A Promising Life Lost: 'I Saw She Had Braces--That Was Devastating'

L.A. Times Archives

Jan. 25, 1997 12 AM PT

Interviews by JAMES BLAIR and MARY REESE BOYKIN

BRAXTON CLARK: Firefighter/paramedic, Los Angeles Fire Department, Station 65

This particular call really hit me.

When I got [to the scene at Avalon and Imperial Highway]. I knew the victim was young, but as I began to work on her I saw she had braces. I got the feeling [she] was probably in high school. That was devastating.

Sometimes, just for the sake of your own mental stability, you rationalize that if the individual involved had done something differently, had taken better care of themselves, this wouldn’t have happened. If we run across a person with, say, lung cancer, it’s probably a result of some years of smoking. It’s one thing to run a call and the person is 85 years old. The majority of their life is over. They’ve seen ups and downs and good times and bad; but their life experience is complete. It’s always bothersome to see someone who has had a future to look toward and will never be able to realize it.

You see kids sometimes, especially in that neighborhood, that don’t have a future. And when you see a youngster killed you try to rationalize that, too--maybe this person was gangbanging or doing something they shouldn’t have done.

But you can’t rationalize her life away that way. This was just a girl taking a bus on her way home from school. Later, of course, I learned who she was--a student at Centennial High in Compton and about to graduate, a very outgoing, gregarious, well-liked person.

If we knew the background of every person we went on we’d just become so involved we’d get stuck in their lives and couldn’t go on with our own.

MAHMOUD NOUH: Emergency room doctor, King/Drew Medical Center

We are a Level 1 trauma center. That means we receive the most critically injured of critical patients from accidents or acts of violence. People who are between life and death.

Our communications room received a call from the paramedics and the resident physician told us there was a young lady who’d been shot in the neck, not breathing, with faint or no pulse.

We issued a “Code Yellow” on our PA system. That means the whole surgical trauma team comes down, the whole emergency room team--residents, nurses, anesthetist. The X-ray team also comes in case that patient needs to go to the operating room immediately. I am one of the emergency medicine team.

We were all waiting but when she arrived, it was already too late. We did everything we could to save her life.

When you treat a patient, you’re doing a professional job and you try to put emotions aside. We don’t allow ourselves to get emotional until afterward.

When we learned she was a student, a good student getting ready for college and had just been on the bus going home, we just felt devastated.

I talked to the nurses and the paramedics. What could this girl have done other than riding the bus? She was not going to a party or walking on a dangerous street at night. She didn’t have her own car for some protection. She was riding a city bus. It was the best she could do.

But still the bullets wouldn’t leave her alone.

I have been at the hospital for about 14 years and we have seen a lot of gunshot wounds, gang members, criminals. But when you see someone like this, the last thing you could imagine is that she would be shot. You take it very hard, especially when you have to tell the mother who was just brought to the hospital that her child is dead. How do you tell a family that their daughter, instead of going home, is going to the morgue?

As professionals, we feel that it’s a crisis in our community. We have been seeing a lot of gunshot wounds--accidental, domestic violence or gang-related. Something more has to be done. We have an impression that our community is going the wrong way.

MOSES CHADWICK: Emergency room social worker, King/Drew Medical Center

I see the social worker’s role, for lack of a better word, as a conductor or an orchestrator so the survivors don’t leave wondering, “What am I going to do next? What has to happen now?”

The medical staff had already informed Miss Williams’ mother of her daughter’s death and on my arrival, she was in extreme emotional distress. My job at that point was to be as comforting as possible. It’s best to allow the person to grieve and come to some realization about what is happening.

We’re there to help staff as well. What I think happens most of the time is that the medical staff and the nursing staff want to make it OK. And this is not an OK situation. It’s all right for people to cry out loud and grieve overtly. We don’t have to save them. In fact, there is no saving them. They need to go through the process.

Frequently, to keep the staff from intervening, I have to tell them, “Everything’s all right. Just let the person grieve, even if it includes pounding on the walls.”

PEDRO ORTIZ: Deputy medical examiner, L.A. County coroner’s office

I was assigned the Williams case last Saturday. I try hard to separate my professional work from my emotional response. We are trained to do that. But still I cannot split my personality in two. Every one of my cases gives me a time for reflection.

