elusive

Officially, Jacqueline Jackson, wife of presidential candidate Jesse Jackson, was not among the 69 passengers aboard a Midway Airlines 737 that made a one-engine landing in Pittsburgh on the way from Washington to Chicago recently.

“Our passenger name list did not include anyone by the name of Jackson,” Midway Airlines said after the emergency.

But she was, said Mark Horrell, a fellow passenger and former neighbor of the Jacksons’, adding, “I saw more of the Jacksons on that plane than I saw of them in two years living across the street from them.”

A couple of days later, Jesse Jackson quietly confirmed his wife and one son had been on the plane. By then, however, the news value had faded.

That’s probably the way Jacqueline Jackson wanted it.

Though the incident faded with hardly a notice, it spoke volumes about Jacqueline Jackson–elusive, private and largely unknown to the public, including fellow travelers on an airplane in trouble.

While Jesse has spent the last 20 years thrusting himself into the limelight, Jacqueline has been almost as successful at avoiding it.

When she doesn’t feel like talking, requests for an interview, directed to her personal secretary, to her home, to the Jackson campaign might just as well be made to dial-a-joke. Calls weren’t taken seriously.

When she does decide to talk, pausing to accommodate an interviewer during the events surrounding the college graduation of her 61-year-old mother, she is articulate, charming, charismatic even.

Yet Jacqueline can be intimidating and combative when discussion drifts into areas she decides are off limits. Once she has made a statement, follow-up questions bounce off an invisible barrier defined by riveting eye contact and pointed repetition.

For instance, does she get a fee for her public speaking?

“Often I do.”

“Now, on the campaign. . . . ?”

“Often I do.”

“Before. . . ?”

“Often I do.”

“But. . . .”

“ Often . . . I . . . do .”

Jackson has little patience for reporters who would pry into her life.

“My friends do not discuss me with the media,” she says flatly.

And she has even less patience with the suggestion that, for an aspiring First Lady, she is elusive if not evasive.

“I would be willing to say to you that my family has been scrutinized far more than any family that’s in this public situation that we’re in today. . . ,” she says, sitting in her hotel suite in Hampton, Va., last weekend. She has granted interviews to a few news organizations lately, and she and her husband are completing a book about themselves. So she sees no reason to talk to everyone who asks.

“I am not private or protective. But there’s a point that you can’t give any more. I can’t permit you to move into my home with me. I must have my family.”

Jacqueline Lavinia Davis Brown Jackson was born 43 years ago, in Ft. Pierce, Fla. Like the man she would eventually marry, she was born out of wedlock. Her mother was Gertrude Davis, a teen-age migrant worker who earned 15 cents an hour picking beans.

Of those early years in Florida, Jacqueline remembers only talking and laughing a lot, and listening to her “little red radio.”

Her mother eventually married Julius Brown, a civilian employee of the Navy who would later work for the post office. Brown soon moved his family to Newport News, Va., where he bought a two-story, clapboard-and-shingle home in the quiet neighborhood in which Jacqueline and her four siblings were raised.

Lined with green lawns and tall crepe myrtles filled with chirping birds, it’s the kind of street where sticky spring afternoons lure folks to the front porch to chat and watch the baby carriages passing on the sidewalks.

The street hasn’t changed much since the days when the Brown children would press their noses up against his window to hear his jazz band rehearse, says De Witt Cooke, 72, who has lived his whole life across the street from the home Julius Brown still owns.

Cooke remembers the Browns as a friendly but very private family, not adverse to visiting, but not much for socializing either. “There was a togetherness in the family,” he says.

Gertrude Brown raised the children while working full time at the local Veterans Administration Hospital.

“When Gertrude spoke, that was it,” says Cooke. Jacqueline remembers that her mother was strict–too strict she thought then–but loving. She taught her daughter how to crochet and do needlework, and Jacqueline made all her own clothes. “I was very fashionable in church,” she says.

Dinner–”simple food: pork chops, corn, green beans”–was served around a big table. Everyone said grace. And the children were in bed by 8:30, Jacqueline says.

