She held the paper firmly in her hands, afraid that if she didn’t, it would tremble, betraying just how nervous she felt. At first her voice fought for control as she read from her notes. It was easier, she told us, to have written down her thoughts. She was usually nervous around people, she explained, besides she worried the subject matter at hand was too emotional. She feared she would be overcome by it all. She also wanted to make sure she didn’t forget anything, especially how kind Alex was, how gentle his heart. I’ll call her “Linda.” She is afraid that whomever had set Alex on fire — if that is what turns out to have happened — would come looking for her if she used her real name.
It soon became apparent that Linda was a naturally gifted writer. Within her scribbled notes, the pathos of the cruel act of setting someone on fire contrasted sharply with the gentle, child-like faith she had in Alex. She related how he liked to please people, how he played guitar on State Street to earn a little money but also to bring a smile to those of his community. She told us how he never had a harsh word for anyone, but always a smile, always a kind thought and gesture. Now he lives in incredible pain, fighting daily for his life.
I don’t know the particulars of Alex’s medical treatment but I know enough of severe burn wounds to know the general treatment. Searing pain as his burned flesh is scrubbed away; countless blood transfusions; the pounding of intravenous antibiotics to ward off infections; skin grafts; then months if not years of painful rehab. And then finally, facing the psychological pain of post-traumatic stress disorder as he relives the nightmare of being on fire. If this happened at the hands of another as it appears, a more hideous crime would be hard to imagine.
But Linda’s story was not one of vengeance nor necessarily of pain and hopelessness. Instead, it was about a gentle man and a good-hearted woman. She told us how she had dressed up that morning and wore high heels. We smiled when she told us how difficult it was to walk through the ivy, sinking her heals into the soft soil. Then our smiles turned bitter when she told us of the terror that overtook her when she came upon his camp, only to find it fire-gutted. She called out his name, cautiously at first, then in rising fear when panic overcame her.
Running away from the crime scene, she came upon a firefighter on his morning jog. He told her a homeless man had been severely burned in the shallow cave-like camp.
The man had been transported to a Los Angeles hospital burn unit only after others had refused him.
As a writer, one is always turning over different thoughts of what would make good fiction. Many ideas are rejected because who would believe them? Some are just too outlandish, too outside what is believable. I remember thinking that as I listened to Linda reciting this horror story. This is my community, these types of hate crimes don’t happen here. But then I remember Gregory Ghan, Ross Stiles, maybe Allen McGibben. And I think back further to a young homeless man who had his throat cut by college prep students out to do mayhem in Alameda Park. I also remember an old man who was kicked to death across the street at Alice Keck Park Memorial Gardens by two youths. And then there was the murder of Linda Archer and Rose Doe — I never did find out her real name, just as I never found out who dumped her body at the Douglas Family Preserve all those years ago.
Maybe we’re just better at ignoring the harsh truths — the darkness that strolls our streets and some of our hearts. After all, we are like a lot of communities where hate crimes against the poor do take place.
But then I look at Linda, and this kind woman with a gentle disposition and tremendous compassion reminds me of the good in our community that stands in such stark contrast to the bad. For as surely as evil walks among us, so does goodness. It’s just that at times it’s hard to remember that when we seem to be so good at turning our backs to unpleasant truths. But the funny thing about truth is that it exists regardless of how we spin it, or how we ignore it. Getting up to leave I remind myself that the job at hand is to align our moral beliefs with the truth. The truth may not be what we want it to be but our struggle is like that of the civil rights workers in their day: to bring reality in alignment with our moral beliefs. Our fight is different in a way, but then again, not so much. Evil must be confronted before it can be overcome. We owe Alex and the others no less.
Driving along Highway 101 just past the Haley Street onramp, one can see the remains of Alex’s camp. You can see the burned brush that hid such a terrible crime. And, if it is in the quiet of the early morning, you can hear the cry of his pain along with the screams of injustice.
Update
“Dave” was the 17th homeless person to die since January. He lived in a park by the beach and worked at the harbor. His whispery beard highlighted his youth and innocence. He was a good kid and will be missed. We are one death away from a cruel marker: For all of 2008, 18 homeless deaths were recorded.
— Ken Williams has been a social worker for the homeless for the last 30 years. He is the author of China White and Shattered Dreams, A Story of the Streets.