And my reflection is simply how absurd these deaths are, in the sense that you see these young lives ended abruptly as a result of some nonsensical act. It doesn’t make any sense to me, not only in Miss Williams’ case, but in so many cases I have performed throughout my career in this department.

When I have to autopsy adolescents, I think a lot about it because I am the father of two adolescents myself, and one of them is 17 years old. It helps to remind me how fragile life is. I think about my relationship with my two daughters.

This death--all these deaths--are a warning of how we have let down not only our children but our society in general.

RICO HARPER: Resident, Avalon/Imperial area, near site of shooting

I have lived here for 12 years. I grew up in Compton. You have neighbors that watch out for each other. But you have outsiders that stay here and do their business here who go home, sleep in their comfortable place. They may live in Riverside, but come back over here and do their dirt in the neighborhood because this is where they are known.

It’s crazy around here as far as the gangbangers. To me, it is like being in the jungle; you always have to watch out for the lions. Tonight [Thursday], it’s kind of quiet because this morning the police rounded up the young ones that they figured know something about the shooting, heard something on the streets or even just hang out with those they suspect have done the killing.

I saw Corie Williams’ mother on TV last night. It really hit me that her daughter was about to graduate. I am separated but my 9-year-old daughter visits me. My thought is to get my child out of this neighborhood to somewhere positive. It’s not safe. A few days after Corie’s death, a 15-year-old boy was killed at a neighborhood video store.

I work as an orthopedic technician at King/Drew Medical Center and I run across gang-related shootings, frequently where the innocent bystander is involved. Some of those I work on are gangbangers but mostly they are wannabes who fail to follow the rules of the street, like not standing in the front yard; not watching cars that go by, especially those slowing up with no lights; not going into certain areas; not wearing certain clothes.

I often wonder, how does the person feel after he has committed a crime? Does he sleep at night? Does he wonder about the victims? Does he think about the person’s family? Does he have a heart?

ANDRE CUNNINGHAM: Assistant principal, Centennial High School

Tuesday morning, I was walking around campus as I usually do, when I noticed three girls who were in a circle. On was tearing up small pieces of paper and dropping it on the ground. I asked her, “Is that what you do at home?” She answered “No.” I told her to pick the paper up, and then I asked, “Why are you putting paper on the ground and not putting it in the trash can?” She said, “Mr. Cunningham, I’m nervous. I was on that bus. I saw Corie die. It [the bullet] passed right by my head.” This incident reminded me that behavior is for a reason, that in doing my job, especially now, I need to consider that certain behavior may be related to students’ coping with Corie’s death.

We are helping our students move through their grief. I have asked that the staff extend themselves to help, that they try to set aside some of the differences that they may have with the school or district and involve themselves to improve our climate and services. After all, as educators we are in the caring business.

Personally, this tragedy is a reminder that my work is my ministry.

RICHARD GAYTON: Teacher, auto shop, Centennial High School

Auto shop is a nontraditional class for young ladies, but I tell my students to forget about gender. I tell them, “Where there is no respect, there is no control.” Corie Williams was an excellent student in both my periods one and two auto shop classes. She was a happy young lady, a spark in the class.

Corie was good in her work. She did basic metal straightening. She did a good job at masking. She primed automobiles, did wet sanding, prepared cars for painting. She did a lot of detail work.

Last Friday was detail day. There was an emptiness. My students were somber. I convinced them that the best way to deal with grief was to go on with their normal activity. They tried. But it was not a regular day. It has not been a regular week--for them or for me.

Students at Centennial High School declined to speak for publication about the Williams case. But some wrote poems to their murdered classmate. The one below, by senior LATREASE JONES, is in the voice of Williams.

I just wanted to go home.

I didn’t do anything wrong.

Why did this happen to me?

I wanted to live life.

You wouldn’t even give me that chance.

Do you worry for me, do you care for my family?

Do you feel my pain?

Can you hear the cries coming from my mother as she watched me die?

If you only knew what you have done to me.

You hurt my friends and my family.

You are not my judge, jury or executioner.

Was it your duty to kill me?