Besides church and Sunday school and Baptist Youth Training, the Brown children didn’t get out much. “I didn’t date really,” Jacqueline says. But Julius Brown was the leader of the local Boy Scout Troop, and Jacqueline remembers going to the prom “with my father’s Eagle Scout, some young man he liked.”

Sara Green, who lived next door to the Browns, recalls that Jacqueline “was different. She was the kind of person who would always talk to older people. And she always could talk. . . . She was always a girl who was going to get ahead. She had that drive.”

After graduating from the all-black Huntington High, Jacqueline went on to North Carolina Agricultural and Technical College.

Because blacks and whites worked together in the shipyards, segregation in Newport News was not as dramatically defined as in some parts of the South. But the local stores did not serve blacks in their cafeterias, and in clothing stores, Cooke says, “if a black tried something on, it was his, whether it fit him or not.”

Jacqueline says that as a girl she never really had cause to confront the injustice of what Jesse Jackson now calls American apartheid. In college, however, she quickly became active in the civil rights movement. And, she has said, it was political discussion that attracted her to Jackson, a top athlete and campus hotshot.

Jackson, she says, was “my first courting boyfriend.”

When she was 18, they were married. He received his degree and went on to the Chicago Theological Seminary. She began her career as a mother.

“During my day, you either came home with a degree or a husband and you were considered successful . . . I got a husband,” she says.

Jackie is certain she will get her degree some day. “But that will be after my 12-year-old gets hers,” she says.

The Jacksons, who live in a two-story, 15-room house in Chicago’s South Side, have three sons and two daughters in their 25-year marriage. The oldest is daughter Santita, 25, a senior at Washington’s Howard University. Jesse Jr., 23, and Jonathan, 22, are graduates of their father’s college, North Carolina A&T.; A third son, 17-year-old Yusef, recently was graduated from a private school in Washington, D.C. The youngest, 12-year-old Jacqueline, goes to a school in Massachusetts.

Over the years the children have traveled with Jesse. And when Jacqueline headed off to march or boycott or pass out flyers, they often went with her. “They are extremely political because they were never separated from what we thought, or from our conversations,” Jacqueline says. “When we had parties that were political parties, they were at liberty to mingle with the guests. . . . So their conversations became political conversations, they (became) interested in issues.”

It was Jacqueline’s job to hold things together, everyone involved agreed.

“She’s what we call the backbone,” says Yusef. “She’s really there to keep the family together.”

“She stayed out of the way and Jesse kept her out of the way but she gradually has moved forward,” says Edwina Moss, the wife of Rev. Otis Moss who is chairman of Operation PUSH, a Chicago-based civil rights organization founded by Jesse Jackson. Moss went on to say that Jacqueline has somehow found a balance between maintaining her own identity and being overshadowed by her husband. She remembered once telling Jacqueline that she felt at loose ends because her husband was away a lot, just like Jesse. Jacqueline responded, she recalled, “Why don’t you just throw yourself into good books?”

The nature of the marriage is hard to discern. The topic and most personal questions are basically off-limits with both Jacksons. Reporters traveling with the presidential candidate contend that the marriage seems to be showing stress during the few appearances the two make together. Friends, however, disagree.

“She has great influence on him. I think she has a great influence on anyone she’s around,” says John J. Hooker, a Nashville politician who has spent a lot of time with Jacqueline during the campaign. “She once said to me (and she says often), ‘He is, after all, my hero, my political hero.’ I think she has this real feeling for him, and I think she communicates with him on all different levels, as wife, in conjunction with fact that they’re parents, about children, also on political basis.”

“She is able to stand in the background, yet stay on the same level intellectually,” says Moss, who calls herself a longtime friend.

The Jacksons also share the financial burden. According to their latest tax returns, the couple had income of almost $210,000 in 1987, $159,000 of which came from Personalities International Inc., the public-speaking management firm Jacqueline heads, and through which both Jacksons book their appearances.

Widely traveled, Jacqueline is a forceful speaker on issues. At the same time, though, her mission is by its nature linked to her husband and his mission.

