occasionally, a passenger exited a vehicle, umbrella out, to approach the hospital’s new main entrance, the “ambulance entrance.”
A Los Angeles Fire Department ambulance arrived, sirens blaring, and the driver unloaded a patient on a gurney. A single blanket hung off the side of the gurney, not fully covering the patient from the rain.
Hospital staff took the patient’s temperature and gave him a wrist tag. After checking him in, the firefighters wheeled the patient back out to the parking lot and into one of two makeshift white tents. Behind the thin covering that served as the tent’s door, the patient could be seen shuffling to a seat as a hospital staff member, holding a clipboard, spoke to him.
At Gardena Memorial, officials used the four-hour suspension of ambulance deliveries to move some patients home — or at least out of the hospital’s 10-bed ICU and into an expansion area previously reserved for postoperative patients — to make room for 18 others in need of intensive care.
“You have to be very resourceful and creative and utilize your resources maybe in ways that you haven’t before,” Metcalfe, the hospital CEO, said.
It’s a task that is proving increasingly difficult, as those resources are dwindling. COVID-19 patients require “triple the amount of oxygen,” Metcalfe said, so supplies that might typically last a week now last three days.
Even oxygen storage tanks on the hospital grounds are draining quickly because of increased demand, he said. If a hospital were to run out of oxygen completely, it would be in “deep, deep trouble,” Metcalfe said.
“Patients that are on these respirators that have high-flow oxygen, they could die,” he said. “You would try to use a [manual oxygen] bag, but if you’ve got 40 or 50 people, you don’t have enough staff that you can do that.”
The hospital is triaging new arrivals and sending home people who aren’t very sick, or those who can receive outpatient care, in order to keep numbers down.
“I’ve been in the business 40 years,” Metcalfe said, “and I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Larger hospitals are doing what they can to keep accepting patients.
Kaiser Permanente is postponing nonurgent and elective surgeries and procedures at its facilities throughout California. The pause will remain in effect through Jan. 10 in Kaiser’s Southern California region and through Jan. 4 in Northern California, according to statements from the healthcare consortium. In Southern California, Kaiser is not scheduling any new elective surgeries through January.
In extreme circumstances, hospitals could become forced to ration care — with doctors no longer pulling out all the stops to save a life and instead strategizing about where to most effectively use resources and equipment.
“We’re at a turning point. If it continues to get worse, many hospitals will begin rationing care,” said Dr. Elaine Batchlor, CEO of Martin Luther King Jr. Community Hospital in Willowbrook, a 131-bed facility that had 215 patients Monday.
Huntington Hospital in Pasadena also warned of that possibility in an information sheet for patients and their families.
Should the situation “reach a point where our hospital faces a shortage that will affect our ability to care for all patients,” officials wrote, then a clinical committee consisting of doctors, a community member, a bioethicist, a spiritual care provider and other experts “will review the cases of all patients who are critically ill” and “make necessary decisions about allocating limited medical resources based on the best medical information possible.”
“This unburdens bedside staff from making any decisions about triaging care when resources are scarce,” the hospital said.
At L.A. County-USC, the flagship county public hospital on the Eastside, officials are trying to improvise, but as they saw Sunday night, the steady flood of patients makes that difficult.
“We were just completely overwhelmed,” said Chief Medical Officer Dr. Brad Spellberg, adding that the hospital is trying to “daily, hourly, cobble together solutions to get us through this crisis.”
Conditions at the county hospital — one of the largest trauma centers in the western United States — have been steadily worsening since Thanksgiving, with an average of 10 COVID-19 patients arriving each day. On Monday, there were about 240 COVID-19 patients in all areas of the hospital, according to Spellberg, nearly twice the amount it was seeing during the surge in July.
In an effort to free up some beds in the ICU, the hospital on Monday opened a space previously reserved for postoperative recovery to accommodate intermediate-level COVID-19 patients, since operating rooms are now closed to all but emergency cases. Like many other hospitals in the region, L.A. County-USC has constructed field hospitals, or medical tents, to help with intake outside the ER.
But it’s not just the influx of patients contributing to bed shortages, Spellberg said. Many COVID-19 patients stay in the hospital far longer than average ICU patients, with some on mechanical ventilators occupying beds for six, eight or even 12 weeks.
