latimes--2020-09-02--'I'm sad, and I'm mad': Killing of Black cyclist by L.A. County deputies sparks outrage, grief

Anthony Johnson spent Tuesday morning cleaning blood from the sidewalk where his nephew was shot and killed by two Los Angeles County sheriff ’ s deputies the day before .
It was a familiar scene for some in the Westmont neighborhood — Dijon Kizzee was the second man in three months to be killed by deputies within a block .
“ Right now , I ’ m sad , and I ’ m mad at the same time , ” Kizzee ’ s aunt Fletcher Fair said .
“ Why us ?
... We are tired .
We are absolutely @ @ @ @ @ @ @ led to the shooting of Kizzee , 29 , who relatives said was visiting the South L.A. neighborhood from his home in Lancaster .
His death , ending a summer of protests over racism and police violence that have swept the nation , elicited fresh waves of outrage , as well as renewed calls for law enforcement transparency and the demand that those involved be arrested and prosecuted .
The circumstances of the incident , which officials say began when the deputies were trying to stop Kizzee as he was riding a bicycle @ @ @ @ @ @ @ deadly force was warranted .
The Sheriff ’ s Department also came under fresh criticism from activists for failing to outfit deputies with body cameras ; the devices are scheduled to start rolling out at five stations in October .
The encounter Monday afternoon began when two deputies from the South Los Angeles station spotted a man , later identified by the coroner as Kizzee , riding a bicycle in violation of vehicle codes , said Lt. Brandon Dean .
He said he didn ’ t know which codes were allegedly violated .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ he dropped the bicycle and ran north on Budlong Avenue for a block , with deputies in pursuit , Dean said .
Deputies again tried to make contact in the 1200 block of West 109th Place , and Dean said Kizzee punched one of them in the face .
Kizzee then dropped a jacket he had been carrying , and a black handgun fell to the ground , officials said .
The Sheriff ’ s Department said Tuesday evening that Kizzee “ made a motion toward ” the gun , and the deputies @ @ @ @ @ @ @ grainy video of the incident obtained by The Times shows a physical altercation between Kizzee and the deputies before Kizzee tries to get away and falls to the ground .
A wall and fencing obscures the full scene , including where Kizzee ’ s jacket falls , before the deputies open fire .
Dean said he did not know how many times Kizzee was shot .
Sheriff ’ s officials said a handgun was recovered at the scene .
Ed Obayashi , a Plumas County deputy sheriff and national expert on the use @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s Department will likely face questions about why deputies chased after the man over such a minor offense .
While deputies have discretion in those circumstances , they “ have to weigh the risk benefit of pursuing someone for a violation as minor as this , ” he said .
He said it ’ s unclear what prompted the deputies to open fire .
“ He drops this bundle of clothes , they see a gun — and we don ’ t know what happened after that except for the shooting , ” @ @ @ @ @ @ @ really short on facts here ...
There ’ s , right now , obviously a lot of questions about this.
” Many in the community said the narrative is troubling .
“ The deputies essentially executed a man riding his bicycle , ” Najee Ali , a community activist , said Tuesday while standing with several of Kizzee ’ s relatives at the scene of the shooting .
Balloons were tied to memorial candles on the sidewalk , marking the spot where Kizzee died .
“ They ’ ll say he had a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ t say was that he was not armed with the gun .
He did not point the gun , ” Ali said .
“ There was no reason for deputies to shoot a running man.
” Sheriff Alex Villanueva on Tuesday expressed his condolences to Kizzee ’ s family , which he said includes a cousin who is a member of the Sheriff ’ s Department .
But he criticized activists , who later that night marched from the site of the shooting to the sheriff ’ s station , for not protesting @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of Andres Guardado , 18 , in June in Gardena .
One “ was beaten to death in the restroom of a supermarket in Lancaster about a month ago , ” Villanueva said .
“ That name is already forgotten by people .
The people on the streets are not saying his name.
” Fifteen apparent gunshots can be heard in a recording of the Kizzee incident from a neighbor ’ s home security camera .
Several witnesses said they heard at least a dozen gunshots and saw deputies continue to shoot Kizzee @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Alida Trejo , 52 , said she heard between eight and 11 shots .
She was sitting by her sewing machine when she looked out the window and saw a man being chased by a sheriff ’ s deputy .
Curious , she walked outside to see what was happening and saw the deputy struggling to arrest the man .
Neighbors were yelling at the man not to resist and telling the deputy not to shoot .
“ They say the man punched the deputy , but I never saw that happen @ @ @ @ @ @ @ daughter , Liz , was in her room taking a college prep course when she heard gunshots and her mother ’ s screams .
She ran outside and saw her mom yelling and crying hysterically , “ They killed him .
They killed him.
” Latiera Irby , 29 , had stopped by her mother ’ s house Monday to get her hair done when Kizzee came up to her car — on the street where he was shot — as he was running from deputies .
“ He said , ‘ They @ @ @ @ @ @ @ they ’ re coming to get me , ’ ” she said .
Kizzee offered her money to drive him away .
“ I didn ’ t know who he was running from , so I told him no.
” Shortly after , she saw him get into a scuffle with a sheriff ’ s deputy .
At one point , she said , the deputy backed away , then shot Kizzee .
She said that deputy and another fired at Kizzee after he had fallen to the ground .
“ He had @ @ @ @ @ @ @ said .
Irby said she did not sleep Monday night , unable to get the shooting out of her head .
“ All I could see is that man on the ground and [ them ] still shooting him , ” she said .
Timothy Ingram said authorities handcuffed Kizzee minutes after he was shot .
He said officials refused to cover the body , despite neighbors pleading with them to do so .
Authorities , he said , didn ’ t take Kizzee ’ s body away until about midnight or 1 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he was shot .
“ I stayed here until they moved the body , ” said Ingram , 52 .
“ I was not going to leave .
...
I felt it was my civic duty to watch over that man.
” In that same neighborhood , a young Latino man , Robert Avitia , was shot and killed by deputies just three months ago — a day after the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis .
The Sheriff ’ s Department said Avitia , 18 , was wanted on suspicion of murder @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Residents were reeling from the violence .
“ I think we ’ re gon na need some damn counseling , ” said Bobbie Lee , 51 , referring to the neighbors , including her daughter , who had seen Kizzee ’ s body .
Tuesday morning , Johnson , Kizzee ’ s uncle , pointed to plastic gloves lying on the pavement , which he said had been left there by law enforcement .
“ They shot him .
They killed him .
The least they could have done was clean up @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Kizzee ’ s aunt said he had come to the area to visit friends .
Kizzee , an unemployed plumber , did not have children and is survived by his younger brother , who just graduated from high school , his family said .
Johnson described Kizzee as someone who was “ the life of the party ” and said he last saw his nephew about a week ago in Palmdale .
“ We kind of had a head bump , and I said , ‘ I love you , ’ and he @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ’ and I told him to stay safe , ” he said .

