Great story! about the events surrounding the shooting of two LEOs

[masameet]

'Officer down!'
How the LBPD won a race for life
By Wendy Thomas Russell, Staff writer
Long Beach Press Telegram - Part 1 (http://www.presstelegram.com/news/ci_5568655)


Long Beach Police Chief Anthony Batts had seen this emergency room countless times. But this was different.

It was three days before Christmas, and two of Batts' officers had just been shot during a traffic stop on a downtown thoroughfare. Both had been hit above their bullet-proof vests. Blood was everywhere.

The doctors and nurses at Long Beach Memorial Medical Center moved in a tense choreography - pressing, cutting, retrieving, hovering. Their stern faces conveyed a grim, unspoken truth.

Batts stood between the injured men: a training officer and a rookie.

In his hand was a bloody badge. In his head, a memory.

Three weeks earlier, in the Terrace Theater, he'd handed out certificates of completion to the Long Beach Police Academy's 82nd graduating class.

Standing straight as soldiers beneath their stiff new uniforms and glimmering badges, the graduates were as tense as they were silent. Batts had sought a way to lighten the mood and found it as 38-year-old Roy Wade Jr. - the tallest of the 66 recruits - strode across the stage.

The 6-foot-6-inch "Gentle Giant" towered over the 5-foot-9-inch chief.

Batts looked up at Wade - way up - and paused for effect. Wade smirked ever-so-slightly.

"What are you laughing at, Wade?" Batts asked, as the crowd broke into welcomed laughter.

Now, back in Memorial's emergency room, Officer Roy Wade Jr.'s body lay on a gurney, his long arms dangling limply. On a matching gurney a few feet away, Wade's partner - Officer Abe Yap - lay unconscious and convulsing.

Batts looked from Wade to Yap and back to Wade. And he realized he wasn't ready to lose one of his own - much less two.

Roy Wade Jr. was born with a "servant's heart."

That's what his wife, Edina, called it. Since he was a kid growing up in Long Beach, Wade had a gentle way about him. He was laid-back, affable and eager to help.

While he dabbled in different jobs, one of his favorites was as a youth counselor for Poly North, a human-relations camp connected to his alma mater, Poly High School. For years he aspired to become a cop.

After his graduation from the Police Academy on Nov. 29, Wade was assigned to his first training officer - an unflappable, no-nonsense veteran named Abe Yap.

Yap, 35, had a quick sense of humor but also could be seen as tough. On the force nine years, a training officer for six, he was credited with helping to mold some of the department's finest cops.

The Friday before Christmas - Dec. 22, 2006 - was Wade's 12th day on the job.

Hundreds of LBPD officers were home with their families. Everyone expected a relatively quiet weekend, the normal Christmas lull. And, so far that day, the city's most serious call for police service had been a non-injury traffic collision.

Yap drove as they cruised the streets of the West Division in their black-and-white sedan, known as "B64" or "Boy 64."

They were six hours into a 10-hour shift.

The pair drove along alleys, checked license plates. Nothing too difficult, nothing too dangerous.

Three miles away, in Signal Hill, a 33-year-old gang member named Oscar Gabriel Gallegos had drawn the attention of an off-duty LBPD officer at a sporting-goods store called Turner's Outdoorsman.

Gallegos had been eyeing guns and holsters - the kind worn under clothing to conceal weapons. The off-duty officer, Jason Ur, sensed something was wrong.

He followed Gallegos' white Pathfinder to a taco stand on Atlantic Avenue, then west on Willow Street and south on Long Beach Boulevard. He radioed for assistance.

Yap and Wade heard the call on Channel 4.

They were traveling east on Pacific Coast Highway at the time, between Magnolia and Pacific avenues. Yap figured they would check the driver's registration and license, make sure everything was normal.

Most of a patrol officer's time is spent studying vehicles and pulling them over, so this seemed routine.

It was 1:21 p.m. Yap picked up his radio and spoke to dispatch.

"Yeah, copy," Yap said. "We're at PCH, uh, right at Long Beach Boulevard, preparing to go south..."

Delayed briefly behind a bus in heavy traffic, Yap spoke to Ur on another, less-used channel - Channel 5. Ur, who was still tailing Gallegos himself, checked the vehicle's registration through the Police Department. It came back valid.

Ur also radioed that he had seen Gallegos run the red light at Anaheim Street - giving Yap and Wade "probable cause" to pull him over.

Yap got back on Channel 4 and reported his whereabouts to dispatch.

"We've got that vehicle on (Long Beach) Boulevard," he said. "We're actually... we're coming up to Sixth (Street)."