And the anticipated “Christmas bump” hasn’t even begun.
“If there is a Christmas surge, we probably have not experienced it yet,” Spellberg said, noting that cases arising from that holiday may not show up for another week or two.
He added: “If that happens, Los Angeles County will turn into what New York was in April.”
Times staff writers Jaclyn Cosgrove and Harriet Ryan contributed to this report.


latimes--2020-12-29--Seven days, 29 killings: L.A. County's deadliest week reveals pain, inequity and injustice

On a night in late June , Carla Walton lighted a candle where a childhood friend had been gunned down the previous day .
Walton didn ’ t intend to stay long at the sidewalk vigil in Long Beach .
She had to be up the next morning to bury another friend — a young mother who ’ d been shot dead while waiting at a red light in Compton .
Her sadness over the bloodshed had boiled over into anger .
Walton called her daughter earlier in the day “ just ranting — ranting about gun violence , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ just going off.
” The violence circling Walton ’ s life wasn ’ t finished .
A man heckled the mourners at the vigil , provoking a confrontation .
He and four people in the crowd pulled out guns and opened fire .
Two bullets hit Walton .
She died in a hospital later that night .
Amid the COVID-19 pandemic , a rancorous presidential election and social upheaval over police abuses of Black people , Los Angeles endured another crisis in 2020 as killings and other serious violence rose sharply .
Homicides @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , to their highest level in a decade .
The week Walton died stands out .
From June 29 to July 5 , 29 people were killed across Los Angeles County — the deadliest week on record since 2008 .
Nine of the week ’ s victims died or were found by law enforcement on its first day ; at least two people were killed on each day that followed .
In an attempt to understand the year ’ s violence , The Times examined several of the lives that were lost that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ forces driving the bloodshed .
The victims were as young as 4 and as old as 69 .
They were shot , stabbed , strangled , burned and thrown out of a car .
They died in their homes , their cars , in the street and in jail .
A man was shot to death outside a market in an altercation over wearing a mask .
Two young girls were killed by their father , who then turned the gun on himself .
A homeless man was stabbed in the back by @ @ @ @ @ @ @ gunned down 45 minutes after being released from prison .
They were killed all over the county — in Long Beach , Lancaster , Hawaiian Gardens and Woodland Hills — but most frequently in South L.A. Thirteen of the week ’ s 29 victims died in the neighborhoods of Westmont , Vermont Square , Watts , Leimert Park , Hyde Park , Willowbrook and Florence .
It was a grim array not unlike those from previous , less bloody years .
The difference was simply in the volume of killings .
Law enforcement @ @ @ @ @ @ @ intervention workers and others attuned to the escalating violence say they believe the pandemic has contributed to the rise in killings , but the extent of its effect is unclear .
Nerves are on edge .
People are out of work .
Institutions that might have stemmed the violence — schools , workplaces , community centers — are closed .
Andrea Welsing , who leads the county ’ s Office of Violence Prevention , said only time and study would show how the pandemic figured into the year ’ s bloodshed , but @ @ @ @ @ @ @ led to more violence as people have become increasingly despondent and cut off from their social touchstones .
“ I know there are a lot of factors , but there is a correlation with a lack of social engagement , job loss , isolation , ” she said .
“ There ’ s a lot more to be understood about the impact of COVID on violence.
” His assailant was waiting for him The week ’ s bloodshed began at 1 a.m. June 29 , after Eddgar Perez , 32 , got into @ @ @ @ @ @ @ car wash in East Los Angeles .
Perez drove off after the scuffle broke up , but his assailant was waiting in a nearby alley , a coroner ’ s report said .
The man pulled his car out suddenly , forcing Perez to a stop .
He fired two shots through Perez ’ s windshield , then walked up to his window and fired twice more .
Perez was one of 24 people killed this year in an area of East Los Angeles patrolled by Los Angeles County sheriff ’ s deputies @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the department ’ s 23 patrol stations , but its East Los Angeles outpost , which encompasses unincorporated county land and the cities of Commerce , Cudahy and Maywood , has seen the largest increase .
With nine killings last year , the homicide rate jumped more than 2½ times .
As the week ’ s first day ground on , the killings piled up : An inmate was stabbed in his cell at the federal lockup in downtown Los Angeles .