In December, 1983, Jacqueline, former Rep. Bella Abzug (D-N.Y.) and a dozen or so other women went to Central America as part of a self-appointed “alternative Kissinger commission,” to further explore the information that had been compiled in that bipartisan commission’s controversial report, which recommended increased military aid to El Salvador and implicitly backed the Nicaraguan Contras.

International Tensions

The trip was difficult and sometimes frightening, with guerrilla wars raging and international tensions at a peak, others in the delegation said.

Especially in Nicaragua, many people saw Jesse Jackson as a hero and extended their enthusiasm to Jacqueline, swarming around her, shouting out affectionately and wanting to touch her each time the entourage went into the streets, the others recalled.

Likewise, the Central American press tended to focus its cameras and attention on Jacqueline, says Sonja Johnson, the 1984 presidential candidate on the Citizen’s Party ticket. A continuing and sometimes heated feud developed over Jackson’s open endorsements of her husband’s candidacy. Supporters of then-Vice President Walter Mondale, including Abzug and former Assemblywoman-now-Los Angeles City Councilwoman Gloria Molina “tried to get Jackie not to promote her husband’s candidacy down there . . . They were quite certain he couldn’t get nominated and saw it as divisive.”

“She said, ‘That’s nonsense,’ ” Johnson recalled. “ ‘Obviously I want my husband to win. What a silly thing to ask me not to talk about him . . . . You can tell them we’re not all for Jesse, but I’m always for Jesse.’ ”

“I hadn’t been around many women who were so strong and self-assured, but who didn’t attribute anything to the women’s movement,” says Roxanne Dunbar Ortiz, an anthropology instructor at Cal State Hayward who was Jackson’s roommate and frequent companion on the Central American trip. In late-night talks and on long bus rides, however, Jackson told Ortiz that she had been affected by her childhood experiences in the South, and the hardships of the the civil rights movement, rather than organized feminism, sharing a view among some black women that feminism is “a white woman’s thing–feeling sorry for ourselves,” Ortiz says.

“I would say, ‘You had all these kids. They must have limited your involvement,’ ” Ortiz says. “But she said it didn’t at all. She said, ‘I raised these kids to have free minds to fight for themselves. My greatest contribution to the civil rights movement was how I raised my kids.’ Her greatest pride was in her role as mother.”

Her Views

“I am mainly concerned about children and women. Equal pay, comparable pay. I am concerned that women are shouldering the burden of poverty,” Jacqueline said last weekend, her arms slicing through the air. But, she added, “I think I approach the issues of women from a, let me say, a darker perspective.

”. . . Through the slave-ship experience women did the same work and provided the same services as men . . . rather than being protected and shielded and taken care of . . . . So we had a longer relationship with the work force and the economy and politics in this country.”

This heritage has led Jacqueline to a view she calls “progressively old-fashioned.” She embraces equal pay but also certain traditional religious values. She is, for instance, pro-choice on the issue of abortion but she doesn’t believe teen-agers should have that option. Nor does she believe birth control pills and condoms should be dispensed by churches and schools.

“I believe children should be taught abstention . . . They should be taught that there are some dos and don’ts . . . I believe, young people should be taught to keep their zippers up on their pants, and girls should be taught to keep their panties up.”

That she and her mother both became pregnant at an early age does not mean that she finds such behavior acceptable, she says. In overcoming the odds against teen-age mothers, she and her mother were “one out of a million,” she says.

“I’m not terribly liberal when it comes to raising a family,” she adds.

People also observe at deep empathy in Jacqueline when she travels, an empathy that apparently is working its way through the candidate’s wife into the process of American party politics. H. H. Brookins, a power broker in Los Angeles’ black community who calls himself a close friend of the Jackson family for 20 years and a bishop of the A.M.E. Church, recalls a policy discussion among a handful of advisers in the Jackson home a few months back. When talk turned to Nicaragua, Jacqueline made herself heard, he says.

Does the candidate listen?