The boulevard teemed with activity. CityPlace shopping center, loaded with stores and restaurants, was on the right. To the left, more than a dozen pedestrians stood on a Metro Blue Line platform, which split the boulevard's northbound and southbound lanes.

There were several middle-aged women on the platform, along with a mother and child. Some sat on benches. Others stood and chatted. One woman clutched several Wal-Mart bags and some rolls of wrapping paper as she waited for the next train.

Knowing Gallegos had run the red light at Anaheim, Yap pulled behind the Pathfinder in the far left lane and switched on the lights and sirens. He radioed again in response to a dispatcher. It was 1:24 p.m.

"Yeah, 10-4, we're actually Boulevard south of Sixth now," he said.

Suddenly, the white Pathfinder came to a halt. As Yap slammed on the brakes about a car's length behind it, Gallegos opened his door, jumped out into the street and spun around.

He pointed a handgun at the squad car. He pulled the trigger.

Yap's eyes hadn't even fully focused on Gallegos' body when he heard the unmistakable crack of gunfire.

"He's shot at us," Yap said to Wade.

The bullets kept coming.

A half a block behind them, Ur heard the shots but couldn't see who was firing.

He reached for the radio. His voice was calm, his message short. It was still 1:24 p.m.

"Shots fired," he said.

As soon as he saw Gallegos, Wade unholstered his gun and slid it out. But before he could raise it, Gallegos' .40-caliber bullets began piercing the windshield and meeting their targets.

One grazed the left side of Yap's head. Another tore through the right side of his face and lodged in his jaw.

Yap felt a shock of pain in his face and knew he couldn't fight back. He and his partner were too exposed. They needed to get out of there.

He tried to drive. Tried to put his right foot on the brake and his right hand on the gear shift. A simple action, nothing to it. But he couldn't. The seconds passed in slow motion. They would have to weather the ambush.

"Get down," Yap told his partner.

It was too late.

In only seven seconds, Gallegos had managed to spray the car with nine bullets. Three struck the hood; six ripped though the windshield. Yap was hit twice. Wade was hit multiple times in the neck, just above his bullet-proof vest.

Gallegos got back in the Pathfinder, slammed the door and pulled away.

Yap turned to grab the radio, but Wade already had it.

Both men were covered in tiny shards of shattered glass. Neither knew the other's condition.

In the academy, Wade had learned the code for "Officer down" - 999 - but he hadn't expected to use it himself. Now, with only a few minutes of consciousness left, it was the only code that mattered.

Wade clicked on the line.

"Nine! 999!" Wade called frantically. "We need help! 999!"

Then, 10 seconds later:

"Officer down! Officer down! At the Boulevard. We need help, right now!" Wade called.

In the moments after the shooting, Ur had pursued the shooter south on Long Beach Boulevard.

Using his radio, he directed emergency crews to the scene and broadcast the Pathfinder's location to nearby police officers - at one point yelling "Right there! Right there!" over the radio to a squad car at the corner of Long Beach Boulevard and Broadway.

But Ur's truck lacked lights and sirens to warn other drivers out of the way. He had no bullet-proof vest, no police equipment. He could only do so much.

At Broadway, Gallegos opened fire on another black-and-white police car carrying Officers Roger Montell and his rookie partner, Eric Fernandez. Both officers fired back, hitting the Pathfinder but failing to disable it. Gallegos made a left turn and disappeared.

Less than a minute had passed since the shooting began.

Wade and Yap remained in their squad car. Glass dust settled on the steering wheel and dashboard. Half-empty bottles of Diet Mountain Dew rested in the center console. A bullet had ripped through Yap's head rest and dented the acrylic divider separating the front and back seats. Blood from Yap's facial wound pooled on the blue-gray upholstery beneath him.

Small crowds screamed and cried; some people called 911 on their cell phones.

When the shooting broke out, a mother who had been seated on the Metro platform pulled her young child's stroller behind a pillar. Nearby, another mother raced to find her teenage daughter and then threw her body over the girl. When it was over, both stood sobbing.

Wade radioed again. His voice was more unsteady this time.

"We need help," he said. "Officer down, uh, Long Beach Boulevard, the corner of Sixth."

And a few seconds later, his final plea:

"Officer down, corner of Sixth and Long Beach Boulevard. Shots fired. Long Beach Boulevard, corner of Sixth."

Wade dropped the radio.

It was 1:25 p.m.

[masameet]

[story continued ...]


Calm amid chaos

Patrol Officers Allan Legayada and Sam Rizzuto didn't know Roy Wade Jr., but they had a lot in common with him.