In a smoldering Woodland Hills home , firefighters found a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ a dozen stab wounds in his head , neck and back .
The man ’ s girlfriend told police she ’ d killed him in self-defense ; she has been charged with murder .
A 30-year-old cashier was shot in the head during the robbery of a 76 gas station in Lancaster .
At 8:30 p.m. , Lorenzo Hall Jr. , 27 , was hanging out with friends in the parking lot of a burger stand on the corner of South Vermont Avenue and West 89th Street when a car pulled up and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ holding a gun .
Hall took off running , weaving between cars in an attempt to dodge the gunfire , a coroner ’ s report said .
He was struck in the stomach and collapsed facedown in a planter .
William Lay , 31 , was also at the burger stand .
Two hours later , Lay was driving down West 106th Street when a car pulled up , blocking his path .
A person standing on the sidewalk fired into his silver Infiniti , killing him .
Marc Boisvert , a sheriff @ @ @ @ @ @ @ killing , says he believes the two incidents are related , but he ’ s not sure how .
“ How did they know he was going to be driving east on 106th Street ?
” Boisvert asked , puzzled about the shooters .
The attacks had the hallmarks of gang shootings .
Gang intervention workers said the pandemic had frustrated their successful work at interrupting cycles of retaliatory shootings that break out between rival gangs .
Before the coronavirus forced them to stay away , intervention workers could visit a wounded victim @ @ @ @ @ @ @ had targeted the person and why .
Now , hospital visitors are banned .
Kevin “ Twin ” Orange , an intervention worker , usually tries to visit victims ’ families in person — to offer consolation but also to quell tensions and stop spur-of-the-moment reactions .
“ If a mother says , ‘ I don ’ t want you to go out and hurt someone in my son ’ s name , ’ that might stop it , ” Orange said .
“ But we can ’ t do that — nope.
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ sense of hopelessness on the streets .
A gang member who already doesn ’ t anticipate living past 21 is weighed down all the more by the virus and the losses and trauma it brings with it .
“ There ’ s anxiety gangbanging where folks just don ’ t care , ” said Ben “ Taco ” Owens .
“ And they do things in broad daylight or randomly.
” Daniel Delgado , it appears , was targeted because someone mistook him for a gang member .
Delgado , 19 , was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of July gathering when a car began following his burgundy Honda Accord in Wilmington .
Delgado turned off Pacific Coast Highway to try to get away , but gunfire erupted from the car .
A bullet went through his rear windshield and into the back of his head , a coroner ’ s report says .
LAPD Officer Jeffrey Tiffin , who is investigating the case , said he believed Delgado was attacked because his car resembled that of a rival gang member .
The killing has devastated Delgado ’ s tight-knit family @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the fifth of every month and visit his grave in Ranchos Palos Verdes every day .
“ Whoever did this to my son , he didn ’ t only kill my son , ” Roberto Delgado said .
“ He killed us.
” On the street , but he called his mom every week Within the soaring numbers of homicides , a disturbing trend stands out : Killings of homeless people are up .
This year , 64 people classified as homeless have been killed in the city , compared with 41 last @ @ @ @ @ @ @ according to the Los Angeles Police Department .
Within the boundaries of LAPD ’ s Central Bureau , which includes downtown ’ s skid row area , the number of homeless people killed rose to 39 from 22 last year , according to the department .
The Sheriff ’ s Department says it does not track homicides of homeless people .
Lt. Ryan Rabbett , who oversees the Central Bureau , said most of the killings of homeless people in his bureau had stemmed from disputes — over narcotics , property , a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ other flashpoints .
“ There ’ s a society within a society , ” Rabbett said .
“ It could be a bunch of different things.
” In the early hours of July 2 , Brian Stieber , 51 , was walking along a Metro Blue Line platform in downtown Los Angeles when he was stabbed in the back with a butcher knife .
Rabbett said that the attack was unprovoked and that Stieber didn ’ t know his alleged attacker , who has been charged with murder .
Both Stieber and the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Stieber ’ s family was shocked by the crime .
“ To think he was taken brutally , stabbed in the back ; he didn ’ t even have a chance to defend himself , ” said his niece Erica Strunk .
Strunk said she noticed a change in his personality after the Philadelphia native hurt his head in a work accident .
