latimes--2020-06-24--In the COVID-19 era, they become U.S. citizens in a drive-through

For nearly three decades , Luis Osorio dreamed of becoming a U.S. citizen .
In the spring , Osorio , who left El Salvador 27 years ago , thought he was finally there .
That was before the coronavirus shut down much of the country , and two ceremonies in March were postponed .
On Tuesday , he finally got to take the oath to become an American .
It didn ’ t exactly go as the 47-year-old had dreamed .
It didn ’ t even go as Osorio had imagined it would in the COVID-19 era : people socially @ @ @ @ @ @ @ flags and a big screen for a virtual ceremony .
Instead , Osorio got to raise his hand in his blue Toyota Yaris in a drive-through in Laguna Niguel that some people mistook for a coronavirus testing site .
As he held on to a certificate and a tiny American flag , Osorio was grateful all the same .
“ I feel like a part of this country , ” he said .
“ I can represent my country.
” Since early June , newly minted Americans have been coined via drive-through naturalization @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and Immigration Services to protect against the dreaded coronavirus .
In this Orange County town , U.S flags hung from pitched-up tents , and the faint sound of “ The Star-Spangled Banner ” rang out from cars .
Guests could tune their radios to hear patriotic music and a message from President Trump that was played as a video during typical ceremonies .
Officials in traffic vests guided visitors through a monumental process that took less than 10 minutes .
At the end of the line , would-be citizens would be given the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ceremony happened even as visa restrictions make it harder for many immigrants to come to the U.S. On Monday , President Trump expanded visa restrictions and bars on green cards to target immigrant workers who pose “ a risk of displacing and disadvantaging United States workers during the current recovery.
” Osorio ’ s wife , Jossline , remained hopeful that her path to citizenship would continue .
“ It ’ s been difficult because all of the sudden they ’ ve said they ’ d stop processing for green cards , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been waiting for six to seven months now.
” As for the speedy drive-through process Tuesday , Sofia Wolters , a 52-year-old Dana Point resident from Germany , didn ’ t mind it .
“ It ’ s strange .
You can look back at this unique event that you got to participate in .
It ’ s kind of historic , ” Wolters said .
“ It ’ s a negative that you don ’ t get the impact of the full ceremony , but you can also say , ‘ Hey @ @ @ @ @ @ @ COVID-19 process.
’ '' The strangeness of the ceremony , and the oddly individualized experience that it provided , pleased some of the new Americans and their families .
Jacqueline Franciose , a Tustin resident , cranked open the window from the back seat to video her stepfather going through the oath .
“ When my mom and I naturalized , we weren ’ t able to take videos , and we were packed in like sardines , so at least it ’ s more personal , ” Franciose said .
Franciose was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the drive-through , and even happier after she successfully scrambled to find an American flag pin to adorn the jacket of Luis Cervantes , her 63-year old stepfather , who immigrated from Mexico three decades ago .
Iman Hanouneh , a 43-year-old Yorba Linda resident , immigrated from Jerusalem in 2009 to escape the conflicts there .
She moved to the U.S. to raise her children , who could not attend the ceremony because they suffered from asthma , a condition that could make them vulnerable to COVID-19 .
“ It ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I expected , but they have a big risk if they come , ” Hanouneh said .
In normal times , the ceremony features a jumbo screen and more than 10,000 people in the Los Angeles Convention Center , USCIS Public Affairs Officer Claire Nicholson said .
Now , about 300 people stop by the tents a day to finalize the citizenship process .
“ These naturalization ceremonies are a culmination of a life journey for some people and just the beginning for others , ” said Trung Vo , USCIS Santa Ana @ @ @ @ @ @ @ re honored to be part of the lawful immigration process and included in their special day.
” Even as she became a citizen , Lindha Larsson , a 47-year-old Irvine resident , wondered whether her mother in Sweden would be able to immigrate to the U.S. when she gets older .
“ I ’ m her only child , and I ’ m the only one who can take care of her , ” she said .
Despite the anti-immigrant sentiments that seem to have become more pronounced throughout the U.S. in recent @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in a country he has called home for decades .
“ I feel free here in this country .
I have more opportunities , ” Cervantes said .
“ And I wanted to be able to vote.
” Brian Gebel , a 26-year-old who immigrated from Argentina at the age of 15 , was glad to finally be a citizen .
He said he couldn ’ t wait to vote .
“ It feels good to actually have a voice now .
It ’ s a huge blessing , ” Gebel said .

Rochelle Reyes administers the oath of allegiance to Brian Gebel, 26, who moved to Yorba Linda from Argentina, as his mom, Liliana Gebel, listens during a drive-through ceremony in Laguna Niguel.
For nearly three decades, Luis Osorio dreamed of becoming a U.S. citizen. In the spring, Osorio, who left El Salvador 27 years ago, thought he was finally there. That was before the coronavirus shut down much of the country, and two ceremonies in March were postponed.
On Tuesday, he finally got to take the oath to become an American. It didn’t exactly go as the 47-year-old had dreamed. It didn’t even go as Osorio had imagined it would in the COVID-19 era: people socially distanced in a large room with American flags and a big screen for a virtual ceremony.
Instead, Osorio got to raise his hand in his blue Toyota Yaris in a drive-through in Laguna Niguel that some people mistook for a coronavirus testing site. As he held on to a certificate and a tiny American flag, Osorio was grateful all the same.
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“I feel like a part of this country,” he said. “I can represent my country.”
1 / 7 Talia Han, 1, hugs mom Thao Pham, who has just taken the oath of allegiance in a drive-through naturalization ceremony in Laguna Niguel. (Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times) 2 / 7 U.S. citizenship officer Rochelle Reyes, right, administers the oath of allegiance to Thao Pham in Laguna Niguel. (Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times) 3 / 7 A small line of cars waits as U.S. citizenship officer Newton Perez administers the oath of allegiance. (Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times) 4 / 7 Keith and Angela Burnett, who moved to Dana Point from England 40 years ago, take the oath of allegiance. (Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times) 5 / 7 Suely Franciose, right, and her husband, Luis Cervantes, celebrate his new citizenship. (Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times) 6 / 7 Tuyen Nguyen, who immigrated to Garden Grove from Vietnam, takes a celebatory photo with his wife, Chi Tran, and children. (Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times) 7 / 7 Joe Campobasso, who immigrated from Italy in 1958 and lives in Costa Mesa, celebrates after becoming a U.S. citizen. (Allen J. Schaben / Los Angeles Times)
Since early June, newly minted Americans have been coined via drive-through naturalization ceremonies set up by U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services to protect against the dreaded coronavirus.
In this Orange County town, U.S flags hung from pitched-up tents, and the faint sound of “The Star-Spangled Banner” rang out from cars. Guests could tune their radios to hear patriotic music and a message from President Trump that was played as a video during typical ceremonies. Officials in traffic vests guided visitors through a monumental process that took less than 10 minutes.
At the end of the line, would-be citizens would be given the oath from a safe distance.
The ceremony happened even as visa restrictions make it harder for many immigrants to come to the U.S.
On Monday, President Trump expanded visa restrictions and bars on green cards to target immigrant workers who pose “a risk of displacing and disadvantaging United States workers during the current recovery.”
Advertisement
Osorio’s wife, Jossline, remained hopeful that her path to citizenship would continue.
“It’s been difficult because all of the sudden they’ve said they’d stop processing for green cards,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for six to seven months now.”
As for the speedy drive-through process Tuesday, Sofia Wolters, a 52-year-old Dana Point resident from Germany, didn’t mind it.
“It’s strange. You can look back at this unique event that you got to participate in. It’s kind of historic,” Wolters said. “It’s a negative that you don’t get the impact of the full ceremony, but you can also say, ‘Hey, I was a part of the COVID-19 process.’”
The strangeness of the ceremony, and the oddly individualized experience that it provided, pleased some of the new Americans and their families.
Jacqueline Franciose, a Tustin resident, cranked open the window from the back seat to video her stepfather going through the oath.
“When my mom and I naturalized, we weren’t able to take videos, and we were packed in like sardines, so at least it’s more personal,” Franciose said.
Franciose was glad there was a photo stop at the drive-through, and even happier after she successfully scrambled to find an American flag pin to adorn the jacket of Luis Cervantes, her 63-year old stepfather, who immigrated from Mexico three decades ago.
Iman Hanouneh, a 43-year-old Yorba Linda resident, immigrated from Jerusalem in 2009 to escape the conflicts there. She moved to the U.S. to raise her children, who could not attend the ceremony because they suffered from asthma, a condition that could make them vulnerable to COVID-19.
“It’s sad. This was not the ceremony I expected, but they have a big risk if they come,” Hanouneh said.
In normal times, the ceremony features a jumbo screen and more than 10,000 people in the Los Angeles Convention Center, USCIS Public Affairs Officer Claire Nicholson said. Now, about 300 people stop by the tents a day to finalize the citizenship process.
“These naturalization ceremonies are a culmination of a life journey for some people and just the beginning for others,” said Trung Vo, USCIS Santa Ana field office director. “We’re honored to be part of the lawful immigration process and included in their special day.”
Even as she became a citizen, Lindha Larsson, a 47-year-old Irvine resident, wondered whether her mother in Sweden would be able to immigrate to the U.S. when she gets older.
“I’m her only child, and I’m the only one who can take care of her,” she said.
Despite the anti-immigrant sentiments that seem to have become more pronounced throughout the U.S. in recent years, Cervantes said he felt valued in a country he has called home for decades.
“I feel free here in this country. I have more opportunities,” Cervantes said. “And I wanted to be able to vote.”
Brian Gebel, a 26-year-old who immigrated from Argentina at the age of 15, was glad to finally be a citizen. He said he couldn’t wait to vote.
“It feels good to actually have a voice now. It’s a huge blessing,” Gebel said.


