ONCE UPON A TIME IN the City of Angels, chaos was king, and carelessness

ruled. Street gangs roamed the city. Most politicians bettered their own lives, not

those of the people they were elected to serve. Neighborhoods declined to slum-

like conditions. The Los Angeles school system stumbled headlong toward total

Armageddon. And the most victimized segment of the populace?

The children. The teens. The next generation.

Limited choices and often abusive or neglectful home lives forced hundreds, if

not thousands of children, into the streets to join gangs, turn tricks, do drugs, sell

drugs, drop out of school, get arrested and sent to prison for life, and in all ways

subjugate their goodness in the name of survival.

All hope seemed lost. Until the mysterious "tag" appeared throughout the city,

spray-painted on walls and over graffiti, obliterating gang markings without

mercy, without favoritism, with impunity.

A "tag" that became the symbol of a revolution.

The gangs of Boyle Heights often clashed over turf or drugs.

Tonight it was about disrespect.

LAPD officers fought to contain the brawling, screaming gang members,

firing rubber bullets, banging heads with nightsticks, slapping cuffs on tattooed

wrists. These rival Latino factions clashed often, especially on this street, a

dividing line between their two 'hoods.

Scrawled on the wall behind the brawling youths and struggling cops were

various gang monikers and names, indicating the back and forth struggle for

control of the area. Above all these, written in beautifully articulated lettering

and accompanied by the drawing of a dove flying over a rainbow—and partially

scribbled over by graffiti—was painted: "Pray for Peace in the Barrio."

Anarchy reigned as cops in riot gear struggled to apprehend the fighting

youths, while other gang members ran helter-skelter between numerous police

and local news media vehicles attempting to escape the police cordon. The news cameras rolled, taking in every violent moment while the flashing red lights of

police and paramedic vehicles cast a dramatic strobe-light effect over the scene.

As the situation slowly settled into containment, with most gang members

either restrained or dashing off into the darkness, the last two boys were roughly

pulled apart by four cops. These two boys fought so furiously that two officers

were required for each boy to keep them from killing one another.

Nearly seventeen, Esteban was a strong, buffed-up teen with unkempt facial

hair and a nearly bald head. He wore a torn tank top undershirt that revealed

several tattoos on his naked, muscular arms.

Jaime was sixteen, clothed in a muscle shirt that revealed his own assorted

tattoos, which included his name on his neck and Our Lady of Guadalupe on his

right forearm.

As cops shoved these boys toward different police cruisers, their faces slashed

by the flashing red lights, Jaime kicked and screamed, shrieking furiously at

Esteban, his face red with rage, "You're dead, Ese! Dead!"

Esteban, calm and composed now that the fighting was over, gazed solemnly

back at his raging rival.

"You ain't gonna touch me, fool," he announced quietly before being forced

into the backseat of a police car. The doors slammed behind him.

The other officers shoved Jaime violently into the back of another cruiser

before the youth could shout a response. Suddenly, the bedlam ended, and the

clean-up began.

Sergeant James Ryan wore his fifty-five years more like a weary sixty-five or

seventy, his hair having turned almost completely gray, his craggy face worn and

weathered by stress.

Forty-year-old Robert Gibson was African American, tall and imposing, with

broad shoulders and a well-groomed mustache.

Ryan surveyed the mop-up operation and shook his head in disgust. "Hell,

Gib, our tagger's been here too!"

"We've got to nail this guy, Ry, before he ignites the whole city."

They gazed at the brick wall before them. Painted in bright purple paint or ink,

was a simple, but unusual symbol. This symbol, having been painted over the

gang logos and gang names, and appearing on walls and buildings throughout

the city in recent days, had precipitated numerous outbreaks of gang-on-gang

violence. Both sides in these clashes believed the other had disrespected them by

placing this "tag" over their own.

The symbol—a large A with a sword thrust down through it—now adorned

the wall, clearly asserting its dominion over what had previously been claimed.

Helen Schaeffer, a blonde and ambitious thirtysomething newswoman for a local TV station hurried over to Ryan and Gibson with her cameraman in tow.

The bright light of the camera fell on the furious faces of the two officers,

momentarily blinding them.