Later diagnosed with schizophrenia , he didn ’ t want to stay in one place for long , she said .
He landed in Los Angeles two years ago , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ still called his mother once a week to catch up .
“ This took a piece out of my heart , ” said his mother , Joan Boharsik .
He ended things for himself , the brother he ‘ inherited ’ In a year marked by isolation and social ties severed by the pandemic , the deaths of Jay and Jon Osborne stood out .
Jay , a 67-year-old widower with no children , had lost his job as a security guard in March after a drunk driver plowed into his truck and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , his cousin Harold Seymour said .
Jon , 65 , was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder , according to Seymour and a coroner ’ s report .
Nine years earlier , after their mother ’ s death , he had moved into his brother ’ s modest two-bedroom condominium in Hawaiian Gardens .
Jay always resented having “ inherited ” his brother , who didn ’ t work and compulsively hoarded unopened CDs , DVDs and flashlights , Seymour said .
Jay struggled to find a new job during the pandemic .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ searching for work on the internet , “ as he had forgotten how to use computers , ” a coroner ’ s report said .
It wasn ’ t the need for money that drove him to find work , Seymour said .
More than money , he needed to get out of the house and spend time away from his brother .
With the virus shutting down businesses and keeping people indoors , there was nowhere for him to go .
“ They were stuck under the same roof , ” Seymour @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on June 29 .
Jay was slumped on the floor of his bedroom , a snub-nose .357 Magnum in his hand .
Before taking his life , he had placed in a trash can the casings from the three rounds he ’ d fired into his brother ’ s head .
Investigators learned that , days earlier , Jay had resigned as president of his local homeowners association in an email to other members .
He had scribbled instructions on a map of Rose Hills Mortuary .
His brother “ has a spot @ @ @ @ @ @ @ bit.
” He had a plot next to his wife at Forest Lawn , “ but I shouldn ’ t be buried there — I do her shame to God shame people fail.
” “ I can ’ t remember anymore , ” he wrote .
“ I don ’ t have resources to help my brother Jon.
” Remember her mom for how she lived , daughter says Faneka Williams hates it that her mother , on the last night of her life , was angry .
Carla Walton , 48 , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ through life mad , her daughter said .
She was a bus driver who befriended the passengers she steered through Compton and Wilmington for two decades , always wearing her trademark pink safety vest .
She doted on an 11-year-old grandson .
And she was known throughout Long Beach — the only place she ’ d ever lived — for the banana puddings and peach cobblers she passed out to homeless people during the holidays , Williams said .
But the killings of two friends in quick succession had taken a toll .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ a friend of Walton ’ s daughter , was stopped at a red light in Compton when a gunman pulled alongside on a motorized bike and opened fire .
Brown , 26 , was shot in the head .
Her 2-year-old daughter in the back seat was unharmed .
On June 28 , Archie Harris , whom Walton had known since childhood , was shot in the head after leaving a party for a nearby liquor store .
The next night , a crowd of about 60 people gathered on the sidewalk where @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Beach .
Walton planned to light just one candle and leave , her daughter said .
Brown ’ s funeral was the next morning .
But a man emerged from a nearby building and started harassing the mourners , a coroner ’ s report says .
When someone in the crowd shattered the man ’ s apartment window , he reemerged with a gun .
Four people in the crowd pulled out weapons .
Detectives would collect 45 bullet casings from the scene .
Caught in the crossfire , Walton was struck and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ from where her friend had been slain .
Williams rushed to the scene and got as close as she could to her mother .
A nurse , she wanted desperately to help her mother , but police kept her back .
In the chaos , mother and daughter locked eyes from a few feet away .
“ She said , ‘ I ’ m not OK .
I can ’ t breathe , ’ ” Williams recalled .
“ She said that with such certainty.
” Long Beach police have made no arrests @ @ @ @ @ @ @ differently now .
Gone is the belief that violence finds only the violent .
“ You think , ‘ I live in a city with gang violence , but I ’ m not a gang member , so I ’ m OK , ’ ” she said .
“ It ’ s not true .
”

On a night in late June, Carla Walton lighted a candle where a childhood friend had been gunned down the previous day.