latimes--2020-06-24--Reformers want police to step back from mental health calls. The LAPD says it's been trying

The young woman was walking along the ledge of a parking structure downtown when Los Angeles police officer Stacy Pierce-Rogers arrived .
For more than an hour that night , Pierce-Rogers and the woman , who appeared to be in her 20s , talked about Taylor Swift , church , tarot cards and horoscopes .
At one point , the woman wanted to pray , so the officer held her hand .
“ I started praying with her , not really knowing what I was saying but just trying to make her feel better , ” said Pierce-Rogers of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ officers pulling the woman to safety .
It was among thousands of mental health calls the LAPD responds to annually .
Officers in 2018 were dispatched to more than 6,000 calls of actual and possible suicide attempts .
That may soon change .
Protests over police brutality following the killing of George Floyd have spurred a movement to redirect law enforcement funding to community services and reduce police contact with the public in areas such as mental health calls and involvement with the homeless .
Los Angeles City Council members have introduced a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that uses trained specialists , rather than LAPD officers , to render aid to homeless people and those suffering from mental health and substance abuse issues .
The LAPD , in fact , had already been moving in this direction , with a plan to divert some 911 suicide calls to a phone line run by Didi Hirsch Mental Health Services , a county-contracted provider .
In light of calls to defund the police and re-imagine public safety , LAPD Chief Michel Moore has spoken of the burden of officers filling gaps in @ @ @ @ @ @ @ on task after task after task , ” he said during a virtual community forum .
“ I believe when you take those other tasks away from us and give them to people who can handle that work more effectively and efficiently , it will allow us as a police department to provide for public safety with our core functions.
” While officers sometimes manage high-risk situations , like coaxing a jumper off a ledge , often they simply talk and provide resources to someone going through a mental health crisis .
Those @ @ @ @ @ @ @ without police intervention , said Lt. Brian Bixler , who runs the department ’ s crisis response support section .
“ We get , by default , dispatched to things we have to care for because no one else is coming , ” said Bixler .
“ Sometimes the mere presence of a police officer can increase [ a person ’ s ] agitation or increase their resolve .
… A person on a suicide hotline can talk to an individual for hours and link them to resources , and that ’ s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pandemic has stymied efforts to move forward with the change quickly .
Miriam Brown , deputy director of the emergency outreach and triage division at the county ’ s Department of Mental Health , said a proposal for her agency to fund an initiative “ was put on hold because of COVID-19.
” Bixler , though , said he ’ s searching for other financial support .
The calls to remove police from social welfare tasks come as police departments across the country report a growing number of mental health calls and search @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 2019 , the LAPD ’ s mental health triage desk received 20,758 calls .
“ People are calling because the police are a 24-hour service , ” said Chuck Wexler , executive director of the Police Executive Research Forum , a Washington think tank .
“ You get all these calls coming to the dispatch center , and the question is , who is the most appropriate agency to deal with it ?
” Under current protocols , an LAPD patrol unit dispatched to a suicide call will stabilize the scene , handcuff @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , determine if they meet the criteria for a 5150 hold , a detention of up to 72 hours for those deemed a threat to themselves or others , or for those gravely disabled due to a mental illness .
The LAPD ’ s 24-hour triage desk for mental evaluation pairs officers and county mental health specialists and will assess whether to dispatch a Systemwide Mental Assessment Response Team , or SMART .
Pierce-Rogers , a SMART officer and former emergency medical technician , tries to calm people by reiterating that they are @ @ @ @ @ @ @ be difficult to spare a person from the discomfort of being seen by neighbors in handcuffs or having police cars show up at their home .
Officers may try to cover someone with a jacket or lead them out through a back route .
“ I understand how they feel ; I can see it in them , ” said Pierce-Rogers .
“ They ’ re telling us we ’ re making it worse , but we have to follow our protocol and our policies .
...
Sometimes they just want to talk @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ‘ I feel better now.
’ ” Under a new scheme , the dispatcher could hand off a call from a suicidal person or third party to Didi Hirsch counselors .
A call wouldn ’ t be diverted if a person was threatening to jump off a structure or run into traffic , needed emergency medical attention , had a weapon in a public place or with people present or posed another public safety risk .
Didi Hirsch could also transfer the call back to 911 .
Such a system aims to minimize @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in the future because they were put in handcuffs or involuntarily hospitalized , said Sandri Kramer , the project and grants manager for Didi Hirsch ’ s Suicide Prevention Center .
“ There ’ ll be sirens involved and flashing lights — it ’ s definitely not a quiet way to get somebody some help , ” said Kramer .
“ You can imagine a person in high emotional distress — that ’ s the last thing they would need.
” In 2018 , less than 3 % of mental health calls , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of force by LAPD officers .
But several high-profile officer-involved shootings of people appearing to be in a mental health crisis have sparked outcries .
In 2018 , for example , a jury found two officers liable in the 2015 fatal shooting of Charly “ Africa ” Keunang , a 43-year-old homeless man .
The incident set off days of protest and prompted fierce criticism of how police deal with mentally unstable people in downtown ’ s skid row .
Bixler hopes fewer encounters will decrease “ suicide by cop ” attempts , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ provoke officers to use deadly force .
LAPD officers reported responding to 105 such episodes in 2019 — down from 163 in 2015 .
They identified the incidents by the person ’ s actions or by verbal statements , such as an individual asking an officer to kill them .
“ By us not even going , ” said Bixler , “ we are reducing the potential lethality of that event.
” It ’ s a grave concern for police departments .
In a 2009 study of more than 700 officer-involved shootings nationwide @ @ @ @ @ @ @ attempting to provoke police force .
But a 2019 study of Los Angeles police , co-authored by the LAPD and Cal State Fullerton , reported a low rate of fatalities stemming from these encounters .
In 419 cases examined between 2010 and 2015 , officers used lethal force in a small number of incidents , killing four people .
About 80 percent of the cases didn ’ t involve force .
The Houston Police Department is among a number of cities that divert some 911 calls to mental health professionals .
It might @ @ @ @ @ @ @ respond to a mental health call , while the average phone conversation for diverted calls is about 12 minutes , said Lt. Patrick Plourde of the department ’ s mental health division .
Amid the protests over Floyd ’ s death , San Francisco Mayor London Breed announced that police officers will be replaced with trained , unarmed professionals to respond to calls for help on noncriminal matters , including mental health , the homeless and school discipline .
That change and others are part of a plan by the mayor to try @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Brown , who oversees L.A. County ’ s mental health hotline , said a lack of resources has hindered efforts to connect the 911 system more directly to the hotline and embed clinicians with 911 dispatchers .
“ It ’ s not an easy fix , ” she said .
Randy Estrada , a SMART officer who worked as an emergency room technician before joining the LAPD , has responded to calls he believes would have been better suited for a hotline .
In February , he responded to a 911 call @ @ @ @ @ @ @ woman who was playing with a knife in her home .
The caller knew that the woman had attempted suicide before and struggled with depression .
The woman was taken to a station by officers , where she sat handcuffed in an interview room and spoke with Estrada .
“ She was bawling ; she wasn ’ t really listening to us , ” he said .
“ She wasn ’ t being forthright — she was minimizing the whole incident.
” After several hours , he determined there was no threat of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been avoided if the caller had been connected with a mental health professional , who may have helped to defuse the situation , Estrada said .
“ It definitely would have calmed her nerves , ” he said of the caller .
“ I think the person reporting didn ’ t know what to do with that situation .
”