“Sometimes he does, and sometimes he doesn’t. He’s my husband . . .,” Jacqueline says. “I have never taken advantage of my relationship with my husband. If it is an important decision, I sit at the same table with everyone else. Sometimes I am defeated. And I love to tell them, ‘I told you so.’ ”

Many of her political opinions have been shaped by her extensive travels–to the Middle East, Africa, and Latin America.

A Different World

“The Third World is no longer as naive as it was 40 years ago,” she says, no longer willing to be pushed around. “America is extremely vulnerable to being perceived as a nation that has military might, and bully behavior. . . .

“In our country, we sing ‘God Bless America.’ We place our hand on the Bible when we go to court. We speak of another force that we suggest should protect us because we are good. And we disrespect it in the same breath when we place so much emphasis on war and building weapons that will destroy other human beings . . . What is it? Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition. It’s a contradiction.”

Jackson calls herself a traditionally religious person. On the trip to Central America, Jackson got up each morning and said her prayers, Ortiz recalled. “I’d still be sleeping and overhear her. It was very much felt. Not just ritual.”

During the bitter New York primary election when Jesse Jackson was attacked by New York City Mayor Edward Koch, Robert T. Starks, who calls himself a personal and political friend of the Jacksons’, said the couple “relied a great deal on their religious beliefs and convictions to pull them through.”

What kind of First Lady would she be?

“She’d be the replacement of Jackie Kennedy . . . in terms of style and flair,” says Brookins.

Last Sunday in Hampton, that is just how she was introduced: America’s next First Lady. She stood up in the bleachers of the Hampton Virginia Coliseum, waving to the cheering graduates and alumni of this school that was founded in 1868 to educate newly freed slaves.

On the dais, Jesse Jackson raised Gertrude Brown’s hand, saluting his mother-in-law for overcoming great odds to achieve her dream. It was in an electrifying speech of hope through education and family.

Then the Jacksons went back to the hotel for a reunion party with family and friends. After an hour, Jesse Jackson said a quick goodby to his wife and, flanked by Secret Service men, headed off for more campaigning.

Jacqueline Jackson returned to her family.

In our fiercely tribal and divisive culture, when consensus is illusory and we can’t seem to agree on even the most fundamental facts, the notion of shared history as a societal precept has left the building. But if we are indeed living in a post-truth era, Ian McEwan is here to tell us that things will only get worse.

In his bracing new time bender of a novel, the great British novelist posits that the past is irretrievably past, particularly in matters of the human heart, and any attempt by historians or biographers to wrench it into the present is folly — or in the case of this novel’s protagonist Thomas Metcalfe, intellectual vanity.

Metcalfe is an associate humanities professor and a researcher living in England in the 22nd century (2119, to be exact) who has taken it upon himself to unlock the mystery of a poem called “A Corona for Vivien,” written in 2014 by a deceased literary eminence named Francis Blundy, a poet whose genius, we learn, once rivaled that of Seamus Heaney. The poem was composed for his wife Vivien’s birthday dinner in October 2014, an evening that has taken on mythic proportions in certain academic circles in the intervening years. It even has a name: The Second Immortal Dinner, in which Blundy for the first time read his corona, a poem composed as a sequence of sonnets, that had been lost long ago.

In Metcalfe’s hothouse literary universe, Blundy’s poem is important because it is a revenant. In the intervening years, interpretive speculation about it has run rampant. Some have called it a warning about climate change. Others say Blundy was paid a six-figure sum by an energy company to suppress the poem. Only fragments of it exist, certain fugitive lines that appear in correspondence between Vivien, Blundy and Blundy’s editor, Harold T. Kitchener. Metcalfe has taken it upon himself to find the long-lost document, allegedly written by Blundy on a vellum scroll and buried by Vivien somewhere on Blundy’s property.

Metcalfe’s task is greatly complicated by the fact that he lives in a future world where much of the planet has been either immolated or else submerged underwater by a nuclear cataclysm that McEwan calls “The Inundation.” There has also been a mass migration — “The Derangement” — in which millions, deprived of resources and land, have been driven from England into Africa. Entire cities have been lost, “the land beneath them compressed and lowered, so they did not drain, but persisted like glacial lakes.” Whatever repositories of learning that weren’t destroyed now exist on higher ground in the mountains, where the “knowledge base and collective memory were largely preserved.”