Walton didn’t intend to stay long at the sidewalk vigil in Long Beach. She had to be up the next morning to bury another friend — a young mother who’d been shot dead while waiting at a red light in Compton.
Her sadness over the bloodshed had boiled over into anger. Walton called her daughter earlier in the day “just ranting — ranting about gun violence,” her daughter recalled. “She was just going off.”
The violence circling Walton’s life wasn’t finished. A man heckled the mourners at the vigil, provoking a confrontation. He and four people in the crowd pulled out guns and opened fire. Two bullets hit Walton. She died in a hospital later that night.
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Amid the COVID-19 pandemic, a rancorous presidential election and social upheaval over police abuses of Black people, Los Angeles endured another crisis in 2020 as killings and other serious violence rose sharply. Homicides rose by 20% in the county, to their highest level in a decade.
Carla Walton died at age 48 after being shot at a vigil for a childhood friend, also a victim of gun violence. (Gary Coronado/Los Angeles Times)
The week Walton died stands out. From June 29 to July 5, 29 people were killed across Los Angeles County — the deadliest week on record since 2008. Nine of the week’s victims died or were found by law enforcement on its first day; at least two people were killed on each day that followed.
In an attempt to understand the year’s violence, The Times examined several of the lives that were lost that week and what they showed about the forces driving the bloodshed.
The victims were as young as 4 and as old as 69. They were shot, stabbed, strangled, burned and thrown out of a car. They died in their homes, their cars, in the street and in jail. A man was shot to death outside a market in an altercation over wearing a mask. Two young girls were killed by their father, who then turned the gun on himself. A homeless man was stabbed in the back by a stranger. A 21-year-old man was gunned down 45 minutes after being released from prison.
They were killed all over the county — in Long Beach, Lancaster, Hawaiian Gardens and Woodland Hills — but most frequently in South L.A. Thirteen of the week’s 29 victims died in the neighborhoods of Westmont, Vermont Square, Watts, Leimert Park, Hyde Park, Willowbrook and Florence.
It was a grim array not unlike those from previous, less bloody years. The difference was simply in the volume of killings.
Law enforcement authorities, victims’ relatives, gang intervention workers and others attuned to the escalating violence say they believe the pandemic has contributed to the rise in killings, but the extent of its effect is unclear. Nerves are on edge. People are out of work. Institutions that might have stemmed the violence — schools, workplaces, community centers — are closed.
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Andrea Welsing, who leads the county’s Office of Violence Prevention, said only time and study would show how the pandemic figured into the year’s bloodshed, but it is clear that the crisis has led to more violence as people have become increasingly despondent and cut off from their social touchstones.
“I know there are a lot of factors, but there is a correlation with a lack of social engagement, job loss, isolation,” she said. “There’s a lot more to be understood about the impact of COVID on violence.”
His assailant was waiting for him
The week’s bloodshed began at 1 a.m. June 29, after Eddgar Perez, 32, got into a fight with a man at a car wash in East Los Angeles.
Perez drove off after the scuffle broke up, but his assailant was waiting in a nearby alley, a coroner’s report said. The man pulled his car out suddenly, forcing Perez to a stop. He fired two shots through Perez’s windshield, then walked up to his window and fired twice more.
Perez was one of 24 people killed this year in an area of East Los Angeles patrolled by Los Angeles County sheriff’s deputies. Homicides have risen at nearly all of the department’s 23 patrol stations, but its East Los Angeles outpost, which encompasses unincorporated county land and the cities of Commerce, Cudahy and Maywood, has seen the largest increase. With nine killings last year, the homicide rate jumped more than 2½ times.
As the week’s first day ground on, the killings piled up: An inmate was stabbed in his cell at the federal lockup in downtown Los Angeles. In a smoldering Woodland Hills home, firefighters found a man slumped against a bathroom wall, a dozen stab wounds in his head, neck and back. The man’s girlfriend told police she’d killed him in self-defense; she has been charged with murder. A 30-year-old cashier was shot in the head during the robbery of a 76 gas station in Lancaster.
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Lorenzo Hall Jr. was shot to death June 29 near Monster Burger at 8901 S. Vermont Ave. A man present at the killing died later that night about a mile away. (Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
At 8:30 p.m., Lorenzo Hall Jr., 27, was hanging out with friends in the parking lot of a burger stand on the corner of South Vermont Avenue and West 89th Street when a car pulled up and a man stepped out. He was holding a gun. Hall took off running, weaving between cars in an attempt to dodge the gunfire, a coroner’s report said. He was struck in the stomach and collapsed facedown in a planter.