Leila Miller, Ruben Vives, Matthew Ormseth, Alene Tchekmedyian

Community activist Reggie Cole visits the site where Dijon Kizzee, 29, was shot and killed Monday by two L.A. County sheriff’s deputies.
Anthony Johnson spent Tuesday morning cleaning blood from the sidewalk where his nephew was shot and killed by two Los Angeles County sheriff’s deputies the day before.
It was a familiar scene for some in the Westmont neighborhood — Dijon Kizzee was the second man in three months to be killed by deputies within a block.
“Right now, I’m sad, and I’m mad at the same time,” Kizzee’s aunt Fletcher Fair said. “Why us? ... We are tired. We are absolutely tired.”
Many questions remain about what led to the shooting of Kizzee, 29, who relatives said was visiting the South L.A. neighborhood from his home in Lancaster.
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Fletcher Fair, left, visits the site near the intersection of West 109th Place and South Budlong Avenue where her nephew Dijon Kizzee, 29, was killed by L.A. County Sheriff’s deputies. (Luis Sinco / Los Angeles Times)
His death, ending a summer of protests over racism and police violence that have swept the nation, elicited fresh waves of outrage, as well as renewed calls for law enforcement transparency and the demand that those involved be arrested and prosecuted.
The circumstances of the incident, which officials say began when the deputies were trying to stop Kizzee as he was riding a bicycle, have led to questions about whether deadly force was warranted. The Sheriff’s Department also came under fresh criticism from activists for failing to outfit deputies with body cameras; the devices are scheduled to start rolling out at five stations in October.
The encounter Monday afternoon began when two deputies from the South Los Angeles station spotted a man, later identified by the coroner as Kizzee, riding a bicycle in violation of vehicle codes, said Lt. Brandon Dean. He said he didn’t know which codes were allegedly violated.
Deputies attempted to contact Kizzee, but he dropped the bicycle and ran north on Budlong Avenue for a block, with deputies in pursuit, Dean said. Deputies again tried to make contact in the 1200 block of West 109th Place, and Dean said Kizzee punched one of them in the face.
Kizzee then dropped a jacket he had been carrying, and a black handgun fell to the ground, officials said. The Sheriff’s Department said Tuesday evening that Kizzee “made a motion toward” the gun, and the deputies opened fire, killing him.
A grainy video of the incident obtained by The Times shows a physical altercation between Kizzee and the deputies before Kizzee tries to get away and falls to the ground. A wall and fencing obscures the full scene, including where Kizzee’s jacket falls, before the deputies open fire.
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Dean said he did not know how many times Kizzee was shot. Sheriff’s officials said a handgun was recovered at the scene.
The incident marked the second killing in the neighborhood by deputies in three months. (Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
Ed Obayashi, a Plumas County deputy sheriff and national expert on the use of force, said the Sheriff’s Department will likely face questions about why deputies chased after the man over such a minor offense. While deputies have discretion in those circumstances, they “have to weigh the risk benefit of pursuing someone for a violation as minor as this,” he said.
He said it’s unclear what prompted the deputies to open fire.
“He drops this bundle of clothes, they see a gun — and we don’t know what happened after that except for the shooting,” he said. “We’re really short on facts here ... There’s, right now, obviously a lot of questions about this.”
Many in the community said the narrative is troubling.
“The deputies essentially executed a man riding his bicycle,” Najee Ali, a community activist, said Tuesday while standing with several of Kizzee’s relatives at the scene of the shooting. Balloons were tied to memorial candles on the sidewalk, marking the spot where Kizzee died.
“They’ll say he had a gun, but what they won’t say was that he was not armed with the gun. He did not point the gun,” Ali said. “There was no reason for deputies to shoot a running man.”
Sheriff Alex Villanueva on Tuesday expressed his condolences to Kizzee’s family, which he said includes a cousin who is a member of the Sheriff’s Department. But he criticized activists, who later that night marched from the site of the shooting to the sheriff’s station, for not protesting other homicides since the controversial deputy killing of Andres Guardado, 18, in June in Gardena.
One “was beaten to death in the restroom of a supermarket in Lancaster about a month ago,” Villanueva said. “That name is already forgotten by people. The people on the streets are not saying his name.”
Fifteen apparent gunshots can be heard in a recording of the Kizzee incident from a neighbor’s home security camera. Several witnesses said they heard at least a dozen gunshots and saw deputies continue to shoot Kizzee once he had fallen to the ground.
Alida Trejo, 52, said she heard between eight and 11 shots. She was sitting by her sewing machine when she looked out the window and saw a man being chased by a sheriff’s deputy.
Curious, she walked outside to see what was happening and saw the deputy struggling to arrest the man. Neighbors were yelling at the man not to resist and telling the deputy not to shoot.
Residents face off with sheriff’s deputies hours after the killing. (Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
“They say the man punched the deputy, but I never saw that happen,” Trejo said.
Then, gunfire erupted.
Her 16-year-old daughter, Liz, was in her room taking a college prep course when she heard gunshots and her mother’s screams.
She ran outside and saw her mom yelling and crying hysterically, “They killed him. They killed him.”
Latiera Irby, 29, had stopped by her mother’s house Monday to get her hair done when Kizzee came up to her car — on the street where he was shot — as he was running from deputies.
“He said, ‘They’re coming to get me; they’re coming to get me,’” she said. Kizzee offered her money to drive him away. “I didn’t know who he was running from, so I told him no.”
Shortly after, she saw him get into a scuffle with a sheriff’s deputy. At one point, she said, the deputy backed away, then shot Kizzee. She said that deputy and another fired at Kizzee after he had fallen to the ground.
“He had nothing in his hands,” she said.
Irby said she did not sleep Monday night, unable to get the shooting out of her head.
“All I could see is that man on the ground and [them] still shooting him,” she said.
Timothy Ingram said authorities handcuffed Kizzee minutes after he was shot. He said officials refused to cover the body, despite neighbors pleading with them to do so.
Authorities, he said, didn’t take Kizzee’s body away until about midnight or 1 a.m. — more than nine hours after he was shot.
A relative of Dijon Kizzee, hours after his killing, is distraught. (Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)
“I stayed here until they moved the body,” said Ingram, 52. “I was not going to leave. ... I felt it was my civic duty to watch over that man.”
In that same neighborhood, a young Latino man, Robert Avitia, was shot and killed by deputies just three months ago — a day after the death of George Floyd in Minneapolis. The Sheriff’s Department said Avitia, 18, was wanted on suspicion of murder and had pointed a handgun at officers.
Residents were reeling from the violence.
“I think we’re gonna need some damn counseling,” said Bobbie Lee, 51, referring to the neighbors, including her daughter, who had seen Kizzee’s body.
Tuesday morning, Johnson, Kizzee’s uncle, pointed to plastic gloves lying on the pavement, which he said had been left there by law enforcement.
“They shot him. They killed him. The least they could have done was clean up after themselves,” he said.
Kizzee’s aunt said he had come to the area to visit friends. Kizzee, an unemployed plumber, did not have children and is survived by his younger brother, who just graduated from high school, his family said. Johnson described Kizzee as someone who was “the life of the party” and said he last saw his nephew about a week ago in Palmdale.
“We kind of had a head bump, and I said, ‘I love you,’ and he said, ‘I love you back,’ and I told him to stay safe,” he said.
Times staff writer Luke Money contributed to this report.


latimes--2020-09-01--Alarmed pilot tells LAX tower: 'We just passed a guy in a jet pack'; FBI now investigating

The FBI has launched an investigation after an American Airlines pilot said he saw what appeared to be a man flying with a jet pack Sunday night near Los Angeles International Airport .
“ Tower , American 1997 .
We just passed a guy in a jet pack , ” the first American Airlines pilot states in a call to the control tower .
“ American 1997 , OK , thank you .
Were they off to your left or right side ?
” the tower operator answers .
“ Off the left side , maybe 300 yards or so @ @ @ @ @ @ @ pilot responds .
“ We just saw the guy pass us by in the jet pack , ” a second pilot from Jet Blue Airways then tells the tower , which warned another pilot about the sighting .
“ Only in L.A. , ” the air traffic controller says at one point .
FBI spokeswoman Laura Eimiller said Tuesday that agents at LAX were investigating after the pilot reported the incident to the control tower .
“ The FBI is aware of the reports by pilots on Sunday and is working to determine @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in a statement .
The Federal Aviation Administration also confirmed receiving the report .
“ Two airline flight crews reported seeing what appeared to be someone in a jet pack as they were on their final approach to LAX around 6:35 p.m. Sunday , ” spokesman Ian Gregor told City News Service .
“ The FAA alerted local law enforcement to the reports and is looking into these reports .
”

A jet comes in for a landing at Los Angeles International Airport.
The FBI has launched an investigation after an American Airlines pilot said he saw what appeared to be a man flying with a jet pack Sunday night near Los Angeles International Airport.
“Tower, American 1997. We just passed a guy in a jet pack,” the first American Airlines pilot states in a call to the control tower.
“American 1997, OK, thank you. Were they off to your left or right side?” the tower operator answers.
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“Off the left side, maybe 300 yards or so, about our altitude,” the pilot responds.
“We just saw the guy pass us by in the jet pack,” a second pilot from Jet Blue Airways then tells the tower, which warned another pilot about the sighting.
“Only in L.A.,” the air traffic controller says at one point.
FBI spokeswoman Laura Eimiller said Tuesday that agents at LAX were investigating after the pilot reported the incident to the control tower.
“The FBI is aware of the reports by pilots on Sunday and is working to determine what occurred,” the agency said in a statement.
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The Federal Aviation Administration also confirmed receiving the report. “Two airline flight crews reported seeing what appeared to be someone in a jet pack as they were on their final approach to LAX around 6:35 p.m. Sunday,” spokesman Ian Gregor told City News Service. “The FAA alerted local law enforcement to the reports and is looking into these reports.”


latimes--2020-09-03--Santa Ana embraced a 'defund the police' movement. Then came the police union backlash