The young woman was walking along the ledge of a parking structure downtown when Los Angeles police officer Stacy Pierce-Rogers arrived.
For more than an hour that night, Pierce-Rogers and the woman, who appeared to be in her 20s, talked about Taylor Swift, church, tarot cards and horoscopes. At one point, the woman wanted to pray, so the officer held her hand.
“I started praying with her, not really knowing what I was saying but just trying to make her feel better,” Pierce-Rogers said of the 2017 incident.
The episode ended with officers pulling the woman to safety. It was among thousands of mental health calls the LAPD responds to annually. Officers in 2018 were dispatched to more than 6,000 calls of actual and possible suicide attempts.
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That may soon change. Protests over police brutality following the killing of George Floyd have spurred a movement to redirect law enforcement funding to community services and reduce police contact with the public in areas such as mental health calls and involvement with the homeless.
Los Angeles City Council members have introduced a motion to develop a new emergency response that uses trained specialists, rather than LAPD officers, to render aid to homeless people and those suffering from mental health and substance abuse issues.
The LAPD, in fact, had already been moving in this direction, with a plan to divert some 911 suicide calls to a phone line run by Didi Hirsch Mental Health Services, a county-contracted provider.
In light of calls to defund the police and re-imagine public safety, LAPD Chief Michel Moore has spoken of the burden of officers filling gaps in social services.
“We have taken on task after task after task,” he said during a virtual community forum. “I believe when you take those other tasks away from us and give them to people who can handle that work more effectively and efficiently, it will allow us as a police department to provide for public safety with our core functions.”
While officers sometimes manage high-risk situations, like coaxing a jumper off a ledge, often they simply talk and provide resources to someone going through a mental health crisis. Those types of calls may be better served without police intervention, said Lt. Brian Bixler, who runs the department’s crisis response support section.
Advertisement
“We get, by default, dispatched to things we have to care for because no one else is coming,” said Bixler. “Sometimes the mere presence of a police officer can increase [a person’s] agitation or increase their resolve. … A person on a suicide hotline can talk to an individual for hours and link them to resources, and that’s preferable.”
The intrusion of the COVID-19 pandemic has stymied efforts to move forward with the change quickly.
Miriam Brown, deputy director of the emergency outreach and triage division at the county’s Department of Mental Health, said a proposal for her agency to fund an initiative “was put on hold because of COVID-19.”
Bixler, though, said he’s searching for other financial support.
The calls to remove police from social welfare tasks come as police departments across the country report a growing number of mental health calls and search for better ways to respond. In 2019, the LAPD’s mental health triage desk received 20,758 calls.
“People are calling because the police are a 24-hour service,” said Chuck Wexler, executive director of the Police Executive Research Forum, a Washington think tank. “You get all these calls coming to the dispatch center, and the question is, who is the most appropriate agency to deal with it?”
Protesters against police violence stop at the site where Charly “Africa” Keunang was killed on skid row in 2015.
(Marcus Yam / Los Angeles Times)
Under current protocols, an LAPD patrol unit dispatched to a suicide call will stabilize the scene, handcuff the individual and, in some cases, determine if they meet the criteria for a 5150 hold, a detention of up to 72 hours for those deemed a threat to themselves or others, or for those gravely disabled due to a mental illness.
The LAPD’s 24-hour triage desk for mental evaluation pairs officers and county mental health specialists and will assess whether to dispatch a Systemwide Mental Assessment Response Team, or SMART.
Pierce-Rogers, a SMART officer and former emergency medical technician, tries to calm people by reiterating that they are not in trouble.
But it can be difficult to spare a person from the discomfort of being seen by neighbors in handcuffs or having police cars show up at their home. Officers may try to cover someone with a jacket or lead them out through a back route.
“I understand how they feel; I can see it in them,” said Pierce-Rogers. “They’re telling us we’re making it worse, but we have to follow our protocol and our policies. ... Sometimes they just want to talk, and they’re like, ‘I feel better now.’”
Under a new scheme, the dispatcher could hand off a call from a suicidal person or third party to Didi Hirsch counselors. A call wouldn’t be diverted if a person was threatening to jump off a structure or run into traffic, needed emergency medical attention, had a weapon in a public place or with people present or posed another public safety risk. Didi Hirsch could also transfer the call back to 911.
Such a system aims to minimize instances where people might avoid seeking help in the future because they were put in handcuffs or involuntarily hospitalized, said Sandri Kramer, the project and grants manager for Didi Hirsch’s Suicide Prevention Center.
“There’ll be sirens involved and flashing lights — it’s definitely not a quiet way to get somebody some help,” said Kramer. “You can imagine a person in high emotional distress — that’s the last thing they would need.”
In 2018, less than 3% of mental health calls, or about 550 incidents, involved use of force by LAPD officers. But several high-profile officer-involved shootings of people appearing to be in a mental health crisis have sparked outcries. In 2018, for example, a jury found two officers liable in the 2015 fatal shooting of Charly “Africa” Keunang, a 43-year-old homeless man. The incident set off days of protest and prompted fierce criticism of how police deal with mentally unstable people in downtown’s skid row.
Bixler hopes fewer encounters will decrease “suicide by cop” attempts, instances in which a person tries to provoke officers to use deadly force. LAPD officers reported responding to 105 such episodes in 2019 — down from 163 in 2015. They identified the incidents by the person’s actions or by verbal statements, such as an individual asking an officer to kill them.
“By us not even going,” said Bixler, “we are reducing the potential lethality of that event.”
It’s a grave concern for police departments. In a 2009 study of more than 700 officer-involved shootings nationwide, 36% of incidents were people attempting to provoke police force. But a 2019 study of Los Angeles police, co-authored by the LAPD and Cal State Fullerton, reported a low rate of fatalities stemming from these encounters. In 419 cases examined between 2010 and 2015, officers used lethal force in a small number of incidents, killing four people. About 80 percent of the cases didn’t involve force.
The Houston Police Department is among a number of cities that divert some 911 calls to mental health professionals. It might take two hours for patrol officers to respond to a mental health call, while the average phone conversation for diverted calls is about 12 minutes, said Lt. Patrick Plourde of the department’s mental health division.
Amid the protests over Floyd’s death, San Francisco Mayor London Breed announced that police officers will be replaced with trained, unarmed professionals to respond to calls for help on noncriminal matters, including mental health, the homeless and school discipline. That change and others are part of a plan by the mayor to try to reduce police confrontations with the community.
Brown, who oversees L.A. County’s mental health hotline, said a lack of resources has hindered efforts to connect the 911 system more directly to the hotline and embed clinicians with 911 dispatchers.
“It’s not an easy fix,” she said.
Randy Estrada, a SMART officer who worked as an emergency room technician before joining the LAPD, has responded to calls he believes would have been better suited for a hotline.
In February, he responded to a 911 call from someone in a relationship with a woman who was playing with a knife in her home. The caller knew that the woman had attempted suicide before and struggled with depression.
The woman was taken to a station by officers, where she sat handcuffed in an interview room and spoke with Estrada.
“She was bawling; she wasn’t really listening to us,” he said. “She wasn’t being forthright — she was minimizing the whole incident.”
After several hours, he determined there was no threat of suicide. But the encounter might have been avoided if the caller had been connected with a mental health professional, who may have helped to defuse the situation, Estrada said.
“It definitely would have calmed her nerves,” he said of the caller. “I think the person reporting didn’t know what to do with that situation.”


latimes--2020-06-25--Bicycles have enjoyed a boom during the pandemic. Will it last as car traffic resumes?

In the late 1960s and early 1970s , young Danes took to the streets like their counterparts across the globe — protesting a political and societal system they believed was unjust , discriminatory and out of step with the times .
And as oil prices spiked , they fought to keep their cities and towns free from the congestion , pollution and noise caused by gas-guzzling automobiles .
Their efforts paid off ; Danes boast some of the highest bicycling rates in the world .
In Copenhagen , the nation ’ s capital , where there are more bicycles than @ @ @ @ @ @ @ commute to work or school by bike .
Nationwide , 26 % of all trips under 3½ miles are made on bicycles .
Now U.S. bicycle enthusiasts , advocates and industry analysts are wondering if some U.S. cities are on the brink of a Copenhagen remodel .
The combination of the coronavirus , shelter-in-place orders that kept cars and trucks off the roads , and a swell in activism have brought bicycle riders out in record numbers and made many reimagine city and suburban life — without the cars , traffic and polluted @ @ @ @ @ @ @ about bicycle sales and ridership when so many people have lost their jobs , ” or are ill or have lost love ones , said Tim Blumenthal , president and CEO of PeopleForBikes , a national bicycle advocacy group based in Boulder , Colo. “ But , trends are looking up .
And I think there has been a fundamental change.
” From March through mid-June 2020 , Eco-Counter , a Montreal-based engineering company that designs and provides bicycle and pedestrian counters , and analyzes data measured a 21 % increase in U.S. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in 2019 .
During that same period , the Rails-to-Trails Conservancy saw a 110 % increase in ridership on rail-trails compared to the same time in 2019 .
“ I try not to get too hopeful , ” said Blumenthal .
“ But I do think a lot of this momentum will remain ” as time goes on .
He said according to a weekly PeopleForBikes survey of 932 U.S. adults , 9 % of American adults say they rode a bike for the first time in a year , because of the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ riders say they will continue riding after shelter-in-place orders are removed .
In addition , roughly 42 % of those “ reactivated ” riders have children , said Blumenthal .
“ Given the widespread cancellation of youth sports programs , bike riding is one of the few outdoor activities that kids of all ages can safely and practically participate in , ” said Blumenthal , noting a big surge in kids bike riding .
In the Bay Area , families are inundating roads with cycling outings .
On Saturday , a dad and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ s notorious Old La Honda — a favorite climbing route by road cyclists along the Peninsula .
Nearby , scores of families sprinted , and dawdled along Cañada Road , which parallels Interstate 280 in the valley carved by the San Andreas fault .
Rainer Zaechlin , the owner of Menlo Park ’ s Menlo Velo , a small bike shop along El Camino , said in the 25 years he ’ s run the shop , he ’ s never been so busy .
Waitlists for standard tune-ups , which usually @ @ @ @ @ @ @ or two , are running four-plus weeks , he said .
And his supply of available bicycles — especially those costing less than $ 1,500 — is in short supply .
“ It ’ s crazy , ” said Zaechlin .
“ We just can ’ t keep anything in stock.
” Other Bay Area bicycle retail shops report similar shortages , and few entry-level bikes could be found on a search of Craigslist , EBay and Google .
Top-of the-line bicycles , however — those that cost more than $ 2,000 — @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said recreational bicycle orders are now taking weeks , if not months , to complete .
“ Many production facilities had to shut down ” during the pandemic , said Blumenthal .
Add that to a slump in trade with China , where many bicycle parts and components are manufactured , and the dearth is not surprising .
Nolan Moser , assistant vice president for the North American division of the Japanese bicycle component manufacturer Shimano , said sales for his company ’ s products were also in high demand .
“ New @ @ @ @ @ @ @ people are returning to cycling by fixing and using their existing bicycles , ” he said .
According to PeopleForBikes data , bike sales were up substantially from last year — 65 % greater than year-to-date 2019 .
“ The last three months stand as perhaps the best quarter for the bike industry in the last 50 years , ” he said , harking back to the early 1970s when “ bike sales were boosted by the Arab oil embargo , which created long lines at gas stations and expensive gas prices.
” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ I worry that the momentum we saw was short-lived , ” said David Snyder , the executive director of the California Bicycle Association , a bicycle advocacy organization in Sacramento .
“ The cars are already back.
” He said his organization ’ s research has shown that most Californians ride bicycles .
The problem is they don ’ t feel comfortable riding on the roads .
Instead , they ride when they ’ re on vacation or on rare occasions .
That hasn ’ t stopped his organization from trying @ @ @ @ @ @ @ routes and bicycling safer ” for people , he said .
And he ’ s happy to see Caltrans designate $ 7 million to “ quick build ” projects for local bike safety infrastructure .
The state provides $ 220 million annually for bike safety projects , but because of the pandemic , it has delayed the application process .
The $ 7 million infusion will allow cities and towns to set up temporary protective barriers on roads , for instance , to pilot bike lanes , or safe areas around street parking @ @ @ @ @ @ @ that have created “ Slow Streets , ” where cars traffic is limited .
Since the beginning of pandemic , Oakland , San Francisco , Redwood City and others have set aside certain streets to encourage more safe outdoor recreation .
Google Maps is now showing these streets , and many , including Snyder , are hoping they become permanent .
On Tuesday , Javier Melendes , 15 and Jesse Rivera , 13 , of Redwood City were taking advantage of the lack of traffic on Redwood City ’ s Stambaugh Street .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” Javier said , adding that when they do appear , “ we like to slow them down by doing wheelies and tricks .
It ’ s fun.
” In Los Angeles , by contrast , officials resisted closing streets during the shutdowns , ostensibly because health officials feared they could encourage crowds to assemble and spread the virus .
Snyder said more is needed to jump-start a Copenhagen-like bicycle culture than just slow streets .
“ Unfortunately , we don ’ t have a lot of time , ” he said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ find alternatives to cars and our economy requires us to find alternatives.
” Maybe , he said , it ’ ll be the children who started riding during this brief window who will grow up and make that change .
“ What happened in Denmark didn ’ t happen overnight , ” said Blumenthal of PeopleForBikes , which has seen a jump in the number of children riding bicycles .
It was the children who grew up on bicycles during Denmark ’ s surge that really ushered it forward , he said .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ it , maybe it ’ ll be these kids , ” he said .