The built environment has eroded, but fortunately for Metcalfe, the digital world of the past is intact. Biographers from 2000 onward, McEwan writes, are “heirs to more than a century of what the Blundy era airily called ‘the cloud’ ever expanding like a giant summer cumulus, though, of course, it simply consisted of data-storage machines.” Here in the cloud are the many hundreds of emails and texts from Blundy, his wife and their circle, allowing Metcalfe the satisfaction of knowing he can piece together the events of the epochal dinner party down to granular details: cutlery used, foods prepared, toasts proffered.

Ian McEwan’s elegantly structured and provocative novel is a strong argument for how little raw data, or even the most sublime art, can tell us about humans and their contrary natures.

(Annalena McAfee)

What Metcalfe knows of the Blundys’ life together can be gleaned from the 12 extant volumes of Vivien’s journals. From the journals Metcalfe has surmised that Vivien, herself a brilliant literary scholar and teacher, had willfully lived out her marriage under Blundy’s shadow, the dutiful handmaiden to a literary eminence. “She enjoyed producing a well-turned meal,” Metcalfe posits. “She was once a don, a candidate for a professorship. Abandoning it was a liberation. She always felt herself to be in control. But it had surprised her how … she had emptied herself of ambition, salary, status and achievement.”

Despite the pile-up of particulars, Metcalfe knows he must find the lost poem, that it is the keystone without which the story crumbles into insignificance. If he fails in this task Metcalfe, already feeling like an “intruder on the intentions and achievements” of Blundy, loses his mojo: his mission aborted, his career stalled.

But just when it seems as if Metcalfe, after a long and arduous journey across land and water, has discovered something significant, McEwan drops the curtain on that story, and rewinds the narrative 107 years, back to Vivien Blundy and her story. At first, the basic contours conform to Metcalfe’s version of events: Vivien did forsake her academic ambitions for Blundy, who did write a poem for her that he read aloud on her birthday, and so on.

But Metcalfe, as it turns out, has the details right and the motives all wrong, never more so than when McEwan reveals the fact of a murder, conceived in such a way that no snooping academic could ever unearth it. Emails are composed yet remain unsent. Digital correspondence is deleted into the ether, sneaky evasions that are beyond the biographer’s grasp. Metcalfe’s thesis is driven by a romanticized notion of Blundy’s life, but as McEwan slowly and carefully reveals, his poem, ostensibly a “repository of dreams,” more closely resembles a passive-aggressive act. As for Vivien, the narrative she has proffered in her journals is far from the whole story. She is resentful of Blundy, thwarted in her career, simmering with resentment. Despite his scholarly assiduity, Metcalfe is moving down an errant path that will never square the facts with lived experience.

Of course, facts are important, but they don’t necessarily reveal anything; it is the biographer’s folly to ascribe deeper meaning to them, to extrapolate truth from a disparate series of events. Metcalfe’s pursuit of revelation in a single lost poem is magical thinking, a relentless grasping for a chimera. McEwan’s elegantly structured and provocative novel is a strong argument for how little raw data, or even the most sublime art, can tell us about humans and their contrary natures.

Weingarten is the author of “Thirsty: William Mulholland, California Water, and the Real Chinatown.”

Jessica Carter is tired of being resilient.

After her brother, Richard Ware, 48, was stabbed to death outside a Los Feliz homeless shelter last month, it fell to her to hold their extended family together.

Just eight months prior, another relative — her 36-year-old nephew, Jesse Darjean — was gunned down around the block from his childhood home in Compton. His slaying remains unsolved.

Across L.A. County and around the country, murder rates are falling to lows not seen since the late 1960s. Yet clearance rates — a measure of how often police solve cases — have remained relatively steady. In other words: Even with fewer homicides to investigate, authorities have been unable to bring more murderers to justice. Police data show killings of Black and Latino people are still less likely to be solved than those of white or Asian victims.

