\o7For every person shot and killed in Los Angeles, roughly four or five others are wounded by gunfire but survive, many of them maimed for life. They are among the most invisible victims of street violence. Like the dead\f7, these individuals come mainly from one high-risk demographic band: male, black, young, living in a tough neighborhood and, often, criminally involved.
Decades after their shootings, the victims are still here, their wheelchairs, crutches and canes dotting the streets of South L.A. They get by as best they can, coexisting with the new victims of the same old problem.
Three of their stories follow. Two recount the same multiple-victim shooting from different perspectives; a third addresses the lasting effects of a shooting decades later.
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Bernard McGee, 37, and his cousin, Sidney McFarland, 31, were wounded in a May 9 shooting in Florence that killed 34-year-old Carl Dixon. The gunmen in the case are still at large.
McGee's story
Can't look at his own wounds
It was still light when Bernard McGee greeted Carl Dixon that late afternoon in front of a house in the 1600 block of East 81st Street. McGee was sitting on the porch. With him were his partner, their 3-month-old son, Ejuan, and McGee's cousin, Sidney McFarland.
McGee and Dixon barely had time to exchange greetings before there was an explosion of gunfire. "Boom, pac, pac, pac, boom, boom, boom!" McGee said, recalling the sound. A group of people were shooting from behind a wall.
McGee looked at Dixon. He saw the red fabric of Dixon's shirt whip, as if a strong breeze were yanking it. Dixon was being shot in the torso.
Then McGee felt two sharp jabs in his legs, one in each thigh. He felt no pain. But he had a clear sensation of two tiny objects plunging into his flesh. He knew he had been hit. Instinct, or adrenalin, put him in motion. "I had no choice," he said. "My legs got up and went."
As McGee got to the door of the house, he felt his own shirt whip and jerk, the fabric gently brushing his spine. It was a bullet. McGee had been shot in the back. He hit the floor, lying on the carpet just inside the door. His partner jumped over him to get in.
After a lifetime on 81st Street, McGee could distinguish different types of gunfire. He knew there were at least two guns -- a pistol and an assault rifle. The floor beneath him vibrated with the blasts. Large, brassy rifle shells bounced before his eyes. McGee looked down into the carpet. They would all soon be dead, he recalled thinking.