Like Wade, both were 38 years old and had spent most of their adult lives in other jobs.

Legayada had a civilian career in the LBPD's records department before becoming an officer in 2003. Rizzuto, a former University of Nebraska linebacker, joined the force in 2004 after working as a reserve police officer and security guard for the Long Beach Unified School District.

Neither had ever responded to a 999.

At 1:25 p.m. that day, they'd been looking for stolen cars at Magnolia Avenue and 10th Street - 16 blocks from Long Beach Boulevard and Sixth Street - when they heard the call for help on the police radio.

They threw on their lights and sirens, made a U-turn and headed east on 10th Street then south on Long Beach Boulevard. Rizzuto was driving their squad car, Boy 91. To bypass traffic, he pulled onto the Metro rail tracks and followed them down the boulevard.

As they rolled through the Sixth Street intersection, Legayada and Rizzuto spotted the lone squad car sitting idle in the left lane.

A Good Samaritan, a man with curly hair who was wearing a tie, had just come bounding over the platform to the squad car. He opened the driver's-side door to check on the officers.

"Are you OK?" he asked Yap. "Are you OK?"

Legayada and Rizzuto slammed to a stop and, without a word, jumped out of their car. It was barely 1:26 p.m. - one minute and 10 seconds after the shooting.

Rizzuto sprinted to Yap's side of the car, Legayada to Wade's.

The scene was chaotic. People stood on the sidewalks and on the Metro platform above. A woman held her head in her hands and cried, "I can't believe it, I can't believe it."

Shockingly, there were hecklers in the area. Rizzuto heard them clearly but was so focused on the car he didn't turn to see who they were. He figured they were ex-cons, people with axes to grind.

"Believe it or not," he said later, "they liked it that there were two officers shot like that."

Knowing little about what had happened, or whether the shooter was still nearby, Rizzuto yelled at the Good Samaritan to move out of the way. He did.

Then Rizzuto glimpsed Yap and Wade for the first time. They were silent but conscious.

As Rizzuto leaned in, Yap leaned forward. Blood poured from his mouth.

In an instant, Rizzuto ran through his options: Administer aid, call for paramedics, rush the officers to the hospital himself.

The last option, a "Scoop-and-Run," had been covered briefly in the academy. He'd been taught it could be a risky maneuver. Paramedics had medical equipment that police did not; if something happened on the way to the hospital, officers would not be able to do anything about it.
A critical decision

But, depending on the injury, a Scoop-and-Run could also mean the difference between certain death and a fighting chance.

At 265 pounds and still built like a linebacker, Rizzuto knew he could easily lift the officers out of their car, but should he?

"What if we move them and, all of a sudden, we make it worse?" he thought.

On the other side of the sedan, Legayada stood at Wade's side and scanned the interior. The computer monitor, which stuck up a couple of inches above the dash, had taken a round. There were several bullet holes in the front windshield.

Legayada reached out to Wade.

"I kind of put my hand on his right shoulder," Legayada later recalled. "I says, 'Hey we're here, I need to know if you're hurt, and are you OK?' He kind of leaned back, and that's when I saw the entry wound to his neck."

"OK," Legayada told Rizzuto. "Let's get them out of here."

Legayada wasn't sure he could get Wade out of the car himself. He was smaller than Rizzuto and, at 5-foot-9, no match for the towering Wade.

"I asked him, 'Can you walk?"' Legayada recalled later. "Amazingly, he says, 'Yes."'

Legayada helped Wade into the front seat of Boy 91 and turned to help Rizzuto, who was already escorting Yap toward the car.

But when Wade saw his training officer, bloody and coming toward him, he got out of the front seat, opened the back door and slid inside - leaving the front seat open for Yap.

One police commander would later marvel at the rookie's apparent instinct to yield to his superior officer, even in crisis.

Legayada slid into the driver's seat as Rizzuto squeezed into the back. They had managed to get both injured officers inside the car in 37 seconds.

In back, it was a tight fit. Rizzuto could turn his head but not his torso. His legs were scrunched against the cage separating the front and back seats, and his right arm was pinned under the weight of Wade's body. Wade's head was propped against Rizzuto's shoulder.

And, although Rizzuto didn't see it at the time, Wade's gun was still clutched in his right hand.
Still in charge

Yap never had been one to relinquish control.

He was a trainer, a teacher, a coach. And now, despite being shot in the face, he was the senior officer in an emergency situation.

He was badly injured, and his partner might be dying. He had twice as many years on the force as Legayada, Rizzuto and Wade combined, and there were important decisions to be made.

What's more, Wade was still his rookie and Yap felt responsible for his safety.