Carter’s hometown of Compton is still crawling out from under its reputation as a national epicenter for gang violence. But for all of its continued struggles, violent crime — especially killings — has plummeted. When the gang wars peaked in 1991, there were 87 homicides. Last year, there were 18, including Darjean’s fatal shooting on Oct. 24.

The way Carter sees it, the killers who took her brother and nephew are both getting away with it — but for different reasons. In Darjean’s shooting, there are no known suspects, witnesses or motive. But the man who stabbed Ware is known to authorities. The L.A. County district attorney’s office declined to file charges against him, finding evidence of self-defense, according to a memo released to The Times.

Ware’s sister and other relatives dispute the D.A.’s decision, claiming authorities have failed to fully investigate.

“The system failed him,” Carter said.

In the absence of arrests and charges, Carter and her family have simmered with rage, grief and frustration. With digital footprints, DNA testing and more resources than ever available to police, how is it that the people who took their loved ones are still walking free?

Jessica Carter, right, lights candles on the sidewalk to memorialize her brother, Richard Ware, who was stabbed to death outside a nearby homeless shelter.

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

In Darjean’s case, the investigation is led by the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department, which has patrolled Compton since 2000, when the city disbanded its own Police Department. Leads appear to be scarce. His body was found in the back seat of his car, which had been riddled with bullets. A father of three, he had just gotten home late at night from one of his jobs as a security guard.

To Sherrina Lewis, his mother, it seemed the world was quick to forget and move on. News outlets largely ignored the shooting. Social media sensationalized it. She couldn’t resist reading some of the comments online, speculating about whether her son was killed by someone he knew or because of his race or a gang affiliation.

But, Darjean was no gangster, she says. True, there had been rumors around the neighborhood about escalating conflict between the Cedar Block Pirus, a Black gang, and their Latino rivals. But if anything, Lewis said, her son was targeted in a classic case of wrong place, wrong time.

Jesse Darjean in an undated photo.

(Jessica Carter)

When homicide detectives began knocking on doors for answers, her former neighbors claimed not to have seen anything. For Lewis, it felt like betrayal — many of those neighbors had watched Darjean grow up with their kids.

“Each and every day I have to ask God to lift the hardness in my heart, because I‘m angry,” Lewis said. “They’re not gonna make my son no cold case, I promise you that.”

Lewis nearly lost Darjean once before, at the moment of his birth.

He and his twin brother were born three months early, and doctors warned that Darjean was the less likely of the two to survive. He suffered from respiratory problems, which left him dependent on a breathing machine. The prognosis was bleak.

Casha, left, and her brother Jesse Darjean as babies.

(Jessica Carter)

Doctors asked her for “a name for his death certificate” in case he died en route to a hospital in Long Beach. Picking “Jesse” on the spot was agony, she said. In the end, Darjean was the twin who survived.

Shy as a child, he had grown up to be outgoing and witty, a person who loved to cook soul food and make dance videos with his sister and post them on Instagram. While his siblings all moved away as they got older, Darjean insisted on staying put. Compton was home, through and through, he used to tell his mother. He wasn’t blind to the gang violence, but he came to know a different side of the city, one that represented Black joy and resilience — a side he saw captured in Kendrick Lamar’s music video for the Grammy-winning “Not Like Us.”

When his niece ran for Miss Teen Compton, Darjean advocated on her behalf by taking out a full-page ad in the local newspaper that proclaimed: “Compton is the best city on Earth.”

But Darjean knew the pain of losing loved ones. His friend Montae Talbert was killed late one night in 2011 in a drive-by shooting outside an Inglewood liquor store. Talbert, known as M-Bone, was a member of the rap group Cali Swag District, the group behind the viral rap dance the “Dougie.”

Around the same time, the mother of Darjean’s oldest daughter was gunned down in Compton. A few years later, another uncle, Terry Carter, a businessman who built classic lowrider cars and started a record label with Ice Cube, was struck and killed by a vehicle driven by rap impresario Marion “Suge” Knight.