Cyclists participate in a solidarity ride honoring the memory of George Floyd on June 5 in San Francisco. Bike sales and ridership have climbed because of the COVID-19 pandemic with fewer cars on the road.
In the late 1960s and early 1970s, young Danes took to the streets like their counterparts across the globe — protesting a political and societal system they believed was unjust, discriminatory and out of step with the times.
And as oil prices spiked, they fought to keep their cities and towns free from the congestion, pollution and noise caused by gas-guzzling automobiles.
Their efforts paid off; Danes boast some of the highest bicycling rates in the world. In Copenhagen, the nation’s capital, where there are more bicycles than people, 62% of its residents commute to work or school by bike . Nationwide, 26% of all trips under 3½ miles are made on bicycles.
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Now U.S. bicycle enthusiasts, advocates and industry analysts are wondering if some U.S. cities are on the brink of a Copenhagen remodel.
The combination of the coronavirus, shelter-in-place orders that kept cars and trucks off the roads, and a swell in activism have brought bicycle riders out in record numbers and made many reimagine city and suburban life — without the cars, traffic and polluted air.
“I feel awkward crowing about bicycle sales and ridership when so many people have lost their jobs,” or are ill or have lost love ones, said Tim Blumenthal, president and CEO of PeopleForBikes, a national bicycle advocacy group based in Boulder, Colo. “But, trends are looking up. And I think there has been a fundamental change.”
From March through mid-June 2020, Eco-Counter — a Montreal-based engineering company that designs and provides bicycle and pedestrian counters, and analyzes data — measured a 21% increase in U.S. urban-area ridership compared with the same timeframe in 2019.
During that same period, the Rails-to-Trails Conservancy saw a 110% increase in ridership on rail-trails compared to the same time in 2019.
“I try not to get too hopeful,” said Blumenthal. “But I do think a lot of this momentum will remain” as time goes on.
He said according to a weekly PeopleForBikes survey of 932 U.S. adults, 9% of American adults say they rode a bike for the first time in a year, because of the pandemic. And a majority of those riders say they will continue riding after shelter-in-place orders are removed.
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In addition, roughly 42% of those “reactivated” riders have children, said Blumenthal.
“Given the widespread cancellation of youth sports programs, bike riding is one of the few outdoor activities that kids of all ages can safely and practically participate in,” said Blumenthal, noting a big surge in kids bike riding.
In the Bay Area, families are inundating roads with cycling outings. On Saturday, a dad and two adolescent sons were seen descending Woodside’s notorious Old La Honda — a favorite climbing route by road cyclists along the Peninsula. Nearby, scores of families sprinted and dawdled along Cañada Road, which parallels Interstate 280 in the valley carved by the San Andreas fault.
Rainer Zaechelein, the owner of Menlo Park’s Menlo Velo, a small bike shop along El Camino, said in the 25 years he’s run the shop, he’s never been so busy.
Waitlists for standard tune-ups, which usually book out no more than a day or two, are running four-plus weeks, he said.
And his supply of available bicycles — especially those costing less than $1,500 — is in short supply.
“It’s crazy,” Zaechelein said. “We just can’t keep anything in stock.”
Other Bay Area bicycle retail shops report similar shortages, and few entry-level bikes could be found on a search of Craigslist, EBay and Google. Top-of the-line bicycles, however — those that cost more than $2,000 — were available.
Blumenthal and Zaechelein both said recreational bicycle orders are now taking weeks, if not months, to complete.
“Many production facilities had to shut down” during the pandemic, Blumenthal said.
Add that to a slump in trade with China, where many bicycle parts and components are manufactured, and the dearth is not surprising.
Nolan Moser, assistant vice president for the North American division of the Japanese bicycle component manufacturer Shimano, said sales for his company’s products were also in high demand. “New riders are getting into cycling, or people are returning to cycling by fixing and using their existing bicycles,” he said.
According to PeopleForBikes data, bike sales were up substantially from last year — 65% greater than year-to-date 2019.
“The last three months stand as perhaps the best quarter for the bike industry in the last 50 years,” he said, harking back to the early 1970s when “bike sales were boosted by the Arab oil embargo, which created long lines at gas stations and expensive gas prices.”
Others, however, are more circumspect.
“I worry that the momentum we saw was short-lived,” said David Snyder, the executive director of the California Bicycle Assn., a bicycle advocacy organization in Sacramento. “The cars are already back.”
He said his organization’s research has shown that most Californians ride bicycles. The problem is they don’t feel comfortable riding on the roads. Instead, they ride when they’re on vacation or on rare occasions.
That hasn’t stopped his organization from trying “to leverage the moment to make routes and bicycling safer” for people, he said.
And he’s happy to see the California Department of Transportation designate $7 million to “quick build” projects for local bike safety infrastructure. The state provides $220 million annually for bike safety projects, but because of the pandemic, it has delayed the application process.
The $7-million infusion will allow cities and towns to set up temporary protective barriers on roads, for instance, to pilot bike lanes, or safe areas around street parking.
He also pointed to the cities that have created “Slow Streets,” where cars traffic is limited. Since the beginning of pandemic, Oakland, San Francisco, Redwood City and others have set aside certain streets to encourage more safe outdoor recreation.
Google Maps is now showing these streets, and many, including Snyder, are hoping they become permanent.
Teenagers Javier Melendes, front, and Jesse Rivera ride their bikes down one of Redwood City’s “Safe Streets,” on June 23. (Susanne Rust / Los Angeles Times)
On Tuesday, Javier Melendes, 15 and Jesse Rivera, 13, of Redwood City were taking advantage of the lack of traffic on Redwood City’s Stambaugh Street.
“There aren’t many cars,” Javier said, adding that when they do appear, “we like to slow them down by doing wheelies and tricks. It’s fun.”
In Los Angeles, by contrast, officials resisted closing streets during the shutdowns, ostensibly because health officials feared they could encourage crowds to assemble and spread the virus.
Snyder said more is needed to jump-start a Copenhagen-like bicycle culture than just slow streets.
“Unfortunately, we don’t have a lot of time,” he said. “Our climate requires us to find alternatives to cars and our economy requires us to find alternatives.”
Maybe, he said, it’ll be the children who started riding during this brief window who will grow up and make that change.
“What happened in Denmark didn’t happen overnight,” said Blumenthal of PeopleForBikes, which has seen a jump in the number of children riding bicycles.
It was the children who grew up on bicycles during Denmark’s surge that really ushered it forward, he said.
“If we can’t do it, maybe it’ll be these kids,” he said.


latimes--2020-06-25--'Mind-blowing.' Eastside residents, community leaders react to the Jose Huizar case