As Legayada pulled the car onto the Metro tracks to race north along Long Beach Boulevard, Yap opened his mouth. His voice was deeper than normal. The words came out slowly and slightly slurred.

"We're going to Memorial," he said. "And we're taking Atlantic."

Legayada would later recall those words vividly.

"I knew that I had to inform dispatch and all the units out there that I had two officers in the car," he said. "I had to let them know that they were injured and what their injuries were. I knew I had to put out any suspect information I could get from Yap, who was sitting next to me. I had to let them know where I was going, what route I was going to. And, in between that, I'm weaving in and out of traffic. And I'm going on overload. And then Yap tells me, 'We're going to Memorial. And we're taking Atlantic."'

Legayada was incredulous - the victim taking control of his own rescue - but the truth was that it helped.

The route was important. When a person's body has been ruptured by bullets, blood loss is an immediate concern. Legayada didn't know how much his comrades were losing, or how much would be too much, but he couldn't waste a moment.

There was a choice of hospitals.

St. Mary Medical Center was also on Atlantic, and 20 blocks closer than Long Beach Memorial Medical Center. But, for years, Memorial had been known in the Police Department for having an outstanding trauma center, so Legayada didn't flinch at the longer drive.

The siren was blaring as Boy 91 turned east onto Fourth Street. On the radio, the shooting had sparked a flurry of calls, making it tough to get air time. Legayada couldn't be sure what other units would hear, but he made the call over Channel 1.

It was 1:27 p.m.

"We're going to Memorial..." he said.

The dispatcher repeated the information, telling all units in the city to switch to Channel 1.

About 30 seconds later, Legayada keyed the radio again. This time, he repeated to dispatch what Yap was telling him.

"We're going to be going northbound on Atlantic from Fourth Street," Legayada said. "Have units ..."

"Stop traffic," Yap directed, in the same slightly distorted voice as before.

"...stop traffic..." Legayada repeated to dispatch.

"North on Atlantic," Yap directed.

"...north on Atlantic," Legayada repeated. "We're coming up Fourth now."

As the dispatcher directed the nearby units to station themselves at Atlantic intersections, all four officers tried to keep cool.
A plea for survival

In the back seat, Rizzuto talked to Wade.

"Stay with me," he said, over and over again. "Are you awake? Stay with me."

"Yeah," Wade answered, his head resting hard on Rizzuto's massive shoulder. "Yeah."

But his voice was weak, and the other officers knew he was probably worsening.

Legayada turned left off of Fourth Street and raced up Atlantic. He snapped up the radio again.

"I have Boy 64," he said. "Both of them are in the vehicle now."

Ten seconds later:

"Boy 91. I have one officer here, GSW (gun shot wound) to the head."

And then:

"Boy 91. The, um, trainee is fading away. We're talking to him now, but please have the units block traffic all the way to Memorial. We're at Atlantic and Anaheim now."

Several other police cars joined the high-speed caravan in support of Boy 91 - the most important car on the force at that moment. And other officers had begun to block traffic.

The rescue was going as well as could be expected.

Then, in an instant, something happened that Rizzuto would never forget.

Wade's body, once rigid against his shoulder, went limp. His head dropped into Rizzuto's lap. And his gun, which he had been gripping so desperately, dropped to the floorboard with a thud.

"We lost him," Rizzuto thought.
Turned upside down

At the time of the shooting, Batts was driving an unmarked Crown Victoria from a business lunch. By coincidence, he was headed to Long Beach Memorial Medical Center to visit a friend.

His police radio was turned off; jazz was playing instead. Batts was whistling and thinking about an upcoming date with his 17-year-old son to see the Oakland Raiders and about his planned trip to Georgia for Christmas.

As he approached Atlantic Avenue, he noticed one of his own officers directing traffic with unusual determination. He spotted a number of police cars speeding, weaving and heading north on Atlantic, one after the other - a parade of lights and sirens.

He assumed someone had died.

"What funeral is coming through our city?" he thought.

Batts approached the traffic officer, who told him two patrol officers had been shot. He didn't know which two.

The situation was so fresh that Batts hadn't yet received his first page about it.

In an instant, the Raiders game and the trip to Georgia were cancelled. Batts turned off the jazz, turned on his police radio and sped toward the hospital.
Three miles to hospital

The squad cars had managed to halt traffic on Atlantic. It was a straight shot all the way to Memorial, and Legayada had his foot pressed to the floor.

He wasn't looking at the speedometer, but it felt like he was going 100 miles an hour at times.

Yap told him to slow down.

