2ndShotBlog.com

Just three weeks ago the kid who lived next door was shot and killed. Not in the neighborhood. He was at a nightclub in the next town over. At 1 a.m. there was a fight in the parking lot. One of the guys in the fight went to his car, got a gun, and fired several shots at the man he was fighting. A stray bullet hit the 20 year old kid from next door. He was taken by helicopter to the same hospital trauma center that I was flown to.

He didn’t make it. He died at 4 a.m.

By all accounts, he wasn’t involved in the fight. Just an innocent bystander. I feel terrible. I’ve been composing this blog post in my head ever since. Something else happened this past weekend that made me decide to finally write it. I’ll get to that in a minute.

The kid was a mild irritant. He had an old Buick that he worked on incessantly. Painted metallic blue and silver, with lots of chrome, those hydraulics that would lift it up high off the wheels, and mufflers that made the engine LOUD. He thought he was cool driving that thing around. He looked ridiculous.

I feel terrible in part because I was just as ridiculous and probably far more irritating when I was his age. I had a black Camaro Z28 with a special after market stereo (remember 8 Track?), that I played LOUD. With my black aviator shades (that I wore even at night), I thought I was cool.

But I’ve lived my life. And I’m still alive. He’ll never meet a special girl, fall in love, have that girl gently wean him away from his childish endeavors, have a family and a career, and experience all the ups and downs that come with those.

The family next door immigrated here from Mexico. They’re hard working people. Even now, in the depth of this recession, they all have jobs. They’re up and out early in the morning. When they’re home they’re working on the house and the yard. I looked up their real estate record. They bought the house 12 years ago. They immigrated here and they worked hard and became legal residents. They had their little piece of the American dream. Now they also have a piece of the American nightmare.

This past weekend there was another shooting in downtown Sarasota. Three blocks from where I live. Right on Main St. at 9 p.m. on Saturday night, a half block away from a busy movie theater. There’s a small well-lit park where teenagers hang out. This 18 year old boy was parading around with a large Confederate flag. A black kid accused him of being a racist. An argument ensued. The black kid shot the kid with the flag. The wounded kid was flown to that same trauma center and he’s currently in critical but stable condition.

How ignorant to be parading around with a Confederate flag. Turns out the kid isn’t even a Southerner. He’s only been living here for a few years and is from Pennsylvania. But ignorance doesn’t deserve death. When you shoot somebody at close range, you’re trying to kill him.

When I read the above story in the newspaper, I decided to look up how much violent crime there is in Sarasota. Turns out, there’s a LOT. Take a look at this:

http://www.neighborhoodscout.com/fl/sarasota/crime/

I Googled ‘Sarasota Violent Crime’ and came up with a half dozen of these kinds of sites that rate the crime in different cities and towns. They all agree that Sarasota has one of the highest crime rates of anywhere in the US. More than almost anywhere in the first world.

I come back to “Why?” Can anybody tell me? What is it about Sarasota that causes it to have such a high rate of murders, rapes and violent assaults per capita? You can reply via commenting. Just click on the ‘Comment’ text that appears at the top of this post.

I just reread my last blog post. I need to correct an omission.

The last post was a bit whiny and it missed an important point - I’m alive! The EMTs and the trauma surgeons saved my life. I am extremely grateful.

I was rolled into the ICU around 4 a.m. on that Thursday three weeks ago. When I arrived in the ICU, I could breathe only with the help of a ventilator. I could hear conversations occurring around me, but I couldn’t communicate. I couldn’t even blink my eyes.

By 10 a.m. my eyes were open, I was breathing on my own, and I could speak in a whisper. The Sarasota police detective in charge of my case called the hospital to ask when he could drop by to take my statement.

By 2 p.m. I was sitting up, sipping water through a straw, and talking to two Sarasota police detectives. They asked me to recount what happened the night before. They recorded my statement and took notes.

I told them the story exactly the way I described it in the first post of this blog, the one labeled ‘Why?’

When I finished, they told me my statement matched what they had pieced together from statements given by my girlfriend (who witnessed only what transpired at the back door of my house), the two boys who were with the shooter, and two eye witnesses (who saw only what happened in the alley behind my house).

BTW - I never saw these eye witnesses, but I’m grateful to them. The detectives told me one was a kid on a bike. When he saw me drop like a sack of potatoes, he thought I had been killed. He rode home and told his parents. They immediately took him to the police station so he could report what he saw. The other eye witness not only corroborated my story when he gave his statement, he dialed 911 when he saw me drop. That’s why the EMTs arrived so quickly and another reason why I’m alive to write this blog. I assume I’ll get a chance to meet and thank both of these individuals during the trial.

Satisfied that I had no connection to the shooter, that I am the victim of a violent crime, the lead detective gave me paperwork to fill out so that the state can reimburse me for expenses not covered by my insurance. That is very helpful.  If I had to pay for my deductibles plus received no compensation for business lost (I’ve been unable to work for the past three weeks), I’d have been approximately $30k out of pocket.

Over the past three weeks these detectives have also been helpful in other ways. I’ll tell you about those in posts to come.

At 8:45 p.m. on a Wednesday night in February 2009, my girlfriend and I were watching TV in my living room. A knock came at the back door. Unusual. People always enter the house at the front.

I opened the door and there were three young men standing on the porch. They were clean cut - button down shirts and khaki pants, with short hair cuts. The one in the middle said, “We need to use your phone. Can we come in?”

I said, “No. Do I look like an idiot?”

Without saying a word, they turned around and walked into my backyard.

That’s when I made my mistake.

A year earlier someone had thrown a rock through the windshield of my car which I park out back. I wanted to make sure they didn’t vandalize the car or the exterior of the house, so I followed them.

They walked past my car and took a right into the service alley. I was about 20 feet behind them.

I was yelling (all bluff and bravado), “Go on! Get out! I want you out of the area! Keep moving!”

I turned the corner into the alley. The one in the middle, the same one who spoke to me at my back door, turned around with a gun in his hand. He pointed it at me and fired. It missed… a bit off to my right. He calmly re-aimed and, with a Mona Lisa smile on his face, pulled the trigger a second time. This time the bullet hit me as I was beginning to turn away from him. It entered my gut just below and to the right of my belly button.

People (all men) have asked me what it feels like to get shot.  I registered a pressure at the point of entry. Then a quick burning sensation. And I dropped to the ground. As I was falling, I watched the three young men run away.