William Lay, 31, was also at the burger stand. Two hours later, Lay was driving down West 106th Street when a car pulled up, blocking his path. A person standing on the sidewalk fired into his silver Infiniti, killing him.
Marc Boisvert, a sheriff’s detective investigating Lay’s killing, says he believes the two incidents are related, but he’s not sure how.
“How did they know he was going to be driving east on 106th Street?” Boisvert asked, puzzled about the shooters.
The attacks had the hallmarks of gang shootings. Gang intervention workers said the pandemic had frustrated their successful work at interrupting cycles of retaliatory shootings that break out between rival gangs. Before the coronavirus forced them to stay away, intervention workers could visit a wounded victim in the hospital to learn which gang had targeted the person and why. Now, hospital visitors are banned.
Kevin “Twin” Orange, an intervention worker, usually tries to visit victims’ families in person — to offer consolation but also to quell tensions and stop spur-of-the-moment reactions.
“If a mother says, ‘I don’t want you to go out and hurt someone in my son’s name,’ that might stop it,” Orange said. “But we can’t do that — nope.”
Other intervention workers are noticing a sense of hopelessness on the streets. A gang member who already doesn’t anticipate living past 21 is weighed down all the more by the virus and the losses and trauma it brings with it.
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“There’s anxiety gangbanging where folks just don’t care,” said Ben “Taco” Owens. “And they do things in broad daylight or randomly.”
Daniel Delgado, it appears, was targeted because someone mistook him for a gang member.
‘Whoever did this to my son, he didn’t only kill my son. He killed us.’ — Roberto Delgado, father of homicide victim Daniel Delgado
Roberto Delgado, 48, Sonia Banales, 44, and Isabella Barajas, 12, visit Daniel Delgado’s gravesite at Green Hills Memorial Park in Rancho Palos Verdes. (Gary Coronado / Los Angeles Times)
Delgado, 19, was driving a friend home from a Fourth of July gathering when a car began following his burgundy Honda Accord in Wilmington. Delgado turned off Pacific Coast Highway to try to get away, but gunfire erupted from the car. A bullet went through his rear windshield and into the back of his head, a coroner’s report says.
LAPD Officer Jeffrey Tiffin, who is investigating the case, said he believed Delgado was attacked because his car resembled that of a rival gang member.
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The killing has devastated Delgado’s tight-knit family. They hold a prayer vigil on the fifth of every month and visit his grave in Ranchos Palos Verdes every day.
“Whoever did this to my son, he didn’t only kill my son,” Roberto Delgado said. “He killed us.”
On the street, but he called his mom every week
Within the soaring numbers of homicides, a disturbing trend stands out: Killings of homeless people are up. This year, 64 people classified as homeless have been killed in the city, compared with 41 last year, a 56% increase, according to the Los Angeles Police Department.
Within the boundaries of LAPD’s Central Bureau, which includes downtown’s skid row area, the number of homeless people killed rose to 39 from 22 last year, according to the department. The Sheriff’s Department says it does not track homicides of homeless people.
Lt. Ryan Rabbett, who oversees the Central Bureau, said most of the killings of homeless people in his bureau had stemmed from disputes — over narcotics, property, a strained relationship, or any number of other flashpoints.
“There’s a society within a society,” Rabbett said. “It could be a bunch of different things.”
Brian Steiber was stabbed by a stranger on the platform at the Blue Line stop at Pico Boulevard and Flower Street in downtown Los Angeles. (Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
In the early hours of July 2, Brian Stieber, 51, was walking along a Metro Blue Line platform in downtown Los Angeles when he was stabbed in the back with a butcher knife. Rabbett said that the attack was unprovoked and that Stieber didn’t know his alleged attacker, who has been charged with murder.
Both Stieber and the suspect were homeless, Rabbett said. Stieber’s family was shocked by the crime.
“To think he was taken brutally, stabbed in the back; he didn’t even have a chance to defend himself,” said his niece Erica Strunk.
