4

It Wasn't Until Afterward That I Found Out How Close I'd Been To Death

Luckily, Sarah wasn't quite funny enough to serve as dramatic cannon fodder, and we both made it through unharmed. As we lay there, hunched uncomfortably over the parking brake, we tried to shift to see out the window. Sure enough, Sarah's friend was gone. I found out later that he did survive. (I mean, I didn't assume he'd been disintegrated by bullets or anything, but he could have been hit and bleeding out for all we knew.)

Sarah desperately started to twist the keys in the ignition. She began to hyperventilate, but finally managed to bring the car to life and peel out. Before we turned the corner, a woman came out of her house with a cordless phone, and waved us down. Sarah slammed on the brakes and attempted to explain what had just happened, and why we were fleeing in terror, but only sobs and wild gibberish came out. The woman with the cordless phone just stood wide-eyed and perplexed on her front porch, until Sarah once again hit the gas pedal and we tore out of the neighborhood.

IndiaUniform/iStock
In retrospect, it should've been pretty clear from context what she was trying to say.

Sarah found a random freeway ramp and took it, then an off-ramp into an unfamiliar neighborhood. She flung her car door open and began to pace around the car, mumbling and cursing at every bullet hole she found. (We would later learn that there were 10 spent bullets in total, most of which went clean through the car.) Sarah was mostly worried about how angry her mom would be, and kept screaming, "How am I going to hide the bullet holes?!" Not "Holy shit, we almost just got killed," but "Holy shit, my mom is gonna kill me."

"Could this day have gone any worse?!"

3

I Couldn't Remember A Damn Thing About It

Not too long after we got out of the car, two young police officers pulled up. They asked us if we had been the ones involved in the drive-by earlier, and Sarah explained that we were just visiting a friend and these random guys started shooting at us. They asked us what the men looked like, and Sarah did her best to remember, but mostly sobbed unhelpfully. As opposed to, say, helpful, practical sobbing. You'd think you'd remember every detail of your attacker after something like that, but traumatic events are where your memory is at its worst. After she finished, the officers looked to me to confirm her story. "Is this true?" Still processing my own mortality, I muttered a brief, "Yeah, I guess."

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Which maybe isn't the most helpful response for cops investigating an attempted murder.

Pro-tip: Cops don't much appreciate guesswork. Clearly annoyed, he asked me again what I had seen. I told him I saw a couple of shaved brown heads, but I couldn't remember if their car was dark grey, silver, or brown. He grew even more impatient: "So, you're telling me that you just got shot at and you didn't even see who shot at you?!" I can't remember if I verbally answered him or not, but I know I at least nodded before I resumed picking almost-my-head glass out of my hoodie.

2

East LA Cops Aren't Funny

It started to rain, so the officers advised us to get into the backseat of their squad car. I didn't realize how much attention two brown girls sitting the in back of a cop car could generate. Some passersby simply gawked, while others shook their heads disapprovingly, and for some reason, I felt ashamed. Hell, maybe we were gangbangers. Was it possible I'd accidentally ganged a bang and didn't even know it?!

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The judgmental glares of so many bystanders can't all be wrong, right?

1

The Drive-by Lasted For Minutes; The PTSD For Years

For years after the shooting, I couldn't walk down a street without flinching every time a car passed. I would duck down and pretend to tie my shoes beside cover. I took to lingering behind trees. I would cringe and shake for no reason whatsoever. I hated parties because they had balloons and the mere threat of a sudden pop was enough for an anxiety attack.

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A PTSD flashback can kill a party faster than an East LA patrol cop.

I was eventually able to move on with my life, and I'm grateful to say that much of that PTSD faded with time. However, after rereading the court documents and revisiting the events in my head, I can't help but think how very close I came to actually dying that day, and for absolutely no reason whatsoever. In all, ten spent 9mm bullet casings were found at the scene of the shooting, yet none hit us. But if Sarah hadn't yanked me down like I was an oblivious president and she my faithful Secret Service agent, the bullet that went through the front passenger window would have hit me right in the head. I've lost touch with Sarah over the years, but if she happens to be reading now: Thanks for chokeslamming me into your parking brake. They uh ... they don't really make a card for that.

"We got you." -- Cracked Layout Dept.

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