James J Galipeau

During the early 1990s, when I covered gangs for this newspaper, no man loomed larger for me than James J. Galipeau. A veteran of the Los Angeles County Probation Department's metropolitan specialized gang unit, Jim was my master key to the Blood and Crip underworld, taking me on house calls, schooling me in history, inviting me to epic soul food lunches with his cadre of tattooed ex-cons and battle-scarred O.G.s.

During the early 1990s, when I covered gangs for this newspaper, no man loomed larger for me than James J. Galipeau. A veteran of the Los Angeles County Probation Department's metropolitan specialized gang unit, Jim was my master key to the Blood and Crip underworld, taking me on house calls, schooling me in history, inviting me to epic soul food lunches with his cadre of tattooed ex-cons and battle-scarred O.G.s.

In the Aliso-Pico housing project near downtown Los Angeles, 11-year-old Frankie Mugia and his sister Crystal, 6, have had to sleep on the floor of their second-story bedroom to avoid bullets. Their window has been shot out by gunfire. How often do you hear gunshots? "Every day," Frankie says. How often do you see guns? "Every day." If children are the future, then firearms are altering the future of Los Angeles County.

The people of Los Angeles County are living under the gun. More are shot to death than are killed in traffic accidents. Last year, at least 8,600 people were hit by bullets--almost one an hour--while thousands of others were nearly shot. Los Angeles County has become a place where many residents avoid the park or the mall, the beach, even the windows of their own homes, for fear of a bullet.