For immigrant rights activist Hairo Cortes , the Santa Ana jail stood as a monument to oppression .
In a city with a large Latino population , elected leaders had turned it into a detention center for immigrants in the country illegally .
The jail became a rallying cry for a political reform movement that eventually led the Santa Ana City Council to phase out immigrant detention at the facility , improve police accountability and spend more money on badly needed community services .
In many ways , the effort foreshadowed what is happening in Los Angeles and other cities @ @ @ @ @ @ @ an end to police brutality and sweeping social reforms .
But Santa Ana offers a cautionary tale for the “ defund the police ” movement , one that underscores the fragile nature of such reforms even in predominantly working-class , non-white cities .
What happened in the short time following activists ’ victories , Cortes now says , was a sobering reality check .
The nationwide call to cut police budgets has been fueled by massive street protests against racism and police violence — a historic reckoning prompted by the death of George @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the knee of a white Minneapolis police officer .
The city of Los Angeles has voted to slash its police budget by $ 150 million , taking the force to under 10,000 officers , a staffing figure that had been the goal of city leaders for decades .
And Minneapolis has started the process of dismantling its police department altogether .
“ It ’ s like deja vu , ” former Santa Ana Councilwoman Michele Martinez said of the mood this summer .
The seeds of political revolution in the Orange County city @ @ @ @ @ @ @ primarily by a generation of young immigrants who lacked legal status but were able to attend college when a change in California law allowed them pay in-state tuition .
While at Santa Ana College , Cortes joined an immigrants rights group and helped organize a 2014 sit-in at the Washington D.C. office of then-Rep. Loretta Sanchez ( D-Santa Ana ) , demanding she ask President Obama to halt deportations .
In Santa Ana , Cortes and his colleagues sought to raise awareness about the city ’ s jail contract with U.S. Immigration and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ with residents who had never before engaged their city government .
“ For people who were hearing that the city had a detention center , it was like , ‘ Why ?
How ?
’ ” said the 27-year-old Cortes , who came to the U.S. from Mexico when he was 7 .
At the same time , a generation of immigrants was finding its political voice , the California Endowment — a nonprofit foundation dedicated to improving public health — was working to address stark inequalities in the city .
The foundation @ @ @ @ @ @ @ 91,000 residents and found that 42 % of the adults in Santa Ana lacked health insurance .
Generally , people faced hurdles to accessing healthy food , housing and education .
Activists sponsored by the project were organizing residents to lobby the city council for more park land , city-funded market spaces for Latino merchants , neighborhood micro-farms and developments with more affordable housing .
Over the years they marked several achievements .
The council voted to build a community center close to downtown , increase overall park space in the city and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to immigrants , as well as enact government transparency measures in a new city law dubbed the “ sunshine ordinance.
” But the watershed moment for activists was the end of the contract with ICE to hold detainees at the city jail .
In 2006 , following a precipitous drop in crime , city leaders entered into a contract with ICE to house immigrants facing possible deportation .
A decade later , according to a city staff report , the jail held 239 detainees for ICE .
It became a flashpoint in the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Ana Police Officers Assn .
— intent on preserving the jobs of dozens of correctional officers — and activists .
Amid intense lobbying from activists , the council in February 2016 backtracked on a proposal to expand the number of beds available to ICE for transgender detainees and instead directed the city manager to find ways to pay the jail debt without revenue from the contract .
Activists celebrated the victory on the steps of city hall , and planned their next move — calling on the council to terminate the contract ahead @ @ @ @ @ @ @ police budget continued to grow year-over-year , which included previously negotiated raises for officers , but council members rejected union requests for more generous pay increases .
Martinez , who served on the council from 2006 until she was termed out in 2018 , recalled that she and her colleagues were motivated by the demands of activists to fund other community improvements .
The council also backed a police chief who was cracking down on officer misconduct .
Among the police ranks , resentment was growing .
Santa Ana officers installed a new @ @ @ @ @ @ @ no-nonsense cop who accused the council of ignoring the city ’ s “ silent majority.
” In the November 2016 election , the union ’ s political action committee spent more than $ 400,000 , public filings show .
The election came as the city was experiencing a surge in shootings .
Santa Ana saw 23 homicides that year , nearly double the previous year .
“ Violent crime was up .
Shootings were up .
And the council majority was tone deaf to it , ” Serrano said .
Voters elected two @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Juan Villegas and Jose Solorio , and reelected longtime Mayor Miguel Pulido , who was also backed by the officers association .
A few months after the new council was installed , Police Chief Carlos Rojas resigned .
He filed a lawsuit claiming that Serrano had made offers — campaign support in exchange for backing his firing — that at least one councilman considered to be attempted bribery .
The city , which denied the allegations in court filings , settled the suit in 2018 and agreed to pay Rojas $ 350,000 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , Serrano said the suit ’ s accusations were “ political rhetoric ” and “ pandering to try to delegitimize public safety.
” Despite the election setback , activists celebrated again in late 2016 when the council — galvanized by Donald Trump ’ s anti-immigrant rhetoric during his presidential campaign — voted to push forward with ending the ICE contract by reducing the number of beds available to the agency .
Afterward , ICE voluntarily terminated its contract .
In 2018 , the police union political action committee again spent heavily to help @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the union ’ s influence at City Hall .
Shortly after , the new council granted officers a generous package of raises .
The police department , after years of reductions , went on a hiring spree , adding 50 officers .
This year , the officers union spent heavily on a special election that successfully recalled Councilwoman Cecilia Iglesias , who had voted against across the board raises for police .
Today , city leaders backed by the police union note that killings and other violent crimes have dropped since 2016 and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
“ We have a lot to be proud of in achieving our goal of making Santa Ana a safer community , ” Solorio said .
Some of the activists ’ past accomplishments have survived the reform backlash .
The city has more park space than it did a decade ago .
The community center remains open .
Artists have started moving into an affordable housing complex .
But there ’ s a sense among activists that progress has been halted — and a realization that electing allies to the council is central @ @ @ @ @ @ @ main lesson is that our community needs to build strong political power , ” said Carlos Perea , an immigrant rights activist .
Cortes runs a nonprofit , CHISPA , dedicated to helping Latinos engage in the political process .
At least one candidate who activists supported won in a recent school board election , but their favored candidates have yet to win a city council seat .
At a meeting last month , the council majority scrapped a plan to slash the city fund for legal services .
But they also rebuffed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ budget — deciding instead to increase police funding by another $ 3 million .

Former Santa Ana city councilwoman Michele Martinez was involved in the debate to cut the police budget only to have it be foiled by a police union backlash.
For immigrant rights activist Hairo Cortes, the Santa Ana jail stood as a monument to oppression.
In a city with a large Latino population, elected leaders had turned it into a detention center for immigrants in the country illegally. The jail became a rallying cry for a political reform movement that eventually led the Santa Ana City Council to phase out immigrant detention at the facility, improve police accountability and spend more money on badly needed community services.
In many ways, the effort foreshadowed what is happening in Los Angeles and other cities around the country as protesters call for an end to police brutality and sweeping social reforms.
Advertisement
But Santa Ana offers a cautionary tale for the “defund the police” movement, one that underscores the fragile nature of such reforms even in predominantly working-class, non-white cities. What happened in the short time following activists’ victories, Cortes now says, was a sobering reality check.
The nationwide call to cut police budgets has been fueled by massive street protests against racism and police violence — a historic reckoning prompted by the death of George Floyd, a Black man, under the knee of a white Minneapolis police officer. The city of Los Angeles has voted to slash its police budget by $150 million, taking the force to under 10,000 officers, a staffing figure that had been the goal of city leaders for decades. And Minneapolis has started the process of dismantling its police department altogether.
“It’s like deja vu,” former Santa Ana Councilwoman Michele Martinez said of the mood this summer.
The seeds of political revolution in the Orange County city sprouted nearly a decade ago — nurtured primarily by a generation of young immigrants who lacked legal status but were able to attend college when a change in California law allowed them pay in-state tuition.
While at Santa Ana College, Cortes joined an immigrants rights group and helped organize a 2014 sit-in at the Washington D.C. office of then-Rep. Loretta Sanchez (D-Santa Ana), demanding she ask President Obama to halt deportations.
Advertisement
In Santa Ana, Cortes and his colleagues sought to raise awareness about the city’s jail contract with U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement. The issue caught fire with residents who had never before engaged their city government.
“For people who were hearing that the city had a detention center, it was like, ‘Why? How?’” said the 27-year-old Cortes, who came to the U.S. from Mexico when he was 7.
At the same time, a generation of immigrants was finding its political voice, the California Endowment — a nonprofit foundation dedicated to improving public health — was working to address stark inequalities in the city.
The foundation focused on an area that encompassed about 91,000 residents and found that 42% of the adults in Santa Ana lacked health insurance. Generally, people faced hurdles to accessing healthy food, housing and education. Activists sponsored by the project were organizing residents to lobby the city council for more park land, city-funded market spaces for Latino merchants, neighborhood micro-farms and developments with more affordable housing.
Over the years they marked several achievements. The council voted to build a community center close to downtown, increase overall park space in the city and create a fund to provide legal services to immigrants, as well as enact government transparency measures in a new city law dubbed the “sunshine ordinance.”
But the watershed moment for activists was the end of the contract with ICE to hold detainees at the city jail.
In 2006, following a precipitous drop in crime, city leaders entered into a contract with ICE to house immigrants facing possible deportation. A decade later, according to a city staff report, the jail held 239 detainees for ICE.
It became a flashpoint in the struggle for political influence between the Santa Ana Police Officers Assn. — intent on preserving the jobs of dozens of correctional officers — and activists.
Amid intense lobbying from activists, the council in February 2016 backtracked on a proposal to expand the number of beds available to ICE for transgender detainees and instead directed the city manager to find ways to pay the jail debt without revenue from the contract.
Activists celebrated the victory on the steps of city hall, and planned their next move — calling on the council to terminate the contract ahead of its 2020 expiration date.
“It felt like a big win,” Cortes said.
The police budget continued to grow year-over-year, which included previously negotiated raises for officers, but council members rejected union requests for more generous pay increases. Martinez, who served on the council from 2006 until she was termed out in 2018, recalled that she and her colleagues were motivated by the demands of activists to fund other community improvements.
The council also backed a police chief who was cracking down on officer misconduct.
Among the police ranks, resentment was growing.
Santa Ana officers installed a new union president, Gerry Serrano, a no-nonsense cop who accused the council of ignoring the city’s “silent majority.”
In the November 2016 election, the union’s political action committee spent more than $400,000, public filings show. The election came as the city was experiencing a surge in shootings. Santa Ana saw 23 homicides that year, nearly double the previous year.
“Violent crime was up. Shootings were up. And the council majority was tone deaf to it,” Serrano said.
Voters elected two new council members supported by the union, Juan Villegas and Jose Solorio, and reelected longtime Mayor Miguel Pulido, who was also backed by the officers association.
A few months after the new council was installed, Police Chief Carlos Rojas resigned. He filed a lawsuit claiming that Serrano had made offers — campaign support in exchange for backing his firing — that at least one councilman considered to be attempted bribery. The city, which denied the allegations in court filings, settled the suit in 2018 and agreed to pay Rojas $350,000.
In an interview with The Times, Serrano said the suit’s accusations were “political rhetoric” and “pandering to try to delegitimize public safety.”
Despite the election setback, activists celebrated again in late 2016 when the council — galvanized by Donald Trump’s anti-immigrant rhetoric during his presidential campaign — voted to push forward with ending the ICE contract by reducing the number of beds available to the agency. Afterward, ICE voluntarily terminated its contract.
In 2018, the police union political action committee again spent heavily to help elect two more council members, cementing the union’s influence at City Hall.
Shortly after, the new council granted officers a generous package of raises. The police department, after years of reductions, went on a hiring spree, adding 50 officers.
This year, the officers union spent heavily on a special election that successfully recalled Councilwoman Cecilia Iglesias, who had voted against across the board raises for police.
Today, city leaders backed by the police union note that killings and other violent crimes have dropped since 2016 and officers are responding to 911 calls faster.
“We have a lot to be proud of in achieving our goal of making Santa Ana a safer community,” Solorio said.
Some of the activists’ past accomplishments have survived the reform backlash.
The city has more park space than it did a decade ago. The community center remains open. Artists have started moving into an affordable housing complex.
But there’s a sense among activists that progress has been halted — and a realization that electing allies to the council is central to cementing long-term change.
“The main lesson is that our community needs to build strong political power,” said Carlos Perea, an immigrant rights activist.
Cortes runs a nonprofit, CHISPA, dedicated to helping Latinos engage in the political process. At least one candidate who activists supported won in a recent school board election, but their favored candidates have yet to win a city council seat.
At a meeting in July, the council majority scrapped a plan to slash the city fund for legal services. But they also rebuffed activists’ calls to cut the police budget — deciding instead to increase police funding by another $3 million.


