Rabbit

By Swoop
Based on True Events

1985

It’s a beautiful California summer evening. A few miles east of Venice beach I drive slowly along a winding street patrolling the Mar Vista Gardens Housing Projects.

“Hey Sanchez, got any baseball cards?” Children plead loudly from across the street. I hand a couple to the little boys that run up to my window.

A chorus of “Thanks Sanchez” from the kids as they run back to their play area.

I like working this beat with its unique mix of people. Not too many other places in this area where I find Mexicans, Blacks and a few Whites hanging out together every day. Many have lived here a long time and have grown fairly close if for no other reason than being forced to live together in poverty. Yet, because of the gangs in the area, this living situation is precarious at best.

The projects consist of identical units painted with cheap governmental surplus pale green paint. Between each of the buildings are rusted poles for clotheslines, some without the wires to hang the clothes on. The area in front and along side the units consist more of dirt patches and litter than grass.

Mar Vista Gardens is always abuzz this time of day, this time of year. In front of the units kids are playing. Adults are sitting on worn out patio furniture and plastic buckets turned upside down, talking, drinking cool drinks and smoking cigarettes. Music is blaring from various units throughout. At the end of the block, a group of teenaged Latin boys have congregated.

They are gang members, Culver City Boyz; they spend most of their days here slinging rock cocaine. Each of them is wearing the gang uniform. Neatly pressed Dickies, sagging off of their waist, wife beater shirts and bandanas, pressed and folded, hanging from their pants pocket.

The lookout recognizes my unmarked police car and starts whistling. Several of the boys run away between the units and towards the riverbed.

Rabbit, who was standing away from the group, approaches the remaining members as I stop. Rabbit is dressed differently. He has shed the dress of his fellow gang members over the last few weeks.

“What up Sanchez, what it be like today?”

“Yo Killa, what up? Keep your hands where I can see ‘em.”

“Damn Sanchez, why you sweatin us?”

“Cause y’all slingin. That was Sleepy and Lil Juan that took off. Let ‘em know I’ll be talking to ‘em next time I see ‘em.”

I search, Killa, Rabbit and the new kid, check them for warrants and send them on their way.

I’ve known Rabbit for years. He used to hold the coke and would flee at the first sight of police. They all have nicknames given to them by fellow gang members. Rabbit got his because he’s fast. First they called him Speedy Gonzales, which he hated. Later Speedy, now he’s Rabbit. He seems to relish being called Rabbit. Call him what you want. The kid’s flat out fast. I’ve chased him a few times (never caught him). I’ve watched him out run everyone in the projects.

Lately, he’s always holding some type of portfolio.

“Sanchez, I wanna show you somethin.”

“Whatcha got, Rabbit?”

He opens the portfolio and shows me numerous pencil drawings.

“This gonna get me out Sanchez. You right homey.”

I flip through one picture after the other. Beautiful, detailed pencil drawings. Many of fellow gang members, buildings and features of the neighborhood. Each one affixed with a little rabbit insignia on the lower right corner.

“This is very good stuff Rabbit. You did all of these?”

“Yeah. Check it out Sanchez, my teacher and the counselor got me into a program at UCLA. I get college credits so when I graduate I can go right into the art program. No mo’ bangin homey. After school I catch the bus to UCLA. Just wanted to show you ‘cause you always told me I could get out.”

“Great to hear you’re getting out, but kickin’ it with the fella’s still gonna cause you trouble.”

“It’s cool, everyone knows I ain’t bangin. They want me to make it. I just kick it on Friday’s but I ain’t doin nothin.”

“I know it’s hard, just be careful okay?”

“It’s cool, Sanchez, its cool.”

One Week Later

It’s a busy summer in the Projects. Drive-by shootings, domestic violence, and neighbor disputes. All of the difficulties that come with hot weather, poverty, close living conditions and alcohol.

It’s a Friday afternoon. I’m sure it will be busy tonight. Fridays always have a tendency to be busy. Could be the frustrations from long workweeks with little to show for their efforts or a host of other reasons. For gangs, it’s usually payback day for some slight (real or imagined) from the week before.

I’ve been off for two days and anxious to get back and see how my Projects are doing. I’m on my usual stroll through, driving slowly, observing, greeting and joking with the kids. It’s good to know the people on your beat. It’s a plus to know who belongs, who doesn’t and who the troublemakers are.

Like clockwork the Culver City Boyz are in their spot hanging out.

“Hey boys what’s up?”

“Yo Sanchez, just chillin”

“Where’s Rabbit?”

“He’s at his crib, probably scribbling on paper. That’s all he do is draw them pictures. Homey some kinda Mexican, whatcha call that pinchy painter dude, oh yea he’s a fucking Mexican Picasso.”

“Dude’s good. The rest of you should find something to do other than bangin and slingin dope.”

“Yea, Sanchez we been thinking ‘bout being a cop like you.”

I, as well as my gangster friends, erupt in laughter as I drive off.

Later That Night

It’s been about two hours since I was in the Projects. Time to go back and see how things are going. I start heading back when a call comes over the radio.

“All Pacific units and 14A49 shooting in progress 11900 block of Allin Street in the Mar Vista Housing Projects, several victims down. 14A49 handle this call code 3.

I respond to assist the assigned unit.

Upon my arrival I find all hell has broken loose. Police cars parked everywhere. There’s yellow crime scene tape extended throughout and officers putting up more down the street. The sounds of sirens are constant as more and more units arrive. Paramedics are working feverishly on several victims. It’s obvious that this one incident has resulted in multiple crime scenes all along this one block of Los Angeles. As I walk into the crime scene I notice one body is lying on the sidewalk, covered by a sheet.

People are crowding and pushing up against the tape. Trying to get a better look at something they really don’t want to see. This type of carnage will never leave their psyche. This smell of death will forever permeate their senses. Suddenly the loud primal wails and sobs that can only be expelled from deep within a mother’s pain are heard throughout. I’ve heard this chilling sound too many times at murder scenes. It’s a sound I’ve never been able to delete from my own hard drive.

Again, as always, the verbal attacks from the crowd begin.

“Where the fuck were you guys?”

“You assholes are never here when you need to be”

“Always sweatin’ us, handin’ out fucking baseball cards. We don’t need fucking baseball cards, we need to be safe!”

“Fuck you, fuckin cops.”

It’s painful for everyone. I’ve heard it and seen it before. But training kicks in and I go to work. The insults, cries, and any sense of emotion fade away. I have a job to do, suspects and evidence to locate.

As I begin my methodical search for witnesses and their statements, it suddenly hit’s me. I feel a sickening chill down into the very pit of my stomach. Was that a portfolio that I saw laying next to the covered body back there? No. It couldn’t be. I slowly, but purposefully, walk back towards the deceased victim.

“Hey, Jones, who’s the victim?”

“Sanchez, can you push those people back over there? I need this crime scene expanded.”

“Yea, but who’s…”

“That kid Rabbit, you know him?”

“Yea, I was hoping he’d get out of this gang shit.”

“He’s definitely out now.”