In the back seat, Rizzuto was still talking to Wade, still asking him questions - although no answers were coming.

Memorial was in sight. They would need to turn left onto Columbia Avenue - the entry to the emergency room. But Legayada was going fast.

"Slow down," Yap said.

Columbia came up quickly. Legayada pressed on the brakes and twisted the steering wheel. He thought briefly that they might careen into the medical building on the corner, but he corrected and completed the turn.

Then, instantly, they were in front of the emergency room. They had made the nearly three-mile drive in two and a half minutes.

It was barely 1:29 p.m.

Yap jumped out.

Memorial's staff knew the officers were on their way, but they didn't realize how quickly they would arrive. No one was waiting outside, and Yap worried that the officers wouldn't be able to get through the secured set of double doors without pushing the call button first.

He saw someone open the doors and, unflappable as always, yelled at the person to hold them open. As Rizzuto and Legayada and four other officers struggled to pull the unconscious rookie from the back seat, Yap rushed inside to demand a gurney for his partner.

Yap was clearly worsening himself. He was spitting out teeth and blood. He was having trouble talking. But adrenaline was coursing through his body, and he felt no pain.

Hospital staff wheeled a gurney out the door, meeting the crew of officers as they carried Wade in their arms.

With help from the hospital staff, Yap slid onto a gurney in the trauma room. He was alert, hyper-alert even, and still felt in control.

A nurse suctioned out his mouth, but removed it at one point so Yap could talk.

"Suction," Yap instructed.

Yap reclined on his gurney. Nurses and doctors surrounded him. Someone administered an IV. Someone else began to cut his clothes off.

"I'm not going under," he told himself.

They tried to run a breathing tube down his throat, but he wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

He raised his arm to push the tube way. "Don't do that," he said.

Finally, the drugs took effect. His body relaxed. His eyes closed.

"I'm going out now," he told himself, before losing consciousness.

Moments later, he would begin to convulse.
The force rallies

Batts knew he was about to face a police chief's worst nightmare.

As he approached the emergency room in his business suit, he spotted an officer standing outside a squad car and staring into the empty back seat where Wade had been lying.

In his four years as chief, Batts had never lost one of his own to violence in the line of duty. He tried to brace himself for what he would find inside.

The trauma room - a private area within the emergency room - buzzed with activity.

Wade and Yap lay on gurneys. A group of police officers were standing around them, appearing stricken and helpless.

Batts helped usher the officers out of the room, telling them they had done everything they could for now, and turned to face the wounded men.

To his right, Yap was convulsing, and nurses were cutting swaths of material from his uniform and throwing the sopping clods into a wet pile on the floor.

To his left, Wade looked even worse. His clothes were being cut off, as well, but his body was still, his eyes glassy. His arms hung limply at his sides.

A nurse walked over to Batts with Yap's badge, which was still attached to a small piece of bloody fabric. She laid it in his hand.

"Blood soaked through between my fingers onto my shoes," the chief later said, adding that the symbolism of the moment wasn't lost on him. "When a young officer gets his badge, it's kind of like his heart. It's kind of like his life."

Batts flashed back to the graduation ceremony just three weeks before. He remembered looking up at the Gentle Giant. Wade's smirk. Batts' joke. The crowd's laughter.

Now, standing here, he couldn't suppress his fear.

"We're going to lose him - or we've lost him," Batts thought.

As doctors and nurses attended to the patients, Batts knew there was nothing else he could do for his men.

With the officers' wives already on their way, he had to respond to the broader situation. He had to make calls. Ask questions. Contain the crime scene. Find witnesses. Identify the suspect. Call in the troops.

Experience told him the shooter may have fled. He had to think 72 hours in advance. Set up perimeters. Get detectives involved. Track the guy. Get him.

Get him. Get him.

It was a holiday weekend. Would they have enough manpower to do what was needed? And, if he lost two men that day, how would this affect his organization?

Batts got in his car and drove to the command post at Broadway and Long Beach Boulevard. Police had launched a manhunt for Gallegos, who was able to elude capture by hiding his Pathfinder in a parking garage off Elm Avenue.

Batts looked around at the dozens of police officers already at the site. Many of these cops knew Yap and were determined to bring his shooter to justice.
Moment of doubt

Batts' eyes focused on one officer in particular, a man without a uniform. It was Jason Ur.

Ur seemed off-balance somehow.

Batts walked over to Ur and put his arm around him. "Are you OK?" he asked.

Tears welled in Ur's eyes.