latimes--2020-09-03--Chaos and incivility ruled the last day of California's legislative session. Blame Zoom

Legislators are reflective of the people who elect them — not just in ideology but in behavior .
That ’ s the way it was set up and it works — for better or worse .
When people communicate through technology rather than in person , inhibitions too often break down and they get testy .
Maybe even act like jerks , flinging insults .
We see this with email , Twitter and bellicose blogs .
But if you ’ re looking someone in the eye , you tend to smile and mind your manners , perhaps even try some @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the California state Senate on the final night of the two-year legislative session Monday was a prime example of machines dispatching decorum and crippling civility .
I ’ ve always marveled at how legislators of opposing parties can fight to the death politically over heated issues but constantly act like longtime close friends when dealing with one another personally .
That has become less so as politics — reflective of the nation — has become more polarized .
But nevertheless , at least in the California Legislature , there has always been graciousness @ @ @ @ @ @ @ requires face-to-face contact .
And this was unfortunately banned in the Senate during the final four hectic days of the legislative session .
Republican senators were barred from the Capitol because one — Brian Jones of Santee — tested positive for COVID-19 .
They ’ d caucused together last week and presumably had been exposed to the virus , although all except Jones later tested negative .
One Republican , Sen. Jim Nielsen of Gerber , did not attend the caucus , so he was allowed on the Senate floor with all the @ @ @ @ @ @ @ of the 40 senators — arranged for the 10 exiled Republicans to debate and vote remotely from their residences using impersonal Zoom .
But there was confusion and technical flaws .
The result was anger , chaos and a broken legislative process — just when it needed to be churning on all cylinders to meet a constitutional midnight deadline for passing bills .
When Republican Sen. Melissa Melendez of Lake Elsinore was heard spewing a profanity into her mic — “ This is bull.… ” — you knew that Senate decorum had vanished @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Melendez followed that with a tweet protesting a Democrat-imposed limit on debate : “ This silences the voices of millions of people so Democrats have enough time to pass their crappy bills before midnight .
This is outrageous and is COMPLETE BULL….
” The next day I called Melendez .
The senator said she had initially thought the debate limit was worse than it actually was , “ but it doesn ’ t matter .
They were limiting debate after having kicked us out of the building.
” Because Democrats had taken @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ’ Zoom mics , Melendez told me , she thought that when her face disappeared from the screen , she was disconnected .
She wasn ’ t .
“ I was just kind of muttering to myself , which people do on the [ Senate ] floor , ” she said .
But why did she repeat the profanity in a Tweet ?
“ Then you ’ ve got to own it , ” she replied .
“ What are you going to do ?
” The Democrats ’ debate limit was harsh @ @ @ @ @ @ @ the author sandwiched around two-minute speeches by two senators on each side .
It was proposed by Senate Majority Floor Leader Bob Hertzberg ( D-Van Nuys ) .
“ Republicans didn ’ t understand it was a management issue and not a partisan issue , ” Hertzberg told me .
“ It was as much about Democrats as Republicans .
We had [ Democrats ] giving long speeches.
” But the debate limit later was dropped as part of a peace pact between Senate President Pro Tem Toni Atkins ( D-San Diego ) @ @ @ @ @ @ @ R-Bakersfield ) .
It took a 90-minute Senate recess — gobbling up precious time as the midnight deadline approached — to negotiate a deal and calm tempers so voting could proceed .
Grove and Democratic Sen. Hannah-Beth Jackson of Santa Barbara , who was presiding over the Senate , had engaged in a long , heated exchange before the recess , talking over each other .
Grove told me Democrats had assured Republicans that they ’ d be treated remotely as if they were on the floor .
“ When that was removed @ @ @ @ @ @ @ downhill , ” she said .
“ There was the loss of the personal touch .
On the floor , you walk up to someone and have a different tone of voice .
It ’ s personal and more cordial.
” Melendez agreed : “ It would have been different if we had been in the same room together .
We wouldn ’ t have had the technical issues fanning the flames .
And it ’ s very different when interacting personally with each other.
” “ People are much more gracious toward @ @ @ @ @ @ @ to face , ” Hertzberg said .
“ They never say certain things looking someone in the eye.
” Jackson concurred , but also blamed President Trump “ for setting a low bar and creating a culture and acceptance of incivility… .
I ’ m really disappointed the camaraderie of the house just dissolved , primarily because Republicans felt they were being punished.
” Democrats also suspected that Republicans were running out the clock , stalling the process to prevent some major bills from passing before the deadline .
“ If the rules @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ?
” Melendez said .
“ I will admit we took a little longer [ talking and voting ] at the very end than we would normally.
” Actually , all Republicans who tested negative probably should have been allowed in the Senate chamber .
They could have been required to wear masks and kept at a six-foot distance behind plexiglass — that is , treated like Democrats .
Remote legislating resulted in ill will , squandered time and some good bills being killed .
But hopefully remote legislating was buried too — @ @