As she watched the TV coverage of the FBI arrest of Los Angeles City Councilman Jose Huizar , Isela Gracian felt her heart sink .
Gracian , a former executive with the nonprofit East Los Angeles Community Corp. , spent a decade working with Huizar on efforts to build affordable housing , adopt anti-pollution measures and make life better for sidewalk vendors .
On Tuesday , Spanish-language Univision was talking about bribes and showing stacks of cash seized from the councilman ’ s home .
“ I can ’ t find a deeper word than disappointed , ” she said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ — the depth and extent of it.
” Federal prosecutors charged Huizar on Tuesday with felony racketeering , alleging he wrested cash bribes , lavish casino trips and five-figure campaign donations from businessmen who needed his help at City Hall .
Huizar has yet to enter a plea and , so far , his lawyers have said little , arguing that allegations should be discussed in court , not in the media .
But for some , the federal corruption case has dealt a crippling blow to the reputation of a politician whose @ @ @ @ @ @ @ not just on the Eastside but across the city .
Huizar , 51 , came to the United States as a boy from Zacatecas , Mexico , grew up in the working-class neighborhood of Boyle Heights and made his way through a series of top-tier colleges — UC Berkeley , then Princeton University and finally UCLA School of Law .
“ To achieve all that , coming from the neighborhood , is really hard , ” said Raquel Zamora , owner of Zamora Bros. restaurant on Cesar Chavez Avenue , and a former @ @ @ @ @ @ @ like — wow , we can do this .
Anybody here can go to college , go to a big university , and come back here and give back ” to their community .
Zamora , who lives in Boyle Heights , said Huizar ’ s life story helped spur her to enroll at USC .
Now , following months of allegations about illicit payments , she says she feels let down .
“ At one point , ” she said , “ he was good.
” Huizar was elected to the school @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , he won a council seat with major backing from then-Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa .
His career trajectory meant something to the district ’ s immigrant families , said political consultant Javier Gonzalez , a consultant on a number of political campaigns on L.A. 's Eastside .
Gonzalez said that in recent years , he occasionally walked with Huizar to a taco truck on Cesar Chavez Avenue , not far from the councilman ’ s home .
On those evenings , Huizar ’ s constituents would shout out his name , greet him on @ @ @ @ @ @ @ questions , Gonzalez said .
“ You know when somebody has status in a community , ” he said .
“ You can tell.
” For some Huizar supporters , that status has been diminished .
Boyle Heights resident Frances Sandoval said she voted for the councilman in each of his elections and now , she ’ s angry .
“ We trusted him , ” she said .
Sandoval said city workers should move quickly to remove the sign that bears Huizar ’ s name in front of his Boyle Heights field @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ He ’ s an embarrassment to the community , ” she added .
Atanacio Simiano , 82 , seated on a nearby bus bench , agreed that the allegations against Huizar were terrible .
But he said he is reserving judgment .
“ We ’ re just going to have to be patient about determining if he truly did commit a crime , ” said the Boyle Heights resident .
Huizar , whose district takes in such neighborhoods as downtown , Eagle Rock and El Sereno , has spoken regularly of his @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mother ’ s job at a meatpacking firm , and how his father , after working a regular work week , would head to the strawberry fields in Orange County to pick fruit .
In one video interview conducted by the Immigrant Archive Project , Huizar said he made sure to remember what it meant to lack the money to pay for basic life necessities .
“ I try not to forget how [ easy ] it was to join gangs when I was growing up , how easy it was to get @ @ @ @ @ @ @ easy it would have been to get involved in things that would have a negative long-lasting effect on our lives , ” he said in the interview .
In federal filings , prosecutors have portrayed Huizar as the head of a criminal enterprise , the recipient of about $ 1.5 million in improper financial benefits in a scheme involving developers and other businessmen .
In one instance , they said , a Chinese billionaire provided $ 600,000 in financial assistance to help the councilman settle a sexual harassment lawsuit .
Some who know @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sordid allegations with their own experiences .
Margarita Amador , a former member of the Boyle Heights Neighborhood Council , said the Huizar she knows checked in on her regularly while she was battling cancer .
The Huizar she knows visited another community activist after she became terminally ill. Amador said Huizar made the neighborhood cleaner and safer , renovating parks , adding more low-income housing and constructing a new police station on 1st Street .
No matter what happens in court , the case is “ not going to change my perception @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said .
“ I ’ m still going to be there for him and support his family , ” she said .
As the alleged corruption progressed , Huizar ’ s influence at City Hall has steadily waned .
After FBI agents searched his home , he was removed from several council committees , including the powerful panel that reviews and approves major real estate projects .
Huizar stopped attending council meetings in recent weeks , following calls for his resignation from his colleagues .
And on Tuesday , while he was still @ @ @ @ @ @ @ him , opening the door to the selection of a temporary replacement .
Residents of Huizar ’ s 14th District have not had a council member casting votes as L.A. 's political leaders debate budget cuts , relief for renters and strategies for ending police brutality .
Some in the district have voiced alarm over that situation , saying they are being denied representation .
Still , others have greeted Huizar ’ s arrest as a cause for celebration .
On the day of Huizar ’ s arrest , one group of activists @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Heights home , taping an eviction notice to his garage door .
“ The community won ’ t forgive , they won ’ t forget ” said the anti-gentrification group known as Defend Boyle Heights , in a message on Twitter .

As she watched the TV coverage of the FBI arrest of Los Angeles City Councilman Jose Huizar, Isela Gracian felt her heart sink.
Gracian, a former executive with the nonprofit East Los Angeles Community Corp., spent a decade working with Huizar on efforts to build affordable housing, adopt anti-pollution measures and make life better for sidewalk vendors. On Tuesday, Spanish-language Univision was talking about bribes and showing stacks of cash seized from the councilman’s home.
“I can’t find a deeper word than disappointed,” she said. “It’s just mind-blowing — the depth and extent of it.”
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Federal prosecutors charged Huizar on Tuesday with felony racketeering, alleging he wrested cash bribes, lavish casino trips and five-figure campaign donations from businessmen who needed his help at City Hall. Huizar has yet to enter a plea and, so far, his lawyers have said little, arguing that allegations should be discussed in court, not in the media.
But for some, the federal corruption case has dealt a crippling blow to the reputation of a politician whose life story had been an inspiration, not just on the Eastside but across the city.
Huizar, 51, came to the United States as a boy from Zacatecas, Mexico, grew up in the working-class neighborhood of Boyle Heights and made his way through a series of top-tier colleges — UC Berkeley, then Princeton University and finally UCLA School of Law.
“To achieve all that, coming from the neighborhood, is really hard,” said Raquel Zamora, owner of Zamora Bros. restaurant on Cesar Chavez Avenue, and a former council candidate herself. “It was like — wow, we can do this. Anybody here can go to college, go to a big university, and come back here and give back” to their community.
Zamora, who lives in Boyle Heights, said Huizar’s life story helped spur her to enroll at USC. Now, following months of allegations about illicit payments, she says she feels let down.
“At one point,” she said, “he was good.”
Restaurant owner Raquel Zamora says of Jose Huizar: “At one point he was good.” (Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)
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Huizar was elected to the school board in 2001. Four years later, he won a council seat with major backing from then-Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa. His career trajectory meant something to the district’s immigrant families, said political consultant Javier Gonzalez, a consultant on a number of political campaigns on L.A.’s Eastside.
Gonzalez said that in recent years, he occasionally walked with Huizar to a taco truck on Cesar Chavez Avenue, not far from the councilman’s home. On those evenings, Huizar’s constituents would shout out his name, greet him on the street and sometimes pepper him with questions, Gonzalez said.
“You know when somebody has status in a community,” he said. “You can tell.”
For some Huizar supporters, that status has been diminished. Boyle Heights resident Frances Sandoval said she voted for the councilman in each of his elections and now, she’s angry. “We trusted him,” she said.
Sandoval said city workers should move quickly to remove the sign that bears Huizar’s name in front of his Boyle Heights field office at 1st and Chicago streets. “He’s an embarrassment to the community,” she added.
Atanacio Simiano, 82, seated on a nearby bus bench, agreed that the allegations against Huizar were terrible. But he said he is reserving judgment.
“We’re just going to have to be patient about determining if he truly did commit a crime,” said the Boyle Heights resident.
Huizar, whose district takes in such neighborhoods as downtown, Eagle Rock and El Sereno, has spoken regularly of his humble origins. He has discussed his mother’s job at a meatpacking firm, and how his father, after working a regular work week, would head to the strawberry fields in Orange County to pick fruit.
In one video interview conducted by the Immigrant Archive Project, Huizar said he made sure to remember what it meant to lack the money to pay for basic life necessities.
“I try not to forget how [easy] it was to join gangs when I was growing up, how easy it was to get into a life of crime, how easy it would have been to get involved in things that would have a negative long-lasting effect on our lives,” he said in the interview.
In federal filings, prosecutors have portrayed Huizar as the head of a criminal enterprise, the recipient of about $1.5 million in improper financial benefits in a scheme involving developers and other businessmen. In one instance, they said, a Chinese billionaire provided $600,000 in financial assistance to help the councilman settle a sexual harassment lawsuit.
Some who know Huizar personally have struggled to reconcile the sordid allegations with their own experiences.
Margarita Amador, a former member of the Boyle Heights Neighborhood Council, said the Huizar she knows checked in on her regularly while she was battling cancer. The Huizar she knows visited another community activist after she became terminally ill.
Amador said Huizar made the neighborhood cleaner and safer, renovating parks, adding more low-income housing and constructing a new police station on 1st Street. No matter what happens in court, the case is “not going to change my perception of who he is,” she said.
“I’m still going to be there for him and support his family,” she said.
As the corruption case progressed, Huizar’s influence at City Hall has steadily waned. After FBI agents searched his home, he was removed from several council committees, including the powerful panel that reviews and approves major real estate projects.
Huizar stopped attending council meetings in recent weeks, following calls for his resignation from his colleagues. And on Tuesday, while he was still in custody, the council unanimously suspended him, opening the door to the selection of a temporary replacement.
Residents of Huizar’s 14th District have not had a council member casting votes as L.A.’s political leaders debate budget cuts, relief for renters and strategies for ending police brutality. Some in the district have voiced alarm over that situation, saying they are being denied representation.
Still, others have greeted Huizar’s arrest as a cause for celebration. On the day of Huizar’s arrest, one group of activists gathered outside the councilman’s Boyle Heights home, taping an eviction notice to his garage door.
“The community won’t forgive, they won’t forget” said the anti-gentrification group known as Defend Boyle Heights, in a message on Twitter.