He told the chief the story of seeing Gallegos shopping for guns and holsters in Turner's Outdoorsman on Willow Street in Signal Hill. How he had followed him to a taco stand and then called for a black-and-white unit. How he had heard the shots, followed Gallegos, radioed for help, watched the shooter turn a corner and disappear.

Batts assured him he had done the right thing - used his instinct and every resource available to him. No one could have predicted the tragic result.

Armed with the new information, Batts got back on his phone, ordered surveillance videos, contacted his command staff and delegated tasks.

Then he returned to the hospital.

[masameet]

Miracle at Memorial: Medical crews battle the odds to save two wounded cops
Law enforcement: Fortune smiles as shift change ensures maximum medical staffing.
By Wendy Thomas Russell, Staff writer
Long Beach Press Telegram (http://www.presstelegram.com/news/ci_5573686)
Article Launched:04/01/2007 10:38:47 PM PDT

Second of a two-part series

Standing outside Long Beach Memorial Medical Center on the afternoon of Dec. 22, 2006, Long Beach Police Chief Anthony Batts took a moment to compose himself.

Less than an hour earlier, he had glimpsed two of his officers, unconscious and badly injured, in the hospital's trauma room. Officer Abe Yap had been shot in the face; Officer Roy Wade Jr. had been shot in the neck.

Both were critical. And, if they lived, it would be on account of two fast-acting patrol officers who had put Yap and Wade in their squad car and rushed them to the hospital themselves.

Now, the wounded officers were undergoing emergency surgery. Their wives had been brought to the hospital in squad cars. And Batts feared the worst.

There had been so much blood in the trauma room. He knew things didn't look good.

He walked into the hospital to meet the wives, who were quietly holding vigil in separate waiting rooms.

The first one he saw was Edina Wade, whose husband had graduated from the Long Beach Police Academy just three weeks earlier. Feeling more like a father than a chief, he hugged her.

He wanted to encourage her, offer hope. But he had seen her husband's body before surgery. His limp arms, his glassy eyes.

"We're losing him - or we've lost him," he had told himself.

But the words that came out of Batts' mouth at that moment were full of a confidence he didn't possess.

He looked at Edina.

"We are all going to walk out of here someday," he told her.

The comforting words surprised even him.

"Don't ask me why I said that," he would say later. "But I said it."

Then he walked across the hall, where Yap's wife, Kim, collapsed into his arms.

"It's all going to be OK," he said, and then he repeated the words that had surprised him so much just moments earlier:

"We are all going to walk out of here someday."

Inside, he was thinking it might take a miracle.

An instinctive reaction

In a police department, the force is like family.

Officers hear it so often it becomes a clich . But in times of crisis, the clich evolves into a living, breathing entity. Family. When one family member bleeds, others hurt.

They huddle. They support. They pray.

When Wade and Yap were shot while pulling over a gang member at Long Beach Boulevard and Sixth Street, most of the LBPD family had split up and gone home for Christmas. Many had taken scheduled vacations. Dozens of detectives had taken off early to enjoy a long weekend with wives, husbands and children.

But, just as quickly as they had dispersed in cheer, they now came together - this time filled with concern, anger, determination.

As the two officers fought for their lives, their shooter - a 33-year-old man named Oscar Gabriel Gallegos - was still at large. There was work to be done.

Nearly all of Wade's graduating class flocked to the hospital, some staying for hours or days to support the family.

Virtually everyone else in the department voluntarily put on their uniforms and drove to work.

They came from their homes in Long Beach, Orange County, Los Angeles. They left unwrapped presents, big family dinners, disappointed wives, husbands and children.

In the Gangs and Violent Crimes Detail, staffed by about 120 detectives, no more than two dozen detectives were still working on the afternoon of Dec. 22.

But when commanders put out the call for help, LBPD Commander Jay Johnson said, "It was all hands on deck."

"One hundred and twenty folks in my division," he said. "One hundred and twenty showed up."

Throughout the department, people responded to the emergency without hesitation. Many would work through the next 24 hours with little or no sleep. Many would come back on Christmas Eve and work through Christmas morning.

They'd work the day after that, too. And the day after that.

It was a touching show of loyalty, Johnson said, but not surprising.

"Family comes first," he said.

[masameet]

[Part 2 continued ...]

A grim prospect

Wade was dying.

There were four holes in his neck. They started on his right front side and continued down and to the left. One bullet was lodged inside. A main vein had been severed. He had lost a lot of blood.

But there was hope.

The bullets had missed Wade's carotid arteries, which run along both sides of the neck and deliver blood to the brain.

The victims had made it to the emergency room in record time.