The California state Senate, shown in May, struggled with incivility on the final day of its legislative session, columnist George Skelton writes.
Legislators are reflective of the people who elect them — not just in ideology but in behavior. That’s the way it was set up and it works — for better or worse.
When people communicate through technology rather than in person, inhibitions too often break down and they get testy. Maybe even act like jerks, flinging insults. We see this with email, Twitter and bellicose blogs.
But if you’re looking someone in the eye, you tend to smile and mind your manners, perhaps even try some charm and diplomacy.
Advertisement
What happened in the California state Senate on the final night of the two-year legislative session was a prime example of machines dispatching decorum and crippling civility.
I’ve always marveled at how legislators of opposing parties can fight to the death politically over heated issues but constantly act like longtime close friends when dealing with one another personally.
That has become less so as politics — reflective of the nation — has become more polarized. But nevertheless, at least in the California Legislature, there has always been graciousness and civility.
That, however, requires face-to-face contact. And this was unfortunately banned in the Senate during the final four hectic days of the legislative session.
Republican senators were barred from the Capitol because one — Brian Jones of Santee — tested positive for COVID-19. They’d caucused together last week and presumably had been exposed to the virus, although all except Jones later tested negative.
One Republican, Sen. Jim Nielsen of Gerber, did not attend the caucus, so he was allowed on the Senate floor with all the Democrats.
Advertisement
The ruling Democrats — 29 of the 40 senators — arranged for the 10 exiled Republicans to debate and vote remotely from their residences using impersonal Zoom. But there was confusion and technical flaws.
The result was anger, chaos and a broken legislative process — just when it needed to be churning on all cylinders to meet a constitutional midnight deadline for passing bills.
When Republican Sen. Melissa Melendez of Lake Elsinore was heard spewing a profanity into her mic — “This is bull.…” — you knew that Senate decorum had vanished and the system wasn’t working.
Melendez followed that with a tweet protesting a Democrat-imposed limit on debate: “This silences the voices of millions of people so Democrats have enough time to pass their crappy bills before midnight. This is outrageous and is COMPLETE BULL….”
California Skelton: Newsom proves he’s no deer in headlights while managing several crises ‘of biblical proportions’ Now wildfires and blackouts are piled on top of a COVID-19 pandemic — a strange virus that has infected more than 680,000 people and killed more than 12,000 in California. You’d think that might place any governor at political risk, but it apparently hasn’t.
The next day I called Melendez. The senator said she had initially thought the debate limit was worse than it actually was, “but it doesn’t matter. They were limiting debate after having kicked us out of the building.”
Because Democrats had taken control of the mute function on Republicans’ Zoom mics, Melendez told me, she thought that when her face disappeared from the screen, she was disconnected. She wasn’t.
“I was just kind of muttering to myself, which people do on the [Senate] floor,” she said.
But why did she repeat the profanity in a Tweet?
“Then you’ve got to own it,” she replied. “What are you going to do?”
The Democrats’ debate limit was harsh enough: Opening and closing statements by the author sandwiched around two-minute speeches by two senators on each side. It was proposed by Senate Majority Floor Leader Bob Hertzberg (D-Van Nuys).
“Republicans didn’t understand it was a management issue and not a partisan issue,” Hertzberg told me. “It was as much about Democrats as Republicans. We had [Democrats] giving long speeches.”
But the debate limit later was dropped as part of a peace pact between Senate President Pro Tem Toni Atkins (D-San Diego) and Senate Minority Leader Shannon Grove (R-Bakersfield). It took a 90-minute Senate recess — gobbling up precious time as the midnight deadline approached — to negotiate a deal and calm tempers so voting could proceed.
Grove and Democratic Sen. Hannah-Beth Jackson of Santa Barbara, who was presiding over the Senate, had engaged in a long, heated exchange before the recess, talking over each other.
Grove told me Democrats had assured Republicans that they’d be treated remotely as if they were on the floor.
“When that was removed from us, everything started to go downhill,” she said.
“There was the loss of the personal touch. On the floor, you walk up to someone and have a different tone of voice. It’s personal and more cordial.”
Melendez agreed: “It would have been different if we had been in the same room together. We wouldn’t have had the technical issues fanning the flames. And it’s very different when interacting personally with each other.”
“People are much more gracious toward each other when they’re face to face,” Hertzberg said. “They never say certain things looking someone in the eye.”
Jackson concurred, but also blamed President Trump “for setting a low bar and creating a culture and acceptance of incivility…. I’m really disappointed the camaraderie of the house just dissolved, primarily because Republicans felt they were being punished.”
Democrats also suspected that Republicans were running out the clock, stalling the process to prevent some major bills from passing before the deadline.
“If the roles were reversed, what would they do?” Melendez said. “I will admit we took a little longer [talking and voting] at the very end than we would normally.”
Actually, all Republicans who tested negative probably should have been allowed in the Senate chamber. They could have been required to wear masks and kept at a six-foot distance behind plexiglass — that is, treated like Democrats.
Remote legislating resulted in ill will, squandered time and some good bills being killed. But hopefully remote legislating was buried too — forever.


latimes--2020-09-02--Police officer charged with voluntary manslaughter in death of Bay Area man

Alameda County prosecutors charged a police officer Wednesday with voluntary manslaughter , saying the man he killed in response to a shoplifting call had been subdued with a taser and posed no threat of killing or seriously injuring the officer or anyone else .
Dist .
Atty .
Nancy E. O ’ Malley said the decision to file charges against Jason Fletcher , an officer in the Oakland suburb of San Leandro , was based “ solely on the facts and the current law.
” The case stems from an encounter that lasted just 40 seconds .
On April 18 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ into a Walmart in San Leandro , grabbed an aluminum baseball bat and a tent , and tried to walk out without paying , a district attorney ’ s inspector wrote in a declaration of probable cause .
Taylor ’ s grandmother told The Times on Wednesday that he had been in the midst of a mental health crisis .
A security guard stopped Taylor , asked him to return the items and called the police .
Fletcher , 49 , arrived within minutes .
He drew his service weapon with his right @ @ @ @ @ @ @ his left , trying to wrest it from Taylor , the inspector wrote .
Taylor pulled the bat out of the officer ’ s grasp and stepped away .
About 17 feet from Taylor , Fletcher drew his taser , pointed it at Taylor and said , “ Drop the bat man , drop the bat , ” according to the inspector ’ s declaration .
He advanced toward Taylor and shocked him with the taser twice , the inspector wrote .
Stumbling , struggling to remain upright , Taylor “ clearly experienced @ @ @ @ @ @ @ wrote the inspector , Robert Chenault , noting the bat was pointed toward the ground .
Although Taylor “ posed no threat of imminent deadly force or serious bodily injury ” to the officer or any shoppers , Fletcher shot him fatally in the chest with his handgun , Chenault wrote .
A backup officer arrived just as Fletcher fired the fatal shot .
Fletcher is expected to be arraigned Sept. 15 in an Alameda County courthouse , the district attorney ’ s office said .
Fletcher ’ s lawyer , Michael Rains @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he was “ very , very disappointed ” in the charges .
He said they were “ undeserved , ” and expressed confidence that a jury would acquit the officer .
The San Leandro police chief , Jeff Tudor , issued a statement in which he said : “ I know the loss of Steven Taylor has deeply affected this community .
Today , the district attorney has charged Officer Jason Fletcher with voluntary manslaughter .
It is important that we allow the judicial process to take its course .
I will refer @ @ @ @ @ @ @ s office.
” Taylor ’ s grandmother , Addie Kitchen , said she and other relatives were “ stunned ” the district attorney had filed charges .
Not since a policeman was charged in 2009 with killing Oscar Grant at an Oakland train station has a police officer faced criminal liability in Alameda County for killing someone on duty , Kitchen said .
Johannes Mehserle , an officer with the Bay Area transit system , was convicted of involuntary manslaughter for shooting Grant in the back as he lay facedown and unarmed .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
Mehserle , like Fletcher , is white .
“ Just because [ Fletcher ] has been charged doesn ’ t mean he ’ s going to be convicted , and we understand that , ” Kitchen said .
“ But we recognize that this is something that hasn ’ t happened in this county , not since Oscar Grant.
” Kitchen described her grandson as a kind man who struggled with mental health issues and was homeless when he died .
She wants police departments to stress de-escalation tactics in training new @ @ @ @ @ @ @ averted her grandson ’ s death .
“ There ’ s no reason he should have been murdered because he was having a mental crisis , because he was homeless , ” she said .
“ He was not a threat to those officers .
”