After Darjean’s funeral, which Lewis said drew more than 1,000 people, she returned to the scene of the shooting: Brazil Street, right off Wilmington Avenue, on a modest block of stucco and wood-frame homes.

With the bravado of an angry, grieving mother, she began going door-to-door in her old neighborhood, seeking answers. She wanted to show anyone who was watching that she wouldn’t be intimidated into silence.

When she confronted one of Darjean’s close childhood friends about what happened, he swore he didn’t know anything. She didn’t believe him.

“He just broke down crying. I can tell it was eating him up,” Lewis said.

The L.A. County Sheriff’s Department did not respond to multiple inquires about Darjean’s case.

Jesse Darjean holds his daughter Jessica. At right is another relative.

(Jessica Carter)

On some level, Lewis understands the hesitancy. Fear of gang retaliation and distrust of law enforcement still hangs over the west Compton neighborhood. After raising her six children there, in 2006 she sold their family home of 50 years and moved to Palmdale because she didn’t want her “kids to become accustomed to death.” For her, she said, the final straw was the discovery of a body “propped up” on her neighbor’s fence.

Like generations of Black women before her, Lewis is faced with enormous pressure to carry their family’s burden. Possessing a superhuman-like will to overcome adversity is celebrated by society with terms such as “Black Girl Magic” and “Strong Black Woman,” said Keisha Bentley-Edwards, an associate professor of medicine at Duke University. But such unrealistic expectations not only strip Black women of their innocence from an early age, but also contribute to higher pregnancy-related death rates and other bad health outcomes, she said.

“A lot of times people expect Black women to take care of it,” Bentley-Edwards said in an interview. Instead of romanticizing the struggle, she said, there should be “tangible support like housing or employment” and other resources.

But experts say safety nets are at risk, particularly after the Trump administration in April terminated roughly $811 million in public safety grants for L.A. and other major cities. As a result, federal funds for victim services programs, which offer counseling and other resources, have been slashed.

Lewis never thought she’d be in a position to need such help.

“The funny thing is, we’re from Compton born and raised, but we were not a statistic until my son was murdered,” she said. “My kids had a two-parent household. We both had jobs. We weren’t doing welfare: I worked every day.”

Months of waiting on an arrest in Darjean’s death led Carter, his aunt, into a “dark place.” She ended up taking a spiritual retreat into the mountains of Nigeria.

She was still working through the feelings of anger and guilt when she learned her brother, Ware, had been fatally stabbed on July 5.

She described the days and weeks that followed as a teary blur. Coming from a family of nurses taught her how to push aside her own grief and forge on, but she was left wondering how much more she could endure.

Ware, who went by Duke, was his family’s unofficial historian, setting out to map out their sprawling Portuguese and Creole roots and scouring the internet for long-lost relatives. He used to brag all the time about his daughter, who had graduated from nursing school and moved back to the L.A. area to work at a pediatric intensive care unit on the Westside. He used to joke that for all of his shortcomings as a father, he had at least gotten one thing right.

In recent months, though, Ware’s life had started to spiral. His diabetes had gotten worse, and a back injury left him unable to continue in his job as a long-haul truck driver. Relatives worried he was hiding a drug addiction from them.

He had adopted a bull mastiff puppy named Nala. She used to follow him everywhere, usually trotting a few steps behind without a leash. Even when he was having trouble making ends meet, he always “spoiled her,” his family said.

For a few months, he lived out of a van one of his sisters bought for him. He then landed at a shelter, a hangar-style structure on the edge of Griffith Park. He and Nala were kicked out after a short time, but he still frequented the area, and it’s where L.A. County authorities said the fight that ended in his killing began.

Prosecutors said in a memo that surveillance video showed Ware and his dog chasing another man into a parking lot across the street from the shelter. The two men, the D.A.’s memo said, had been involved in an ongoing dispute, possibly over a woman.

Friends, family and supporters of Richard Ware gather near the shelter where he was stabbed to death.