And they were surrounded by some of the best trauma specialists in Southern California. When Wade and Yap were brought to Memorial, a shift change had been underway in the emergency room. There were twice the usual number of nurses, twice the doctors, and twice the trauma surgeons - including a thoracic surgeon - on duty.

All of them stayed. All of them worked. All of them fought.

The team was able to quickly diagnose Wade's injuries before wheeling him into the operating room. And the crew worked so well together, it was almost as if they had practiced the surgery before.

Staffers dashed in and out of the room, retrieving supplies and delivering them back to the surgeons in what seemed like double-time.

When a surgeon would ask for something - an instrument, a drug, more blood - it would appear almost instantly.

"Like magic," one doctor would tell family members later.

Still, the surgery was difficult.

One lung had been punctured. The vein in Wade's neck needed to be repaired. He was bleeding internally.

And then the worst happened: Wade's heart stopped.

Flatlined

It was the sort of complication doctors dread. When traumatic injuries and blood loss cause cardiac arrest, brain death usually follows. Rarely, studies have shown, are lifesaving efforts successful at that point.

There was a last resort, but it was a long shot.

The doctors would have to cut Wade's chest open, pull his sternum apart and pump his heart by hand - a procedure known as internal cardiac massage.

The chance of survival was less than 1 percent.

"They had every right to give up on him," Edina would say later. "But they never did - not for a second."

As the team worked furiously to save the officer, a trauma nurse held his hand, prayed and willed him not to die.

Then, the miraculous: Wade's heart - his "servant's heart," as his wife had often called it - took over the job that the doctor's hand had been doing for it: It beat again.

Wade was alive. And, soon, he was even stable.

God in the wings

Edina Wade, a woman of deep Christian faith, said God must have been in the hospital that day. Why else, she said, would there be so many experts on hand to see to her husband?

Why else would a man with less than a 1 percent chance of survival shock even his doctors by pulling through?

How else, she insisted, could you explain the lack of post-operative complications, the rapid progress his body made, the way he was able to think so clearly when he awoke in a hospital bed on Christmas Day?

He could think. He could speak. He could even swallow.

"All the doctors, the staff - everyone attests that this is a miracle," Edina said.

Her husband's primary doctor, she said, had never seen a patient survive a surgery with the types of injuries Wade had suffered.

"We've tried to save them," she recalled the doctor saying, "but this is the first time it has worked."

Speaking of the ordeal weeks later, Roy Wade Jr. said he remembered tracking the white Pathfinder on Long Beach Boulevard.

He remembered the shooter. He remembered the hail of bullets, and making the 999 call - officer down. He remembered the drive to the hospital. People tugging at his body.

Then nothing - until he opened his eyes on Christmas, looked around his hospital room and felt pain shoot through his body.

He asked for his wife. He asked for his family.

Then, he said, he asked for his badge.

Jaw reconstruction

Yap's surgery, at the same time as Wade's, was another resounding success.

He underwent reconstructive surgery to repair his broken jaw. A plastic device called an external fixator was placed along his jawline, with four pins connecting it to the bone.

In an interview months later, Yap said he was grateful to his LBPD comrades, to the hospital staff and to his wife, whom he called "my hero" for all she's done since the shooting.

"Thank you is obviously not enough," he said, "but that's all I have."

Dead end for shooter

Five days after the shooting, the LBPD's nonstop investigation into Gallegos' whereabouts led to a break: Gallegos had been in contact with a Santa Ana man.

Beginning early in the morning on Dec. 27, a team of officers including Sgt. Paul LeBaron hid in vehicles in front of a residence on Flower Street, conducting surveillance. The officers figured that if the Santa Ana man left the residence, they'd follow. But all day nothing happened.

Then about 5:15 p.m., Gallegos showed up.

LeBaron and others called for backup from the Santa Ana Police Department, which had assigned a three-member SWAT team to help.

After speaking to youths outside the house, Gallegos got back in a car and was driven to a nearby taco stand in a strip mall on Warner Avenue. LeBaron followed in his unmarked car and drove westbound through the parking lot, just as the SWAT officers pulled into the lot going eastbound.

Gallegos saw the SWAT members in the unmarked Crown Victoria and didn't waste a second.

He pulled a gun out of his waistband. He dropped to his knees. He started firing.

Gallegos got five shots off before the SWAT officers could even stop their car, but, amazingly, none was hit. The officers jumped out, ran in three different directions and started firing back.

"The bullets were just flying everywhere," LeBaron said.

Gallegos fired 14 shots. The SWAT officers fired between 30 and 40.

In the end, only Gallegos was hit - his body riddled with no fewer than 15 bullets.

"He was still shooting as he was taking bullets," LeBaron said.

