years old, he helped form the 74 Hoover Crips, taking the gang name “Bishop,” and subsequently served time in the MacLaren Juvenile Facility for gang-related crimes.
Instead of fretting like most would, Mary Thompson became an anti-gang activist. Her message was simple: “If it could happen to my family, it could happen to yours.”
She began conducting anti-gang seminars at high schools and youth centers, where she spoke passionately to teenagers of the good life her son Beau gave up, of her pain in watching him go down the wrong road. She showed students her photo albums filled with heartwarming shots of Beau proudly wearing his Cub Scout uniform, fishing with his father, and opening presents on Christmas Day like any normal American kid. But he wasn’t any normal American kid, Mary said, not since he got involved with gangs.
Instead of the scenes depicted in the photographs, in her mind’s eye she saw Beau selling guns at a local ice cream shop, serving time in prison, and threatening cops with a revolver. She saw a boy who, ever since he became “Bishop,” had a gaze as hard as glacial ice and a heart frozen with hate for authority.
As her stature in the community increased, so did her influence. She formed a close relationship with the police department. Law enforcement looked to Mary as the one person who could break the spell that gangs cast over the city’s youth. She formed a close working relationship with Ric Raynor, a detective in the anti-gang unit. Eventually, the department appointed her to the newly formed Gang Prevention Task Force.
Like the best evangelists, Mary could spellbind a crowd with the emotion behind her words, her commitment to keeping Eugene gang-free, her zeal in allowing the city’s children to keep their childhood pristine. And Mary vowed publicly to continue to pursue her cause, to break the hold of gangs in Eugene, to stop kids from joining them, as long as one breath remained in her body.
As Lisa listened to Mary tell her story, she felt very moved and attended a subsequent meeting of the Gang Prevention Task Force that Mary was a part of. It was there that she met Aaron Iturra.
“Hi, is Aaron there?” said Lisa into the phone. She was in the privacy of her room at home and took a quick toke of the joint in her free hand.
“Uh, he’s busy right now, but if you want—”
“No, it’s okay. Never mind,” Lisa interrupted, and hung up. Taking another toke, she made her second call.
“He’s home,” she said. “I just talked to his sister.”
“Good. Now call James.”
The third call was to James “Jim” Elstad.
“It’s a ‘go,’” she said.
The wind came whistling in through the window of the back bedroom, where Janyce Iturra lay sleeping. Despite the weather, Janyce always slept with her windows open. She liked the feeling of fresh air around her. She worked hard during the day, as a receiving clerk at Fred Myers, a large department store. And since she usually went to work at four or five, she was in bed by nine.
When the phone rang at ten, it woke her up. She heard her daughter Maya go out to get Aaron because the phone call was for him. After he came back in, she heard him say:
“Well, who is it, Maya?”
“I don’t know,” Maya answered. “It was just a girl. She hung up.”
Janyce drifted back to sleep.
Minutes later, seventeen-year-old “Crazy” Joe Brown stood in front of the Iturra home. The house was a panhandle, situated in back of another, the two connected by a narrow alley. The beauty of it was, you couldn’t see the panhandle house from the street. This type of dwelling was common in Eugene.
Brown was a short kid who, at five-foot-six, weighed all of 140 pounds soaking wet. Dressed in black shirt and pants, with jet-black hair, scraggly mustache and goatee, he cased the joint. Quickly, he realized he had come too early. The house was lit up. People inside were still awake. He left and returned around midnight.
This time,
Instead of fretting like most would, Mary Thompson became an anti-gang activist. Her message was simple: “If it could happen to my family, it could happen to yours.”
She began conducting anti-gang seminars at high schools and youth centers, where she spoke passionately to teenagers of the good life her son Beau gave up, of her pain in watching him go down the wrong road. She showed students her photo albums filled with heartwarming shots of Beau proudly wearing his Cub Scout uniform, fishing with his father, and opening presents on Christmas Day like any normal American kid. But he wasn’t any normal American kid, Mary said, not since he got involved with gangs.
Instead of the scenes depicted in the photographs, in her mind’s eye she saw Beau selling guns at a local ice cream shop, serving time in prison, and threatening cops with a revolver. She saw a boy who, ever since he became “Bishop,” had a gaze as hard as glacial ice and a heart frozen with hate for authority.
As her stature in the community increased, so did her influence. She formed a close relationship with the police department. Law enforcement looked to Mary as the one person who could break the spell that gangs cast over the city’s youth. She formed a close working relationship with Ric Raynor, a detective in the anti-gang unit. Eventually, the department appointed her to the newly formed Gang Prevention Task Force.
Like the best evangelists, Mary could spellbind a crowd with the emotion behind her words, her commitment to keeping Eugene gang-free, her zeal in allowing the city’s children to keep their childhood pristine. And Mary vowed publicly to continue to pursue her cause, to break the hold of gangs in Eugene, to stop kids from joining them, as long as one breath remained in her body.
As Lisa listened to Mary tell her story, she felt very moved and attended a subsequent meeting of the Gang Prevention Task Force that Mary was a part of. It was there that she met Aaron Iturra.
“Hi, is Aaron there?” said Lisa into the phone. She was in the privacy of her room at home and took a quick toke of the joint in her free hand.
“Uh, he’s busy right now, but if you want—”
“No, it’s okay. Never mind,” Lisa interrupted, and hung up. Taking another toke, she made her second call.
“He’s home,” she said. “I just talked to his sister.”
“Good. Now call James.”
The third call was to James “Jim” Elstad.
“It’s a ‘go,’” she said.
The wind came whistling in through the window of the back bedroom, where Janyce Iturra lay sleeping. Despite the weather, Janyce always slept with her windows open. She liked the feeling of fresh air around her. She worked hard during the day, as a receiving clerk at Fred Myers, a large department store. And since she usually went to work at four or five, she was in bed by nine.
When the phone rang at ten, it woke her up. She heard her daughter Maya go out to get Aaron because the phone call was for him. After he came back in, she heard him say:
“Well, who is it, Maya?”
“I don’t know,” Maya answered. “It was just a girl. She hung up.”
Janyce drifted back to sleep.
Minutes later, seventeen-year-old “Crazy” Joe Brown stood in front of the Iturra home. The house was a panhandle, situated in back of another, the two connected by a narrow alley. The beauty of it was, you couldn’t see the panhandle house from the street. This type of dwelling was common in Eugene.
Brown was a short kid who, at five-foot-six, weighed all of 140 pounds soaking wet. Dressed in black shirt and pants, with jet-black hair, scraggly mustache and goatee, he cased the joint. Quickly, he realized he had come too early. The house was lit up. People inside were still awake. He left and returned around midnight.
This time,
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