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Strunk said she noticed a change in his personality after the Philadelphia native hurt his head in a work accident. Later diagnosed with schizophrenia, he didn’t want to stay in one place for long, she said.
He landed in Los Angeles two years ago, drawn by the weather, but he still called his mother once a week to catch up.
“This took a piece out of my heart,” said his mother, Joan Boharsik.
He ended things for himself, the brother he ‘inherited’
In a year marked by isolation and social ties severed by the pandemic, the deaths of Jay and Jon Osborne stood out.
Jay, a 67-year-old widower with no children, had lost his job as a security guard in March after a drunk driver plowed into his truck and landed him in the hospital for weeks, his cousin Harold Seymour said.
Jon, 65, was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder, according to Seymour and a coroner’s report. Nine years earlier, after their mother’s death, he had moved into his brother’s modest two-bedroom condominium in Hawaiian Gardens. Jay always resented having “inherited” his brother, who didn’t work and compulsively hoarded unopened CDs, DVDs and flashlights, Seymour said.
Jay struggled to find a new job during the pandemic. He once asked a neighbor for help searching for work on the internet, “as he had forgotten how to use computers,” a coroner’s report said.
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It wasn’t the need for money that drove him to find work, Seymour said. More than money, he needed to get out of the house and spend time away from his brother.
With the virus shutting down businesses and keeping people indoors, there was nowhere for him to go. “They were stuck under the same roof,” Seymour said.
A deputy found the bodies on June 29. Jay was slumped on the floor of his bedroom, a snub-nose .357 Magnum in his hand. Before taking his life, he had placed in a trash can the casings from the three rounds he’d fired into his brother’s head.
Investigators learned that, days earlier, Jay had resigned as president of his local homeowners association in an email to other members. He had scribbled instructions on a map of Rose Hills Mortuary. His brother “has a spot by his parents down the way a bit.” He had a plot next to his wife at Forest Lawn, “but I shouldn’t be buried there — I do her shame to God shame people fail.”
“I can’t remember anymore,” he wrote. “I don’t have resources to help my brother Jon.”
Remember her mom for how she lived, daughter says
Carla Walton was fatally wounded on this stretch of Orange Avenue in Long Beach, where she had lighted a candle for her slain friend and a gunfight erupted. (Gary Coronado / Los Angeles Times)
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Faneka Williams hates it that her mother, on the last night of her life, was angry.
Carla Walton, 48, wasn’t the type to go through life mad, her daughter said. She was a bus driver who befriended the passengers she steered through Compton and Wilmington for two decades, always wearing her trademark pink safety vest. She doted on an 11-year-old grandson. And she was known throughout Long Beach — the only place she’d ever lived — for the banana puddings and peach cobblers she passed out to homeless people during the holidays, Williams said.
But the killings of two friends in quick succession had taken a toll.
On June 14, Shaylaah Brown, a friend of Walton’s daughter, was stopped at a red light in Compton when a gunman pulled alongside on a motorized bike and opened fire. Brown, 26, was shot in the head. Her 2-year-old daughter in the back seat was unharmed.
On June 28, Archie Harris, whom Walton had known since childhood, was shot in the head after leaving a party for a nearby liquor store.
The next night, a crowd of about 60 people gathered on the sidewalk where Harris had been killed in north Long Beach. Walton planned to light just one candle and leave, her daughter said. Brown’s funeral was the next morning.
But a man emerged from a nearby building and started harassing the mourners, a coroner’s report says. When someone in the crowd shattered the man’s apartment window, he reemerged with a gun. Four people in the crowd pulled out weapons. Detectives would collect 45 bullet casings from the scene.
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Caught in the crossfire, Walton was struck and collapsed on the sidewalk, just feet from where her friend had been slain.
Williams rushed to the scene and got as close as she could to her mother. A nurse, she wanted desperately to help her mother, but police kept her back. In the chaos, mother and daughter locked eyes from a few feet away. “She said, ‘I’m not OK. I can’t breathe,’” Williams recalled. “She said that with such certainty.”
Long Beach police have made no arrests in her killing.
Williams sees life differently now. Gone is the belief that violence finds only the violent.
“You think, ‘I live in a city with gang violence, but I’m not a gang member, so I’m OK,’” she said. “It’s not true.”
Times data journalist Iris Lee contributed to this report.