"Sergeant Ryan, any comment on this latest incident?" Helen asked with

authority, her mic shoved professionally up under Ryan's chin.

Ryan shoved it away. "Yeah, it stinks!" He turned and strode back toward his

car. Gibson shrugged as Helen swung her microphone toward him, and quickly

followed his partner.

Helen turned back to the camera, flashing her perfect television teeth. "As you

just saw, the police still aren't saying much about this latest outbreak of gang

violence."

Within the Hollenbeck Station Gang Task Force Division, activity was at a

premium due to this latest gang brawl. Paperwork was rushed through as gang

members, some as young as twelve, were booked and carted off to juvenile hall

while phones rang off the hook. No surprise to Ryan was the obvious lack of

parents checking on the health and welfare of their kids.

Chewing absently on a pencil, he and Gibson sat watching a flat screen TV

mounted on the wall above them. Other cops bustled past, a few stopping to

glance at the broadcast before moving on.

On the screen, Helen's vivacious ambition shone through. She spoke directly

to the camera, the last of the police mop-up going on behind her. "This is the

seventh large-scale gang fight in the past two weeks, and the police refuse to

comment. The only connection seems to be this strange symbol."

The camera cut to a close-up of the A symbol while she continued in that

dispassionate newscaster tone, "Or 'tag', as the graffiti artists call it. Is this—"

Gibson angrily clicked off the TV with a remote. Sitting in a straight- backed

chair beside them, shackled at the wrists and ankles, Esteban chuckled.

"I think it's you guys, Ryan," the relaxed boy stated calmly.

Gibson leaned forward, right into Esteban's face. "You think it's us, huh,

Gallegos?"

Esteban smirked. For a cop, Esteban knew, this guy wasn't too bad, but Ryan

was a real loser, like one of those old, burned out cops in movies who always get

outsmarted by guys like him.

Ryan put down his pencil and leaned forward. "Look, the only reason you're

up here, Esteban, is because you're probably the only one of these punks who has a brain.

Esteban nodded. He and Ryan knew each other too well. "It all fits, man. You

guys're tryin' ta get us ta wipe ourselves out. You makes us think each other's

doin' it, we fight, and you win. End of story."

Ryan sighed with exhaustion. "If it was that simple, kid, you and your homies

would've been dead long ago."

Gibson tried the "good cop" routine. "You have any idea who's doing this,

Esteban?"

Esteban snorted derisively. "Like I'd say if I did? Don't be a fool."

Gibson's temper suddenly flared, and he made a grab for Esteban. "Watch

your mouth, punk!"

Ryan's hand on his shoulder restrained him. Esteban continued smirking while

Gibson pulled back his clenched fist.

"Not now!" Ryan barked. "Just get him outta here."

Regaining control, the frustrated Gibson stood and yanked Esteban to his feet,

shoving him toward the exit, almost causing the boy to trip from the ankle

shackles. "Back to the hall, Gallegos."

Esteban laughed. "Home sweet home."

Ryan watched them exit, frustrated and angry. He snapped the pencil he'd

been fiddling with and threw the pieces onto his desk. He reached for a

sketchpad and picked it up, gazing in irritation at an artist's rendering of the "A"

symbol. What the hell was going on in his city?

A small, lean boy appeared at the mouth of an alley and darted quickly into the

protective shadows behind a large dumpster. A sheriff's car cruised slowly past

the mouth of the alley and then continued on out of sight. The boy stepped from

his hiding place and dusted himself off. Lance Sepulveda, a fourteen-year-old

orphan, warily glanced around. Between avoiding gang members and cops, he

lived a very cautious life.

The gang members liked to beat him up and the cops put him in juvy as a

runaway. There was no place in Los Angeles for kids like him who didn't

commit crimes, so they had to bide their time in juvy to wait for yet another

group home to take them.

A smart, clever boy with unusually green eyes—which drew derisive

comments from other Latinos—Lance preferred the freedom of the streets, living

for a time with this friend or that friend, having no ties to anyone. He wore a pair

of baggy overalls with the straps hanging down and a gray hoodie flipped up to

obscure his face, clothes given to him by one of his friends. He lugged a bulging,