Alameda County prosecutors charged a police officer Wednesday with voluntary manslaughter, saying the man he killed in response to a shoplifting call had been subdued with a taser and posed no threat of killing or seriously injuring the officer or anyone else.
Dist. Atty. Nancy E. O’Malley said the decision to file charges against Jason Fletcher, an officer in the Oakland suburb of San Leandro, was based “solely on the facts and the current law.”
The case stems from an encounter that lasted just 40 seconds. On April 18, Steven Taylor, 33, walked into a Walmart in San Leandro, grabbed an aluminum baseball bat and a tent, and tried to walk out without paying, a district attorney’s inspector wrote in a declaration of probable cause. Taylor’s grandmother told The Times on Wednesday that he had been in the midst of a mental health crisis.
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A security guard stopped Taylor, asked him to return the items and called the police.
Fletcher, 49, arrived within minutes. He drew his service weapon with his right hand and grabbed the baseball bat with his left, trying to wrest it from Taylor, the inspector wrote. Taylor pulled the bat out of the officer’s grasp and stepped away.
About 17 feet from Taylor, Fletcher drew his taser, pointed it at Taylor and said, “Drop the bat man, drop the bat,” according to the inspector’s declaration. He advanced toward Taylor and shocked him with the taser twice, the inspector wrote.
Stumbling, struggling to remain upright, Taylor “clearly experienced the shock of the taser,” wrote the inspector, Robert Chenault, noting the bat was pointed toward the ground. Although Taylor “posed no threat of imminent deadly force or serious bodily injury” to the officer or any shoppers, Fletcher shot him fatally in the chest with his handgun, Chenault wrote. A backup officer arrived just as Fletcher fired the fatal shot.
Fletcher is expected to be arraigned Sept. 15 in an Alameda County courthouse, the district attorney’s office said. Fletcher’s lawyer, Michael Rains, told the San Francisco Chronicle that he was “very, very disappointed” in the charges. He said they were “undeserved,” and expressed confidence that a jury would acquit the officer.
The San Leandro police chief, Jeff Tudor, issued a statement in which he said: “I know the loss of Steven Taylor has deeply affected this community. Today, the district attorney has charged Officer Jason Fletcher with voluntary manslaughter. It is important that we allow the judicial process to take its course. I will refer all questions to the district attorney’s office.”
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Taylor’s grandmother, Addie Kitchen, said she and other relatives were “stunned” the district attorney had filed charges. Not since a policeman was charged in 2009 with killing Oscar Grant at an Oakland train station has a police officer faced criminal liability in Alameda County for killing someone on duty, Kitchen said.
Johannes Mehserle, an officer with the Bay Area transit system, was convicted of involuntary manslaughter for shooting Grant in the back as he lay facedown and unarmed. Grant, like Taylor, was Black. Mehserle, like Fletcher, is white.
“Just because [Fletcher] has been charged doesn’t mean he’s going to be convicted, and we understand that,” Kitchen said. “But we recognize that this is something that hasn’t happened in this county, not since Oscar Grant.”
Kitchen described her grandson as a kind man who struggled with mental health issues and was homeless when he died. She wants police departments to stress de-escalation tactics in training new officers, tactics she believes could have averted her grandson’s death.
“There’s no reason he should have been murdered because he was having a mental crisis, because he was homeless,” she said. “He was not a threat to those officers.”


latimes--2020-09-03--Orange County COVID-19 deaths top 1,000 even as new cases start to stabilize statewide

Even as cases statewide start to stabilize , reported COVID-19 deaths in Orange County topped 1,000 this week as fatalities continue to rise throughout the state in response to the summer surge of coronavirus infections .
On average , people who succumb to the disease die 28 days after being infected , said Dr. John Swartzberg , a UC Berkeley infectious disease expert .
As new infections continue to decline , deaths also will fall off in the weeks ahead .
Orange County ’ s total pandemic death toll reached 1,018 reported deaths on Thursday .
Dr. Margaret Bredehoft , @ @ @ @ @ @ @ public health services , called the number “ a tragic milestone.
” Despite the grim number , Orange County health officials said that if coronavirus case rates continue to fall , the county could transition to the state ’ s less-restrictive red tier on Sept. 8 .
That would allow more businesses to resume indoor operations , though health officials cautioned that they would keep a close eye on those operations .
“ As we reopen and think about reopening businesses , the biggest concerns and areas that we want to think about @ @ @ @ @ @ @ whether it ’ s indoor malls , indoor dining ” Bredehoft said .
“ Those are the areas of the largest concern for us.
” Schools may be eligible to reopen campuses as soon as Sept. 22 .
The decision on whether or not to reopen is up to individual school districts .
“ Schools are not forced to open , ” Bredehoft said .
“ They ’ re eligible to open with the caveat that they also provide options of either remote virtual learning as well as a hybrid form.
” She @ @ @ @ @ @ @ safely and “ not jump into reopening if they ’ re not ready.
” The county is reporting 5.6 daily new cases per 100,000 people and a positive test rate of 5 % , Bredehoft said .
There have been a total of 48,945 coronavirus cases in the county .
The San Francisco Bay Area also reported an unfortunate new maker this week .
The nine counties in the region had their highest single-day death toll — 30 — on Wednesday , according to data complied by The Times .
Since the start @ @ @ @ @ @ @ suffered a reported 1,167 deaths from COVID-19 .
The latest figures from the state showed a total of 717,177 cases as of Wednesday , up 5,125 from the day before .
The California dashboard also reported a total of 13,327 deaths , up 164 from those reported Tuesday .
The state says 15,480 children under the age of 5 have been infected .
None have died .
There have been three deaths among those age 5 to 17 , 194 among people 18 to 34 and 749 deaths among residents 35 to 49 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ in greater numbers .
Of those infected between the ages of 50 and 59 , 1,360 have died .
As ages progress , so have deaths .
The state reported 5,422 deaths among people 80 and older .
Los Angeles County has averaged 989 new cases and 26.7 new deaths a day over the past week , according to The Times ’ coronavirus tracker , with the number of confirmed infections doubling every 150.5 days .
Los Angeles County Chief Medical Officer Dr. Jeffrey Gunzenhauser urged residents Thursday not to assume that reopening @ @ @ @ @ @ @ .
He said people who take a new risk , such as going to work , should try to reduce the risk of contracting the disease somewhere else , such as in social interactions .
During an online news conference , Gunzenhauser said the county was working to resolve about 800 active outbreaks , many at worksites , and reporting roughly 1,000 new COVID-19 cases on most days .
Because many people don ’ t get tested , the actual number of daily new cases could be 5,000 , he warned .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ barbers to open for inside services , with limitations , a reopening Gunzenhauser said would be carefully monitored .
“ There is still a lot of virus here in L.A. County , ” he warned .
Riverside County has averaged 225 new cases and 5.1 new deaths per day over the past week , according to The Times ’ coronavirus tracker .
In San Bernardino County , there have been an average of 263 new cases and four deaths a day .
San Diego County has reported an average of 232 new cases @ @ @ @ @ @ @ Last week , California announced a new colored-coded system that will determine reopening in counties .
Those in the purple category , including Los Angeles and Orange counties , face the most restrictions .
Purple means widespread risk , red substantial risk , orange moderate and yellow minimal risk .
Each tier determines what can reopen .
A county must remain in a tier for three weeks before it can progress to a new level , and only if it has met its tier ’ s requirements for two consecutive weeks .
The @ @ @ @ @ @ @ list .
Swartzberg said the color tiers were an improvement .
The old system created a lot of confusion , he said , and “ something needed to be done.
” “ Whenever you see something that is simpler , it is usually better , ” the infectious disease expert said in an interview .
He said he appreciates that the new system gives counties credit for doing a lot of testing .
“ So those counties that aren ’ t doing sufficient testing get penalized , and those doing a lot of @ @ @ @ @ @ @ he said .
“ That is smart .
It puts the incentives in the right place.
” San Francisco , which is both a city and county , is now in the red zone , despite relatively high case numbers .
Those numbers were adjusted to reflect the fact that San Francisco was doing more testing than most other counties in the country .

