Southside (9781608090563) by Michael Krikorian

of his mouth, targets were running for cover. None of them, including the target, were hit. Not unusual. If gang members were good shots, L.A. would have one of the highest homicide rates in the world.
    But, as Debra Sady stepped from her Nissan, she heard the shots and a bullet struck her back, just piercing a kidney. The plate of pork chops went flying as she reeled for two spastic steps before tumbling to the concrete driveway of her apartment complex. The plate of food shattered near her head. Debra Sady lay oozing blood and dreams.

CHAPTER 9
    The most mundane element of being a crime reporter is making the dreaded “cop calls.” Cop calls are when a reporter calls every police and sheriff’s station in the city and county to check if there is any fast-breaking news. Fire departments, too.
    It’s almost always an exercise in futility. Having made thousands of cop calls over the years, Michael had found that they generated a story—mostly briefs—at a ratio of maybe one in five hundred calls at best.
    Still, cop calls are required. Especially on night cops. Sometimes reporters get lazy—Michael was no exception—and they just call the main public-information numbers of the LAPD and the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s. The problem with that is that sometimes even the headquarters isn’t up on the latest breaking crimes. The sheriff’s are okay, but it is hit-and-miss with LAPD press relations. One of the LAPD public information officers, Sergeant Chris Feld-meier, always had the same report: “All quiet in the city tonight.” Always. No matter what. A dirty bomb could have been unleashed on the stadium during a Dodgers/Giants game, and Feldmeier would give his “All quiet” reply.
    Some of the LAPD PIOs, Public Information Officers, are engaging. Mike would often flirt with one of them, Lucy Sanchez, whose voice was sweet as butterscotch budino. About ten years ago, he even took Lucy out for drinks and oysters one lovely night.
    The proper way to do cop calls is to call every police station, every fire station in L.A. County. You might call the Redondo Beach watch command 755 times and get nothing. But, one of the copreporter’s nightmares is that the night you don’t call, there’ll be a double homicide at the Redondo Pier.
    On that Sunday when Debra Sady was shot, Hector Salazar was the night cops reporter. When he called the 77th Street Station and asked what was going on, he was told there’d been a nonfatal shooting on Brynhurst near 64th Street. Salazar, raised in Boyle Heights, a graduate of Roosevelt High and Cal State-L.A., was not stunned by this, knowing the address was Rollin Sixties turf and shootings there are as rare as sunsets. He thanked the cops and told the night editor nothing was going on.
    About an hour later, the night editor, Marcy Duval, e-mailed him that they could use a brief or two to fill out the section. Hector e-mailed back quickly in the style of many reporters and even editors, not bothering to check the spelling. “got a shhooting on 64 street womanwounded”
    Marcy e-replied: “64 and what?”
    Hector: “Brynhurst”
    Marcy: “Thats not news”
    Monday morning, a week after he was shot, Michael was released from the hospital. His sister, Jeanine, all smiles and tears, picked him up. They drove by the Los Angeles County Coroner Building and Michael pointed it out to her.
    â€œI just thank God you didn’t end up there. I love you, Michael.”
    â€œI love you, too.”
    She drove him to her St. Andrews Place home in Gardena, aka G-Town, where they grew up and where she now lived with her two kids. Her husband, Ralph, having died unexpectedly four years ago from a stroke.
    Dr. Wang had told Michael he should not be alone the first few days and since Francesca was in San Francisco for a charity food event, he decided to stay with his sister for a night. He headed to his