latimes--2020-06-25--L.A. Times faces painful reckoning over race in its staff and pages

Two years after the Los Angeles Times reverted to local ownership , one of the country ’ s largest metropolitan daily newspapers is facing a painful internal reckoning over glaring deficiencies and missteps regarding race and representation in its pages and its staff .
On Wednesday , Executive Editor Norman Pearlstine heard from aggrieved newsroom staff members during a more than four-hour meeting examining the mistreatment of Black and brown editorial staff members past and present .
He acknowledged that the 138-year-old paper had failed to capitalize on an unprecedented opportunity to better diversify its newsroom since its 2018 purchase @ @ @ @ @ @ @ and his wife , Michele B. Chan .
Wednesday ’ s meeting was conducted by Zoom videoconference because staffers have been working from home during the COVID-19 pandemic .
It came three weeks into a raw and deeply emotional self-examination that has unfolded on internal communications channels , a wide-ranging discussion about the paper ’ s news coverage and treatment of people of color .
Emboldened by The Times ’ first newsroom union contract , staff members have openly chastised senior editors for allowing racial disparities to persist .
Rank-and-file employees demanded that @ @ @ @ @ @ @ saw the river of white people coming into your office , ” staff writer Esmeralda Bermudez said in a voice sometimes breaking with emotion , while directing one of the strongest critiques at Pearlstine and his hiring practices .
Bermudez and others said that The Times missed chances to hire or retain staff members of color even as it embarked on a hiring spree in the initial period after Soon-Shiong ’ s purchase .
“ We have work to do to convince you that this is just the beginning , ” Pearlstine said @ @ @ @ @ @ @ opportunity to fix things that have been wrong for a long time.
” After the May 25 killing of George Floyd , a Black man , by a white police officer in Minneapolis , journalists around the country have engaged in similar emotionally wrenching discussions about ingrained practices that have marginalized people of color .
At the New York Times , more than 800 staff members signed a petition protesting the publication of an opinion piece by Sen. Tom Cotton ( R-Ark . )
calling for the military to be sent into U.S. @ @ @ @ @ @ @ sparked by Floyd ’ s killing .
At the Philadelphia Inquirer , the top editor resigned after a column ran with the headline : “ Buildings Matter , Too.
” “ Our entire industry is going through this reckoning : How do we root out the anti-Black racism from our organization and from our coverage ?
” L.A. Times Deputy Managing Editor Shani Hilton said in an interview .
“ How do we stop the tides of white supremacy that invade , not only what we do , but all of society ?
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ ownership turmoil , a revolving door of managers , hundreds of staff cuts and a protracted bankruptcy process a decade ago reinforced an internal hierarchy that put people of color at a disadvantage .
It created a tiered newsroom , where veteran editors and reporters , who are largely white , have relied on a secondary class of primarily younger , less-experienced Latino , Asian and Black reporters who are paid significantly less than older counterparts , internal critics said .
During its bleakest days , from 2014 to 2018 , the paper @ @ @ @ @ @ @ young journalists of color to fill its thinning ranks and respond to major breaking news events such as wildfires and mass shootings .
In 2018 , The Times was rescued by Soon-Shiong and Chan .
They paid $ 500 million to buy The Times and the San Diego Union-Tribune from Chicago-based Tribune Publishing , which was poised to close The Times ’ Washington bureau and impose additional debilitating cuts .
The Times went on an unprecedented hiring spree , bringing on 110 additional journalists .
Today , The Times newsroom employs 502 journalists @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , even though Los Angeles County ’ s population is 26 % white , according to 2018 census information .
Latinos represent 13 % of the newsroom in a county where Latinos make up nearly half of the population .
The paper ’ s composition of Asian American journalists mirrors the county ’ s population at nearly 15 % .
The paper has just 26 Black journalists — 5.2 % of its staff — while nearly 8 % of county residents are Black .
And there is only one Black reporter — Angel @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , the newsroom ’ s largest section .
For 18 months , Jennings pleaded in vain with editors for a raise .
City Editor Hector Becerra went to bat for her , saying that boosting her compensation was the “ the right thing ... [ and ] also the smart thing.
” But Pearlstine and other high-level editors declined , saying the paper was in the midst of negotiating its first collective bargaining agreement .
That contract was intended to resolve pay inequities for dozens of staff members .
Management said it didn @ @ @ @ @ @ @ negotiations during contract talks ( although reporters who were being recruited by other organizations did get pay boosts ) .
It took 14 months to negotiate the contract , meaning that Jennings and other staff members had to wait more than a year to see their salaries grow — sometimes by as much as 60 % .
“ The last few years have been so painful , ” Jennings , who covers Inglewood and South L.A. , said in an interview .
“ Some days , I would cry and ask the editors @ @ @ @ @ @ @ this way ?
’ It felt like what was happening to me was personal , but it was just institutional.
” During this time , Jennings ’ coverage of the shooting death of rapper Nipsey Hussle attracted huge audiences that don ’ t normally read the L.A. Times .
Her story was the third-most-read on The Times ’ website in 2019 .
Among the stories that had the best engagement — the time that readers spent reading a story — her article was No .
1 .
( Jennings was given a bonus @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ) Soon-Shiong , a South African of Chinese descent , has personally felt the sting of racism .
When he was a young doctor in South Africa under apartheid , he fought to be able to treat patients in a whites-only hospital , even if it meant accepting half the salary of the white interns .
“ You can not understand racial inequality until you ’ ve truly lived it , ” Soon-Shiong said in an interview .
“ We can not and will not tolerate racism .
More importantly , this paper @ @ @ @ @ @ @ it , but address it in ways much more deeply and more inspiring than being accusatory .
People of color should be given an equal shot.
” Soon-Shiong , who has been investing tens of millions of dollars to subsidize the paper ’ s operations , noted that The Times has the most diverse staff of any major newsroom .
For example , the New York Times newsroom is 68 % white , the Washington Post editorial team is 71.2 % white and the Wall Street Journal newsroom staff is 79.4 % white @ @ @ @ @ @ @ by L.A. Times editors .
Still , others have pointed out glaring gaps : On Monday , the paper ’ s newly formed Black Caucus sent a letter to Soon-Shiong , asking for a public apology and for 18 additional Black journalists to be hired .
“ We don ’ t have enough Black journalists — or , more broadly , journalists of color — to cover our overwhelmingly diverse city , state and nation with appropriate insight and sensitivity , ” the letter said .
“ And most of us who do @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , under-valued and left to drift along career paths that leave little opportunity for advancement.
” Frustration spilled into the open Tuesday in a union-organized effort to publicly share Black reporters ’ accounts of mistreatment over past decades under the hashtag # BlackatLAT .
In addition , the Entertainment & Arts staff sent a letter to Deputy Managing Editor Julia Turner , signed by 34 staff members , complaining that all of the editing positions filled in the last 18 months have been with white editors .
Pearlstine , in an interview , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the group of senior-most editors , known as the “ masthead.
” In addition to Soon-Shiong , in the 14-member leadership group there are nine white editors , three Asian American editors , one Latino editor and one Black editor ( Hilton ) .
But Pearlstine acknowledged he ’ d failed because his deputies didn ’ t do an adequate job of hiring diverse talent .
“ I have replayed all our hiring and coverage decisions in my head , and I have been taking a hard look in the mirror , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ I haven ’ t liked everything I have seen.
” Editors took turns apologizing for missing a golden opportunity to make the newsroom more inclusive as it added more than 110 journalists in the last two years .
Turner said she recognizes how her hiring practices missed the mark , but she thought she would have opportunities to add more people of color — until the paper imposed a hiring freeze as ad revenue tumbled due to COVID-19 shutdowns .
“ I will do better , ” Turner said .
Managing Editor Kimi @ @ @ @ @ @ @ been doing a lot of self-assessment , and it ’ s hard when you realize that you have failed in some ways .
I ’ m sorry for that , and I am pledging to do better.
” One reporter asked whether Pearlstine would step down .
“ No , absolutely not , ” he said , noting that his contract extends into next year .
“ I feel that I still have work to do , that I want to do , but the revival of the Los Angeles Times will be @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his part , is critical of complaints directed at Pearlstine , saying the paper ’ s ambition has been larger and the journalism stronger under his leadership .
“ I want Norm to stay with us as long as he wants , ” Soon-Shiong said .
“ The changes in the paper — the Pulitzer Prizes and the accolades we received — speak volumes ... .
But there ’ s no question that we need to strive to do better.
” More than 30 journalists — former and current Times staffers — were @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
One veteran Latina editor related her anger after learning that her two male counterparts were paid significantly more than she was for performing the same work .
Another news editor recalled her feelings on her first day at The Times , when she arrived wearing a new blazer and pumps and carrying a brand-new briefcase .
She stepped into the elevator and a white male business executive smiled and asked : “ So are you the new cafeteria worker ?
” She replied : “ No , I ’ m a news @ @ @ @ @ @ @ newspaper ’ s history offers a parade of racist , slanted and dismissive coverage of minority groups , with much of it centered historically on anti-Mexican , anti-Chinese and anti-Black sentiment dating from the 1880s .
The Times was accused of inflaming racial tensions during the so-called Zoot Suit Riots of 1943 and the Watts uprising of 1965 .
In the 1990s the Editorial Board endorsed the relection of Gov .
Pete Wilson who strongly supported Proposition 187 , which would have denied public services to immigrants , and also faced criticism for @ @ @ @ @ @ @ riots or uprising .
“ How far back do you want to go ?
” said Felix Gutierrez , a professor emeritus at the USC Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism and a veteran researcher of minority voices in the news .
“ They set on a path where we weren ’ t their key audience ; the things that happened in our communities weren ’ t the things they wanted to see.
” Of particular concern has been the paper ’ s inability to retain Black journalists .
One award-winning Black reporter @ @ @ @ @ @ @ newspaper , recalled his hurt when The Times showed little interest in keeping him .
“ They didn ’ t even put an offer on the table , ” he said .
One of the flashpoints in the discussion has been Metpro , or the Minority Editorial Training Program , which the paper has relied on since 1984 to develop a pipeline of working journalists , including copy editors and photographers , from underrepresented groups .
But many young staffers complained about how Metpro had been mismanaged and abused .
Staffers said a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ including Pulitzer Prize-winners and high-ranking editors , had turned into a “ Survivor ” -like competitive culture where young journalists were pitted against one another .
Michelle Maltais , a Black editor who graduated from The Times MetPro program in 1998 before rising up the ranks to deputy director of audience engagement , left three years ago when she realized she would never have the chance to be a manager , with a staff , at The Times .
She is now the consumer editor at USA Today , managing staff members and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Times and I have no ax to grind , ” Maltais said .
“ But I ultimately left because I felt the promise of being able to manage people was never going to come to fruition .
It hadn ’ t in 20 years.
” The Times has committed to hiring a senior editor to oversee recruiting , career development , retention efforts and the MetPro training program .
Staff members will undergo unconscious bias training .
The paper has convened a diversity committee and promised to review its coverage of the Floyd @ @ @ @ @ @ @ view were represented .
It promised that it would add Black journalists to Metro and publish annual diversity reports to ensure transparency .
And , this month , in a symbolic step , the paper began capitalizing Black when referring to people who are part of the African diaspora .
Other news outlets have followed , including the Associated Press .
These efforts will be weighed against other challenges and advancements over time , said USC ’ s Gutierrez .
“ They hired some good people , but they haven ’ t hired @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ And until you get a critical mass , people who are good journalists and know their communities , you ’ ll always fall short of where you need to be .
“ The L.A. Times consciously lost touch with the community in which it was located , ” Gutierrez said .
Matt Pearce , an organizer with the newsroom guild , said The Times management must now directly address the demands of its Black Caucus .
“ Our members know that it is our responsibility to take the struggles of their @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” he said .
Bermudez , who was born in El Salvador and has written about raising a trilingual child , said the newspaper is at a historic turning point .
“ Ultimately who we hire and choose to nurture in our paper says a lot about how our leadership sees L.A. and about who we want the L.A. Times to be for , ” she said .
“ It is on our bosses to do the work , to find Latino and Black talent , to groom that talent , and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the city .
”