Orange County’s death toll passed 1,000 this week, but the pace is expected to slow. Above, a triage tent at L.A.’s Martin Luther King Jr. Community Hospital in April.
Reported COVID-19 deaths in Orange County topped 1,000 this week as fatalities continue to rise throughout the state in response to the summer surge of coronavirus infections, even as cases statewide start to stabilize.
On average, people who succumb to the disease die 28 days after being infected, said Dr. John Swartzberg, a UC Berkeley infectious disease expert. As new infections continue to decline, deaths also will fall off in the weeks ahead.
Orange County’s total pandemic death toll reached 1,018 reported deaths on Thursday. Dr. Margaret Bredehoft, the county’s deputy director of public health services, called the number “a tragic milestone.”
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Despite the grim number, Orange County health officials said that if coronavirus case rates continue to fall, the county could transition to the state’s less-restrictive red tier on Sept. 8. That would allow more businesses to resume indoor operations, though health officials cautioned that they would keep a close eye on those operations.
“As we reopen and think about reopening businesses, the biggest concerns and areas that we want to think about supporting are things that are indoors, whether it’s indoor malls, indoor dining” Bredehoft said. “Those are the areas of the largest concern for us.”
Schools may be eligible to reopen campuses as soon as Sept. 22. The decision on whether or not to reopen is up to individual school districts.
“Schools are not forced to open,” Bredehoft said. “They’re eligible to open with the caveat that they also provide options of either remote virtual learning as well as a hybrid form.”
She said schools should be prepared to reopen safely and “not jump into reopening if they’re not ready.” The county is reporting 5.6 daily new cases per 100,000 people and a positive test rate of 5%, Bredehoft said. There have been a total of 48,945 coronavirus cases in the county.
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The San Francisco Bay Area also reported an unfortunate new maker this week. The nine counties in the region had their highest single-day death toll — 30 — on Wednesday, according to data complied by The Times. Since the start of the pandemic, the region has suffered a reported 1,167 deaths from COVID-19.
The latest figures from the state showed a total of 717,177 cases as of Wednesday, up 5,125 from the day before. The California dashboard also reported a total of 13,327 deaths, up 164 from those reported Tuesday.
The state says 15,480 children under the age of 5 have been infected. None have died. There have been three deaths among those age 5 to 17, 194 among people 18 to 34 and 749 deaths among residents 35 to 49.
Older residents have been fatally stricken in greater numbers. Of those infected between the ages of 50 and 59, 1,360 have died. As ages progress, so have deaths. The state reported 5,422 deaths among people 80 and older.
Los Angeles County has averaged 989 new cases and 26.7 new deaths a day over the past week, according to The Times’ coronavirus tracker, with the number of confirmed infections doubling every 150.5 days.
Los Angeles County Chief Medical Officer Dr. Jeffrey Gunzenhauser urged residents Thursday not to assume that reopening was a license to violate health guidelines. He said people who take a new risk, such as going to work, should try to reduce the risk of contracting the disease somewhere else, such as in social interactions.
During an online news conference, Gunzenhauser said the county was working to resolve about 800 active outbreaks, many at worksites, and reporting roughly 1,000 new COVID-19 cases on most days. Because many people don’t get tested, the actual number of daily new cases could be 5,000, he warned.
The county on Thursday allowed hair salons and barbers to open for inside services, with limitations, a reopening Gunzenhauser said would be carefully monitored.
“There is still a lot of virus here in L.A. County,” he warned.
Riverside County has averaged 225 new cases and 5.1 new deaths per day over the past week, according to The Times’ coronavirus tracker. In San Bernardino County, there have been an average of 263 new cases and four deaths a day.
San Diego County has reported an average of 232 new cases and 3.1 new deaths a day.
San Diego State University halted in-person classes Wednesday after dozens of students were infected with the coronavirus. (Gregory Bull / Associated Press)
Last week, California announced a new colored-coded system that will determine reopening in counties. Those in the purple category, including Los Angeles and Orange counties, face the most restrictions. Purple means widespread risk, red substantial risk, orange moderate and yellow minimal risk. Each tier determines what can reopen.
A county must remain in a tier for three weeks before it can progress to a new level, and only if it has met its tier’s requirements for two consecutive weeks. The new system replaced the former county watch list.
Swartzberg said the color tiers were an improvement. The old system created a lot of confusion, he said, and “something needed to be done.”
“Whenever you see something that is simpler, it is usually better,” the infectious disease expert said in an interview. He said he appreciates that the new system gives counties credit for doing a lot of testing.
“So those counties that aren’t doing sufficient testing get penalized, and those doing a lot of testing get credit for that,” he said. “That is smart. It puts the incentives in the right place.”
San Francisco, which is both a city and county, is now in the red zone, despite relatively high case numbers. Those numbers were adjusted to reflect the fact that San Francisco was doing more testing than most other counties in the country.


latimes--2020-09-03--Marion Moses, Cesar Chavez confidant and expert on farmworkers' health, dies

When Marion Moses first met Cesar Chavez in Delano in California ’ s Central Valley , he asked her : “ What do you know about pesticides ?
” She answered : “ Practically nothing.
” In time , Moses went on to become the foremost expert on the health of the nation ’ s 2.5 million agricultural workers beginning in the 1980s .
She became an authority on pesticide poisoning of farm laborers , advocated for their healthcare and better working conditions and was leader of the nation ’ s first medical study on migrant farmworkers in the 1990s @ @ @ @ @ @ @ labor movement in more intimate ways .
She was a close friend and the personal physician of labor and civil rights leaders Dorothy Day of the Catholic Worker Movement and Chavez , co-founder of the United Farm Workers union .
During Chavez ’ s first 25-day , water-only public fast in 1968 , Moses monitored the stubborn labor leader ’ s health , even insisting that he allow liquid minerals in his water to prevent organ failure .
She took care of him for countless subsequent fasts , including his last in 1988 @ @ @ @ @ @ @ was also there at the picket lines and helped direct grape boycotts in Philadelphia and Montreal .
In the late 1960s , Chavez sent her to New York to boycott grape shipments to the East Coast and raise money for the perpetually cash-strapped union .
Chavez came to trust her with the hardest jobs because “ he knew she could handle them , ” said her brother Maron Moses .
“ Marion was very abrupt , bright and very direct , ” he said .
“ She had a really abrasive personality and @ @ @ @ @ @ @ ...
Her middle initial was a ‘ T , ’ and no one would ever mistake that for ‘ tact.
’ ” But those who knew her said she was kind and cared genuinely for others .
Moses died of natural causes on Aug. 28 in San Francisco .
She was 84 .
It was October 1965 when Moses met Chavez at a meeting in Northern California .
A voracious reader and Shakespeare enthusiast , Moses was a student at UC Berkeley studying for a master ’ s degree in English when she @ @ @ @ @ @ @ board : the United Farm Workers union needed medical volunteers .
With a master ’ s degree in nursing already under her belt , she drove to Delano for a weekend .
She stayed five years , working as an organizer , volunteer nurse and healthcare administrator for the UFW .
She was paid $ 5 a week and provided room and board .
“ I ’ m a very pragmatic , task-oriented person , ” Moses told The Times in 1984 .
“ I ’ m not very abstract .
I thought @ @ @ @ @ @ @ They ’ ve got no toilets , no running water.
” I thought I could stay and make a difference.
” In an article she wrote for The Catholic Worker in 1993 following Chavez ’ s death , Moses said that she left the UFW in 1971 to become a doctor .
It was a move inspired by Chavez ’ s question years before about her knowledge of pesticides .
When she returned to work for the union from 1983 to 1986 , pesticides were a prominent part of her work .
“ @ @ @ @ @ @ @ demands and sacrifices , and the need to sustain a high level of commitment over the long term , ” she wrote .
“ The inspiring and the lofty were mixed in with a much greater amount of the tedious and mundane .
It was not always easy to adjust or sort it all out , and over the years , many left the union in varying stages of confusion , bewilderment , or turmoil.
” Marion Theresa Moses was born in Wheeling , West Virginia on Jan. 24 , 1936 .
Her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ mother was a homemaker and her father a food salesman .
The couple raised their eight children in a modest Catholic home .
When Moses was 7 , her baby sister Margaret Rose died of dehydration after suffering from diarrhea .
It devastated Moses .
“ She knew things like that didn ’ t need to happen , ” said Maron , her brother .
But it fueled her drive to become a doctor — a medical path her father deemed unsuitable for a woman .
So to nursing school she went .
@ @ @ @ @ @ @ in nursing from Georgetown University in 1957 .
She was the first in her family to go to college .
She went on to earn a master ’ s in nursing at Columbia University Teachers College in 1960 and taught at Charleston General School of Nursing before moving to San Francisco .
A job as head nurse in the medical and surgical unit at Kaiser Foundation Hospital awaited her .
But it was her work with Chavez and UFW that changed the trajectory of her life .
Though Moses once admitted she was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ she was drawn to his “ strong moral force ” and his charisma .
Their relationship solidified when Moses and President Kennedy ’ s physician Janet Travell helped a bedridden Chavez slowly recover from severe back pain .
“ She was pretty strong-willed , ” recalled Chavez ’ s son Fernando , who met Moses some 50 years ago when she was a volunteer nurse in Delano .
“ It was not uncommon for her to have disagreements with my father about how to do and run things , and he respected her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ “ family doctor ” for three generations .
When someone fell ill or needed a second medical opinion , they ’ d call Dr. Moses .
Moses met feminist leader Gloria Steinem in 1968 during a trip to New York for a union fundraiser that included comedian Mort Sahl , the folk trio Peter , Paul and Mary , and others .
Steinem learned that Moses was staying in a small dormitory , so she offered her her space .
Moses slept on the activist ’ s couch for several months ; they @ @ @ @ @ @ @ supermarkets , held benefits , organized consumers and even helped get Chavez on the cover of Time magazine , Steinem recalled .
The late ’ 60s was also when the labor movement was gaining attention outside California .
Moses , in many ways , was the bridge between the farmworkers ’ union and New York ’ s intellectual community .
“ She was very brave , ” Steinem said Thursday .
“ She was often the only woman doing the kind of work she was doing .
She wasn ’ t herself a @ @ @ @ @ @ @ farmworkers.
” Through her work , she dedicated her life to standing up for and advancing “ justice and compassion , ” she said .
“ The courage and conscience she modeled have influenced the rest of my life , ” Steinem said .
Despite the indispensable roles she had within the movement , Moses still dreamed of becoming a doctor .
She returned to Berkeley for a pre-med degree before enrolling at Temple University School of Medicine in Philadelphia .
Medical schools were male-dominated spaces in the 1970s , and it was @ @ @ @ @ @ @ into the first day of anatomy class to examine their physical structures .
“ Let ’ s just say that was the last time that ever happened , ” Maron said .
“ She went into the dean ’ s office and said : ‘ I did not go into the medical field to watch a striptease.
’ ” From 1983 to 1986 , Moses worked as medical director for the UFW in California , where she helped discover cancer clusters in small farm towns like McFarland , outside Bakersfield .
“ Her @ @ @ @ @ @ @ , ” said Monica Moore , co-founder of the Pesticide Action Network who worked with Moses in the late 1980s .
Together they launched a survey to analyze what farmworkers knew about the pesticides they worked with .
“ For her , the work she did was personal , spiritual .
Her passion ran deep and very , very long .
“ She just wanted to make sure that people ’ s lives were considered.
” In 1988 , Moses founded the Pesticide Education Center in San Francisco .
She served as director @ @ @ @ @ @ @ years of advocacy , research projects , testifying at congressional hearings and more .
Despite her accomplishments and consequential roles in the farmworkers ’ movement , Moses felt it wasn ’ t enough .
“ I think she ’ s sorry she didn ’ t do more , ” Maron said .
“ She was really concerned with farmworkers , with the use of pesticides , knowing how devastating it was to their health.
” Moses never married or had children , but she had “ lots of kids , ” she once @ @ @ @ @ @ @ family .
“ The way I look at it , there are all these wonderful things that people could do to help other people , and if they did , they ’ d feel a whole lot better about themselves , ” she told The Times .
When she returned to UFW as a newly minted doctor , Chavez asked Moses how long she planned to stay .
She replied : “ As long as it takes.
” Moses is survived by five siblings , Marcella , Martha , Maron , Martin and @ @