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

According to the memo, the man said he’d been carrying a knife because of a previous altercation in which Ware ordered his dog to attack. On the day of the stabbing, the man said, Ware had shown up with Nala at the shelter, looking for a confrontation.

After the fight, responding officers found Ware suffering from a deep wound to his chest, Nala with several lacerations and the suspect hiding in a nearby porta-potty. His clothes had been torn off, and he was bleeding profusely from several severe dog bites, the memo said. Prosecutors said witnesses corroborated the man’s story that Ware had been the aggressor, in addition to the video footage.

Ware’s family says that account contradicts what they heard from other residents, who claimed Ware was the one defending himself after the other man attacked him with a vodka bottle. In the meantime, they are working to secure Nala’s release from the pound, where she has been nursing her injuries.

Richard Ware, 48, was stabbed to death on July 5 outside a Los Feliz homeless shelter.

(Jessica Carter)

On July 8, Carter organized a candlelight vigil for her brother outside the shelter where the killing happened. That morning, she said, she cried in the shower before steeling herself so she could run out to a Dollar Tree store to pick up some balloons.

When she got to the vigil, Lewis made her way around, greeting the swarm of relatives holding homemade signs and chanting Ware’s name. After a final prayer, the group released balloons, most of which floated upward with the evening’s lazy breeze. Some, though, got caught in the branches of a large tree nearby.

A smile finally crossed Carter’s face as she pointed up to them. She took it as a sign from Ware, as though he was saying a last goodbye before he departed to heaven.

“He’s trying to hang on,” she said.

Rights group says perpetrators ‘must be held to account’, a year after 24 people killed during cost of living protests.

The Nigerian government has failed to ensure accountability after police used deadly force to disperse mass 2024 demonstrations against soaring living costs, Amnesty International has said on the first anniversary of the protests.

In a statement on Friday, the human rights group said police in Nigeria “bizarrely continue to deny strong allegations of extrajudicial execution, torture and unlawful arrests of the protesters”.

An Amnesty investigation found that at least 24 people were killed when police opened fire on the protests, which erupted in August of last year under the slogan #EndBadGovernanceInNigeria.

Demonstrators took to the streets across the country in anger about soaring fuel prices and inflation, spurred by government reforms aimed at reviving the economy.

“A year on, despite the gravity of these human rights violations, not a single member of the security forces has been prosecuted, as accountability remains elusive for the 24 peaceful protesters killed in Kano, Jigawa, Katsina, Borno, Niger and Kaduna states,” Isa Sanusi, director of Amnesty International Nigeria, said in Friday’s statement.

“Those behind these atrocities must be held to account.”

A spokesman for Nigeria’s Ministry of Justice did not respond to a request for comment from the AFP news agency.

Amnesty said that in all the killings, protesters were shot by police who fired live ammunition “at close range, often at the head or torso, suggesting that officers were shooting to kill”.

“The Nigerian authorities are yet to take appropriate and effective measures to respect, protect, promote and fulfil the rights to freedom of expression and peaceful assembly, including by ending the killing, intimidation and harassment of protesters, arbitrary arrests and detention, and mass surveillance, especially in the context of protests,” Sanusi said.

The rights group also condemned what it described as “sham trials” for the hundreds of protesters who were arrested on a variety of alleged offences.

Charges include “‘levy[ing] war against the state in order to intimidate or overawe the president’” as well as “‘using WhatsApp group chats,’ ‘inciting to mutiny,’ “chanting ‘Tinubu must go’, calling on the military to take over government from President Bola Ahmed Tinubu” and “intent to destabilize Nigeria”, according to Amnesty.

Tinubu’s reforms – including floating the naira currency and ending a costly fuel subsidy – have been supported as long overdue by economists, but led to the cost of living to spike in the country.

Though no one has been tried for the deaths, the Nigerian government has been forced at times to step back from its prosecutions of protesters.

In November, dozens of youths, many of them children, appeared in court frail and hungry, sparking outcry over their treatment in jail. Tinubu later ordered their release.

But some trials are still under way for the roughly 700 people arrested.