Two years after the Los Angeles Times reverted to local ownership, one of the country’s largest metropolitan daily newspapers is facing a painful internal reckoning over glaring deficiencies and missteps regarding race and representation in its pages and its staff.
On Wednesday, Executive Editor Norman Pearlstine heard from aggrieved newsroom staff members during a more than four-hour meeting examining the mistreatment of Black and brown editorial staff members past and present. He acknowledged that the 138-year-old paper had failed to capitalize on an unprecedented opportunity to better diversify its newsroom since its 2018 purchase by L.A. biotech billionaire Dr. Patrick Soon-Shiong and his wife, Michele B. Chan.
For the record: An earlier version of this story and in the June 25 Section A print edition said that the Editorial Board supported Proposition 187. The Editorial Board opposed Proposition 187 but endorsed the reelection of Gov. Pete Wilson, who was a strong supporter of the measure. The article also said there were three Asian Americans in the paper’s 14-member leadership group. In fact, there are four.
Wednesday’s meeting was conducted by Zoom videoconference because staffers have been working from home during the COVID-19 pandemic. It came three weeks into a raw and deeply emotional self-examination that has unfolded on internal communications channels, a wide-ranging discussion about the paper’s news coverage and treatment of people of color. Emboldened by The Times’ first newsroom union contract, staff members have openly chastised senior editors for allowing racial disparities to persist.
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Rank-and-file employees demanded that management do better.
“We all saw the river of white people coming into your office,” staff writer Esmeralda Bermudez said in a voice sometimes breaking with emotion, while directing one of the strongest critiques at Pearlstine and his hiring practices. Bermudez and others said that The Times missed chances to hire or retain staff members of color even as it embarked on a hiring spree in the initial period after Soon-Shiong’s purchase.
“We have work to do to convince you that this is just the beginning,” Pearlstine said. “It’s a great opportunity to fix things that have been wrong for a long time.”
After the May 25 killing of George Floyd, a Black man, by a white police officer in Minneapolis, journalists around the country have engaged in similar emotionally wrenching discussions about ingrained practices that have marginalized people of color.
At the New York Times, more than 800 staff members signed a petition protesting the publication of an opinion piece by Sen. Tom Cotton (R-Ark.) calling for the military to be sent into U.S. cities at the height of the protests sparked by Floyd’s killing. At the Philadelphia Inquirer, the top editor resigned after a column ran with the headline: “Buildings Matter, Too.”
“Our entire industry is going through this reckoning: How do we root out the anti-Black racism from our organization and from our coverage?” L.A. Times Deputy Managing Editor Shani Hilton said in an interview. “How do we stop the tides of white supremacy that invade, not only what we do, but all of society?”
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At The Times, years of ownership turmoil, a revolving door of managers, hundreds of staff cuts and a protracted bankruptcy process a decade ago reinforced an internal hierarchy that put people of color at a disadvantage. It created a tiered newsroom, where veteran editors and reporters, who are largely white, have relied on a secondary class of primarily younger, less-experienced Latino, Asian and Black reporters who are paid significantly less than older counterparts, internal critics said.
During its bleakest days, from 2014 to 2018, the paper relied heavily on a long line of young journalists of color to fill its thinning ranks and respond to major breaking news events such as wildfires and mass shootings.
In 2018, The Times was rescued by Soon-Shiong and Chan. They paid $500 million to buy The Times and the San Diego Union-Tribune from Chicago-based Tribune Publishing, which was poised to close The Times’ Washington bureau and impose additional debilitating cuts. The Times went on an unprecedented hiring spree, bringing on 110 additional journalists.
Today, The Times newsroom employs 502 journalists, but it is 61% white, even though Los Angeles County’s population is 26% white, according to 2018 census information. Latinos represent 13% of the newsroom in a county where Latinos make up nearly half of the population. The paper’s composition of Asian American journalists mirrors the county’s population at nearly 15%. The paper has just 26 Black journalists — 5.2% of its staff — while nearly 8% of county residents are Black.
Angel Jennings is the only Black reporter on the Times’ Metro staff. (Los Angeles Times)
And there is only one Black reporter — Angel Jennings — in local news, Metro, the newsroom’s largest section. For 18 months, Jennings pleaded in vain with editors for a raise. City Editor Hector Becerra went to bat for her, saying that boosting her compensation was the “the right thing ...[and] also the smart thing.” But Pearlstine and other high-level editors declined, saying the paper was in the midst of negotiating its first collective bargaining agreement.
That contract was intended to resolve pay inequities for dozens of staff members. Management said it didn’t want to do individual salary negotiations during contract talks (although reporters who were being recruited by other organizations did get pay boosts).
It took 14 months to negotiate the contract, meaning that Jennings and other staff members had to wait more than a year to see their salaries grow — sometimes by as much as 60%.
“The last few years have been so painful,” Jennings, who covers Inglewood and South L.A., said in an interview. “Some days, I would cry and ask the editors: ‘Why am I being treated this way?’ It felt like what was happening to me was personal, but it was just institutional.”
During this time, Jennings’ coverage of the shooting death of rapper Nipsey Hussle attracted huge audiences that don’t normally read the L.A. Times. Her story was the third-most-read on The Times’ website in 2019. Among the stories that had the best engagement — the time that readers spent reading a story — her article was No. 1. (Jennings was given a bonus for her coverage, managers said.)
Jennings is one of six journalists who sued The Times and Tribune Publishing this month, alleging “significant pay gaps among the L.A. Times workforce.” The proposed class-action lawsuit filed in San Bernardino County Superior Court alleges that the paper violated California’s Equal Pay Act by paying women and people of color significantly less than their white male counterparts since at least 2017. The Times declined to comment on the case but said the parties had reached a settlement.
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Soon-Shiong, a South African of Chinese descent, has personally felt the sting of racism. When he was a young doctor in South Africa under apartheid, he fought to be able to treat patients in a whites-only hospital, even if it meant accepting half the salary of the white interns.
“You cannot understand racial inequality until you’ve truly lived it,” Soon-Shiong said in an interview. “We cannot and will not tolerate racism. More importantly, this paper has an opportunity to not only address it, but address it in ways much more deeply and more inspiring than being accusatory. People of color should be given an equal shot.”
Dr. Patrick Soon-Shiong speaks to the Los Angeles Times staff in June 2018 after purchasing the newspaper. (Al Seib / Los Angeles Times)
Soon-Shiong, who has been investing tens of millions of dollars to subsidize the paper’s operations, noted that The Times has the most diverse staff of any major newsroom. For example, the New York Times newsroom is 68% white, the Washington Post editorial team is 71.2% white and the Wall Street Journal newsroom staff is 79.4% white, according to a survey pulled together by L.A. Times editors.
Still, others have pointed out glaring gaps: On Monday, the paper’s newly formed Black Caucus sent a letter to Soon-Shiong, asking for a public apology and for 18 additional Black journalists to be hired.
“We don’t have enough Black journalists — or, more broadly, journalists of color — to cover our overwhelmingly diverse city, state and nation with appropriate insight and sensitivity,” the letter said. “And most of us who do work here are often ignored, marginalized, under-valued and left to drift along career paths that leave little opportunity for advancement.”
Frustration spilled into the open Tuesday in a union-organized effort to publicly share Black reporters’ accounts of mistreatment over past decades under the hashtag #BlackatLAT.
In addition, the Entertainment & Arts staff sent a letter to Deputy Managing Editor Julia Turner, signed by 34 staff members, complaining that all of the editing positions filled in the last 18 months have been with white editors.
Pearlstine, in an interview, said he focused his hiring decisions on the group of senior-most editors, known as the “masthead.”
In addition to Soon-Shiong, in the 14-member leadership group there are eight white editors, four Asian American editors, one Latino editor and one Black editor (Hilton).
But Pearlstine said that what he failed to do was establish metrics that included hiring and promoting people of color and ensuring those goals were met by his deputies.
“I have replayed all our hiring and coverage decisions in my head, and I have been taking a hard look in the mirror,” Pearlstine told the staff Wednesday. “I haven’t liked everything I have seen.”
Editors took turns apologizing for missing a golden opportunity to make the newsroom more inclusive as it added more than 110 journalists in the last two years.
Turner said she recognizes how her hiring practices missed the mark, but she thought she would have opportunities to add more people of color — until the paper imposed a hiring freeze as ad revenue tumbled due to COVID-19 shutdowns. “I will do better,” Turner said.
Managing Editor Kimi Yoshino added: “I personally have been doing a lot of self-assessment, and it’s hard when you realize that you have failed in some ways. I’m sorry for that, and I am pledging to do better.”
One reporter asked whether Pearlstine would step down.
“No, absolutely not,” he said, noting that his contract extends into next year. “I feel that I still have work to do, that I want to do, but the revival of the Los Angeles Times will be a longer-term process.”
Soon-Shiong, for his part, is critical of complaints directed at Pearlstine, saying the paper’s ambition has been larger and the journalism stronger under his leadership.
“I want Norm to stay with us as long as he wants,” Soon-Shiong said. “The changes in the paper — the Pulitzer Prizes and the accolades we received — speak volumes.... But there’s no question that we need to strive to do better.”
More than 30 journalists — former and current Times staffers — were interviewed about their experiences for this article.
One veteran Latina editor related her anger after learning that her two male counterparts were paid significantly more than she was for performing the same work. Another news editor recalled her feelings on her first day at The Times, when she arrived wearing a new blazer and pumps and carrying a brand-new briefcase. She stepped into the elevator and a white male business executive smiled and asked: “So are you the new cafeteria worker?” She replied: “No, I’m a news editor on the Business desk.”
The newspaper’s history offers a parade of racist, slanted and dismissive coverage of minority groups, with much of it centered historically on anti-Mexican, anti-Chinese and anti-Black sentiment dating from the 1880s. The Times was accused of inflaming racial tensions during the so-called Zoot Suit Riots of 1943 and the Watts uprising of 1965. In the 1990s, the Editorial Board endorsed the reelection of Gov. Pete Wilson, a strong supporter of Proposition 187, which would have denied public services to undocumented immigrants, and also faced criticism for its coverage of the 1992 Rodney King riots and uprising.
“How far back do you want to go?” said Felix Gutierrez, a professor emeritus at the USC Annenberg School for Communication and Journalism and a veteran researcher of minority voices in the news. “They set on a path where we weren’t their key audience; the things that happened in our communities weren’t the things they wanted to see.”
Of particular concern has been the paper’s inability to retain Black journalists. One award-winning Black reporter, who was plucked by a larger newspaper, recalled his hurt when The Times showed little interest in keeping him. “They didn’t even put an offer on the table,” he said.
One of the flashpoints in the discussion has been Metpro, originally known as the Minority Editorial Training Program, which the paper has relied on since 1984 to develop a pipeline of working journalists, including copy editors and photographers, from underrepresented groups. But many young staffers complained about how Metpro had been mismanaged and abused. Staffers said a program that has produced world-class journalists, including Pulitzer Prize-winners and high-ranking editors, had turned into a “Survivor”-like competitive culture where young journalists were pitted against one another.
Michelle Maltais, a Black editor who graduated from The Times MetPro program in 1998 before rising up the ranks to deputy director of audience engagement, left three years ago when she realized she would never have the chance to be a manager, with a staff, at The Times. She is now the consumer editor at USA Today, managing staff members and freelancers.
“I love the L.A. Times and I have no ax to grind,” Maltais said. “But I ultimately left because I felt the promise of being able to manage people was never going to come to fruition. It hadn’t in 20 years.”
The Times has committed to hiring a senior editor to oversee recruiting, career development, retention efforts and the MetPro training program. Staff members will undergo unconscious bias training. The paper has convened a diversity committee and promised to review its coverage of the Floyd protests to ensure that all points of view were represented. It promised that it would add Black journalists to Metro and publish annual diversity reports to ensure transparency.
And, this month, in a symbolic step, the paper began capitalizing Black when referring to people who are part of the African diaspora. Other news outlets have followed, including the Associated Press.
These efforts will be weighed against other challenges and advancements over time, said USC’s Gutierrez. “They hired some good people, but they haven’t hired enough of them,” he said. “And until you get a critical mass, people who are good journalists and know their communities, you’ll always fall short of where you need to be.
“The L.A. Times consciously lost touch with the community in which it was located,” Gutierrez said.
Matt Pearce, an organizer with the newsroom guild, said The Times management must now directly address the demands of its Black Caucus. “Our members know that it is our responsibility to take the struggles of their Black co-workers and make them their own,” he said.
Bermudez, who was born in El Salvador and has written about raising a trilingual child, said the newspaper is at a historic turning point.
“Ultimately who we hire and choose to nurture in our paper says a lot about how our leadership sees L.A. and about who we want the L.A. Times to be for,” she said. “It is on our bosses to do the work, to find Latino and Black talent, to groom that talent, and keep it real and reflect the face of the city.”