Conference interrupted

Batts heard the news of Gallegos' death while holding a press conference the evening of Dec. 27. He had been announcing a $75,000 reward for information leading to Gallegos' capture when Deputy Chief Robert Luna walked up behind him and whispered in his ear:

"The suspect was just shot and killed in Santa Ana."

Batts called a quick end to the press conference.

He walked off camera and headed for the hospital to deliver the good news to the officers himself.

He saw Yap first.

"We got him," Batts said.

And, then, in Wade's room: "We got him."
ABOUT THIS SERIES

The Press-Telegram used a variety of sources to reconstruct these events, including interviews with those involved and a review of dispatch calls from the Long Beach Police Department and video tapes of the crime scene.

Details about Officer Roy Wade Jr.'s surgery were provided by Edina Wade. Details about Officer Abe Yap's condition and recovery came from Yap. Both families declined to sign a release allowing doctors with Long Beach Memorial Medical Center to speak with the media, citing ongoing rehabilitation and their need for privacy. As a result, the Press-Telegram relied heavily on information that doctors gave Edina Wade about her husband's surgery.

Batts' recollections were used to reconstruct his meetings with the injured officers and their wives, as well as the day of Wade's release from the hospital.

Sgt. Paul LeBaron provided information about Oscar Gabriel Gallegos' discovery and death.

Both officers, still weak and sore, seemed to go limp with relief, Batts would later recall. Yap had tears in his eyes as he shook the chief's hand.

Over the next weeks, both officers would continue to heal, with the support of their families, their doctors and their department. Always getting stronger, getting better.

Wade's last day in Long Beach Memorial Medical Center was Jan. 5, exactly two weeks after the shooting.

With Yap at his side, he was released by his proud, incredulous doctors to begin a round of intense outpatient rehabilitation that he expects will someday make him strong enough to return to the force.

It was a sunny winter day. There were no media, no audience.

Smiling, Yap pushed Wade's wheelchair out of the hospital and into a waiting vehicle.

Their wives were there. Batts was, too.

They had all walked out together.

Wendy Thomas Russell can be reached at wendy.russell@presstelegram.com or

(562) 499-1272.

[johnparjr]

What a great story and glad it ended the way it did the scumbag didnt deserve anymore than what he got they should charge his family for the 15 bullets. The 2 officers that where hit godbless em and the 3rd officer who reported the suspicious behavior who knows what that scum would have done if he didnt notice.

To all our officers on this board Keep safe.

[ateamer]

Those are a pair of real-life tough guys. They are also a testament to their department's training, that they responded as they did.

[silversvs]

Family.

Enough said.

[Bad Santa]

The story above omits one minor detail. Shockingly, Oscar Gabriel Gallegos was a previously-deported illegal alien with a long and violent criminal history. I know that comes as a stunning surprise to you guys on this forum.

[masameet]

Looks like Gallegos was a three-time deported illegal. See http://article.nationalreview.com/?q=MWU2MDM0OThlMjUwMDM1ZTdlNDIxZjkyYjY0NmQwNjk.

[kuanspeed]

awesome story.

[Mike T]

:wow now thats something...

[deathbug74]

wow...

[SLOW10R]

At least he got what was coming to him in a timely manner. Nothing worse than having to sit and wait to find someone responsible for an incident like this.


Well written recount of an amazing event.

[07chuck]

Good, Happy Ending...

[Harry Callahan]

I was just involved in a shooting last week. Family is most important.

[juha_teuvonnen]

While I am not particularly fond of Islamic Republic of Iran, there is one practice that is worth adopting from that country. Public hangings. The likes of Oscar Gabriel Gallegos definitely deserve to be hanged. They use cranes instead of gallows these days. Call me savage, but I'd broadcast it on TV too. Freaking evening news.

I am a civilian, not LEO, but I consider cops "my people". They work hard, and often times risk their life to protect my ass from the likes of Oscar Gallegos. Somebody who shoots at "my people" deserves to die, preferably a slow and painful death.

[lacir]

Speechless...

[nakedape]

That story tugs on the heartstrings...hard. So glad to hear they offed that dirtbag, and the officers survived. Great story indeed...NApe

[Baptistro]

amazing

[mabbott]

moving story, I am glad it turned out well in the end

[Z3n]

What an amazing story...

[954Rider]

Originally posted by masameet
Looks like Gallegos was a three-time deported illegal. See http://article.nationalreview.com/?q=MWU2MDM0OThlMjUwMDM1ZTdlNDIxZjkyYjY0NmQwNjk.

Fucking deported illegals. :mad