As an intern in 1977, Marion Moses inquires about the health of a patient.
When Marion Moses first met Cesar Chavez in Delano in California’s Central Valley, he asked her: “What do you know about pesticides?” She answered: “Practically nothing.”
In time, Moses went on to become the foremost expert on the health of the nation’s 2.5 million agricultural workers beginning in the 1980s. She became an authority on pesticide poisoning of farm laborers, advocated for their healthcare and better working conditions and was leader of the nation’s first medical study on migrant farmworkers in the 1990s.
But Moses was integral to the labor movement in more intimate ways. She was a close friend and the personal physician of labor and civil rights leaders Dorothy Day of the Catholic Worker Movement and Chavez, co-founder of the United Farm Workers union. During Chavez’s first 25-day, water-only public fast in 1968, Moses monitored the stubborn labor leader’s health, even insisting that he allow liquid minerals in his water to prevent organ failure. She took care of him for countless subsequent fasts, including his last in 1988, which lasted 36 days.
Moses was also there at the picket lines and helped direct grape boycotts in Philadelphia and Montreal. In the late 1960s, Chavez sent her to New York to boycott grape shipments to the East Coast and raise money for the perpetually cash-strapped union. Chavez came to trust her with the hardest jobs because “he knew she could handle them,” said her brother Maron Moses.
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“Marion was very abrupt, bright and very direct,” he said. “She had a really abrasive personality and said exactly what was on her mind... Her middle initial was a ‘T,’ and no one would ever mistake that for ‘tact.’ ” But those who knew her said she was kind and cared genuinely for others.
Moses died of natural causes on Aug. 28 in San Francisco. She was 84.
UFW mourns the passing of Dr. Marion Moses who turned a weekend in Delano into a lifetime of service helping Cesar Chavez, farm workers combat the perils of pesticides. Read more @ https://t.co/Dfz7LilZqW pic.twitter.com/34NUOfBCN6 — United Farm Workers (@UFWupdates) August 29, 2020
It was October 1965 when Moses met Chavez at a meeting in Northern California. A voracious reader and Shakespeare enthusiast, Moses was a student at UC Berkeley studying for a master’s degree in English when she saw a notice on a campus bulletin board: the United Farm Workers union needed medical volunteers.
With a master’s degree in nursing already under her belt, she drove to Delano for a weekend. She stayed five years, working as an organizer, volunteer nurse and healthcare administrator for the UFW. She was paid $5 a week and provided room and board.
“I’m a very pragmatic, task-oriented person,” Moses told The Times in 1984. “I’m not very abstract. I thought: ‘These people are suffering. They’ve got no toilets, no running water.’ I thought I could stay and make a difference.”
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In an article she wrote for The Catholic Worker in 1993 following Chavez’s death, Moses said that she left the UFW in 1971 to become a doctor. It was a move inspired by Chavez’s question years before about her knowledge of pesticides. When she returned to work for the union from 1983 to 1986, pesticides were a prominent part of her work.
“Working with the UFW meant extraordinary personal demands and sacrifices, and the need to sustain a high level of commitment over the long term,” she wrote. “The inspiring and the lofty were mixed in with a much greater amount of the tedious and mundane. It was not always easy to adjust or sort it all out, and over the years, many left the union in varying stages of confusion, bewilderment, or turmoil.”
Marion Theresa Moses was born in Wheeling, West Virginia, on Jan. 24, 1936. Her family moved to Charleston, where her mother was a homemaker and her father a food salesman. The couple raised their eight children in a modest Catholic home. When Moses was 7, her baby sister Margaret Rose died of dehydration after suffering from diarrhea.
It devastated Moses. “She knew things like that didn’t need to happen,” said Maron, her brother. But it fueled her drive to become a doctor — a medical path her father deemed unsuitable for a woman.
Marion Moses was a remarkable woman, smart, fearless, passionate. She made a difference. For so many. https://t.co/ummPuFGf32 — Miriam Pawel (@miriampawel) August 29, 2020
So to nursing school she went. Moses earned her bachelor’s degree in nursing from Georgetown University in 1957. She was the first in her family to go to college.
She went on to earn a master’s in nursing at Columbia University Teachers College in 1960 and taught at Charleston General School of Nursing before moving to San Francisco. A job as head nurse in the medical and surgical unit at Kaiser Foundation Hospital awaited her.
But it was her work with Chavez and UFW that changed the trajectory of her life. Though Moses once admitted she was unimpressed by Chavez as a speaker, she was drawn to his “strong moral force” and his charisma. Their relationship solidified when Moses and President Kennedy’s physician Janet Travell helped a bedridden Chavez slowly recover from severe back pain.
“She was pretty strong-willed,” recalled Chavez’s son Fernando, who met Moses some 50 years ago when she was a volunteer nurse in Delano. “It was not uncommon for her to have disagreements with my father about how to do and run things, and he respected her for that.” Moses would become the “family doctor” for three generations. When someone fell ill or needed a second medical opinion, they’d call Dr. Moses.
Moses met feminist leader Gloria Steinem in 1968 during a trip to New York for a union fundraiser that included comedian Mort Sahl, the folk trio Peter, Paul and Mary, and others. Steinem learned that Moses was staying in a small dormitory, so she offered her her space. Moses slept on the activist’s couch for several months; they became lifelong friends.
Together they picketed supermarkets, held benefits, organized consumers and even helped get Chavez on the cover of Time magazine, Steinem recalled.
The late ’60s was also when the labor movement was gaining attention outside California. Moses, in many ways, was the bridge between the farmworkers’ union and New York’s intellectual community.
“She was very brave,” Steinem said Thursday. “She was often the only woman doing the kind of work she was doing. She wasn’t herself a farmworker, but she fought fiercely for farmworkers.”
Through her work, she dedicated her life to standing up for and advancing “justice and compassion,” she said.
“The courage and conscience she modeled have influenced the rest of my life,” Steinem said.
“For her, the work she did was personal, spiritual. Her passion ran deep and very, very long,” a colleague said of Marion Moses, pictured at a conference with Cesar Chavez. (Victor Alemán)
Despite the indispensable roles she had within the movement, Moses still dreamed of becoming a doctor.
She returned to Berkeley for a pre-med degree before enrolling at Temple University School of Medicine in Philadelphia. Medical schools were male-dominated spaces in the 1970s, and it was customary for professors to invite bikini-clad models into the first day of anatomy class to examine their physical structures.
“Let’s just say that was the last time that ever happened,” Maron said. “She went into the dean’s office and said: ‘I did not go into the medical field to watch a striptease.’”
From 1983 to 1986, Moses worked as medical director for the UFW in California, where she helped discover cancer clusters in small farm towns like McFarland, outside Bakersfield.
“Her commitment to farmworkers was way beyond professional,” said Monica Moore, co-founder of the Pesticide Action Network who worked with Moses in the late 1980s. Together they launched a survey to analyze what farmworkers knew about the pesticides they worked with. “For her, the work she did was personal, spiritual. Her passion ran deep and very, very long.
“She just wanted to make sure that people’s lives were considered.”
In 1988, Moses founded the Pesticide Education Center in San Francisco. She served as director until her retirement in 2016, following years of advocacy, research projects, testifying at congressional hearings and more.
Despite her accomplishments and consequential roles in the farmworkers’ movement, Moses felt it wasn’t enough.
“I think she’s sorry she didn’t do more,” Maron said. “She was really concerned with farmworkers, with the use of pesticides, knowing how devastating it was to their health.”
Moses never married or had children, but she had “lots of kids,” she once said. She considered the farmworkers her family.
“The way I look at it, there are all these wonderful things that people could do to help other people, and if they did, they’d feel a whole lot better about themselves,” she told The Times.
When she returned to UFW as a newly minted doctor, Chavez asked Moses how long she planned to stay.
She replied: “As long as it takes.”
Moses is survived by five siblings, Marcella, Martha, Maron, Martin and Marlene.