latimes--2020-06-25--Shooting at Santa Ana cemetery leaves one person dead

A shooting at Santa Ana Cemetery Wednesday evening left one person dead at the scene while another was taken to @ @ @ @ @ .
Anthony Bertagna , a Santa Ana Police spokesperson , said a call was received @ @ @ @ @ the cemetery at 6:30 p.m .
The cemetery was incorrectly first identified by Santa Ana @ @ @ @ @ & Mortuary , 1702 Fairhaven Ave .
The body was found on adjacent Santa Ana @ @ @ @ @ Clara Ave. Paramedics declared one man dead upon arrival while another male was taken to @ @ @ @ @ both men were unknown , as is the condition of the injured person .
According @ @ @ @ @ large group of people ” were in attendance when the shootings took place .
It @ @ @ @ @ were involved .
Suspects fled the memorial park by vehicle .
It is unclear whether @ @ @ @ @ a funeral service .
The shooting is under investigation .

A shooting at Santa Ana Cemetery on Wednesday left one man dead and one injured.
A shooting at Santa Ana Cemetery Wednesday evening left one person dead at the scene while another was taken to a trauma center.
Cpl. Anthony Bertagna, a Santa Ana Police spokesperson, said a call was received of shots being fired inside the cemetery at 6:30 p.m.
The cemetery was incorrectly first identified by Santa Ana Police as Fairhaven Memorial Park & Mortuary, 1702 Fairhaven Ave. The body was found on adjacent Santa Ana Cemetery, 1919 E. Santa Clara Ave.
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Paramedics declared one man dead upon arrival while another male was taken to a hospital. Ages of both men were unknown, as is the condition of the injured person.
According to Bertagna, a “large group of people” were in attendance when the shootings took place. It is unknown how many shooters were involved. Suspects fled the memorial park by vehicle.
#SantaAnaPD #PublicAdvisory - Police activity at Fairhaven Cemetery (1702 Fairhaven Avenue). Detectives currently investigating a homicide. Please stay away from the area #SAPDPIO #activeinvestigation — SantaAnaPD (@SantaAnaPD) June 25, 2020
It is unclear whether the gunfire broke out during a funeral service.
The shooting is under investigation.