The Brief

On a recent rainy afternoon, a handful of students gathered in a small UCLA classroom to pore over autopsy reports and death records.

They took turns presenting different cases, sharing what they’d gleaned from documents about people who died at the hands of police. After an overview, they honed in on the reports’ details.

As part of the university’s BioCritical Studies Lab, the significance of the students’ work extends far beyond the classroom.

Terence Keel, a professor in the Department of African American Studies and the Institute for Society and Genetics, founded the lab in 2020, in the wake of George Floyd’s murder. After watching police take Floyd’s life, Keel wondered how many others died under similar circumstances.

Together, Keel and his students have produced multiple reports about in-custody deaths. Through this work, the professor has learned that every day in the U.S., about five people die in jail or during arrests.

The reports, coupled with conversations with community activists and people who’ve lost loved ones across the country, underpin Keel’s new book, The Coroner's Silence: Death Records and the Hidden Victims of Police Violence.

How a lab discussion uncovers details

This recent class session started by examining a San Diego case involving a man who died in 2020 after being tased by police three times.

One student said it was “pretty shocking” that no officers faced liability. Another brought up the difference between what was stated in the autopsy report and the San Diego district attorney's account.

In the latter, the student noted, “It says that [an] officer put his left knee on [the man’s] upper back and neck. ... That provides a lot more context as to why [the man] became unresponsive.”

Not only was that detail left out of the autopsy report, another student added, “But on page seven, it says, ‘It does not appear that the officers at any time significantly placed their weight or pressure on the decedent’s head, neck or torso’ — which directly goes against what you just read.”

“Did anyone notice, on Page 5 of the [autopsy], the contributing factor to death was ‘atherosclerotic cardiovascular disease,’” Keel asked the class. “What did you all make of that?”

The lab secures autopsy reports and death records through public records requests. Students are assigned at least one case per week. They’re tasked with coding these cases, following a strict protocol. As they answer questions provided by their instructors, the students input the data in a survey for the lab’s Coroner Report Project.

In his new book, Keel describes the obstacles he faced in securing these records.

The professor says “a part of [him] had to perish” to write the text — the part of him that “wanted to believe America was growing into our best values and evolving beyond the primitivism of our past.”

“I am grateful for this loss,” he writes.

Before conducting his research, “I could not imagine how often these deaths occurred, how they were hidden from the public or the sheer magnitude of lethal police violence,” Keel adds.

“I hope you lose a part of yourself,” too, he tells readers, “and gain in return the ability to see the humanity of the people we are socialized to forget.”

Keel’s students already are heeding the call.

What kinds of students participate

The professor's students span majors from the humanities to life sciences. Many of them are pre-med. Grace Sosa, a former student, is the lab’s assistant director and co-leads class discussion.

“We welcome the feelings that come up — the rage and the sadness and the anger — all that stuff,” Sosa said. “The data collection that we do is important, but it's also important to never lose sight of the fact that every single one of these deaths should not have happened. And that should make us feel something.”

This approach sits well with students like Stepheny Nguyenle, a recent graduate who continues to be part of the lab.

“More than anything,” she told LAist, “I joined because I wanted to learn and grow alongside a group of people who believe in a better world, where human dignity takes precedence.”

For others, the lab is an invitation to take what’s learned and probe the world around them.

Senior Zaia Hammond (center), a Human Biology & Society major and African American Studies minor, said Keel's lab has helped her become more empathetic toward others, especially incarcerated people.

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Julia Barajas

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LAist

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“[T]his is the first time I've ever looked at an autopsy report,” said sophomore Ellie Portman, who's now prone to scrutinizing news media. “We [grow up thinking] that whatever is in an autopsy report is correct and whatever the police do is right. ... This lab has taught me the importance of asking questions and being curious,” she said.

Junior Manhoor Ahmad also said the lab “has really taught me to go deeper.”

“I pay attention to the layers behind every incident: the police tactics used; the medical vulnerabilities of the person involved; how force escalates; the stress on the body; and the role that institutions play in framing these [deaths] as unavoidable,” she said.

How the community has been involved

When Keel launched the lab, a local woman named Helen Jones helped guide discussions.

Jones, a Watts native, lost her son in 2009. His name was John Horton III, and he was 22 years old when he died inside Men’s Central Jail in downtown L.A. authorities said he died by suicide in solitary confinement. But in Jones’ view, his body told a different story.

When Horton’s body was being prepared at a mortuary, Jones noticed wounds, bruises and scrapes across his body.

In his book, Keel notes that Horton “had no record of mental illness and was not under suicide watch when he was taken to prison.” Plus, when his family received the lab results, “they revealed that [Horton] had sustained recent injuries to his abdomen, adrenal glands, skeletal muscles in his lower back and kidneys.”

In the autopsy report, the coroner ascribed Horton’s death to “hanging and other undetermined factors.” But if Horton was alone in his cell, his mother wondered, how did those internal injuries occur?

Keel met Horton’s mother in 2020. At the time, she was a community organizer with Dignity and Power Now, a grassroots organization based in L.A. that’s working toward prison abolition. The experience of losing her son pushed Jones to become well-versed in death records. When Keel’s lab took off, she’d bring records of people who’d lost their life in custody and share her insights with his students.

Jones “had a wealth of knowledge and expertise about the faults and virtues of our death investigation system that would have taken decades for most academics to acquire,” Keel says in his book.

Through Jones, Keel and his students learned about “how death investigators weaponized details about the criminal history of the deceased, or their troubles with substance abuse or, even worse, their health history, making the case that they were going to die regardless of the actions of police.” Jones drew the lab’s attention “to the places in the autopsy where illegible handwriting, unchecked boxes, missing files and vague language obscured or distorted what happened to the victim and why.”

Keel’s lab and book also have been shaped by other families who’ve grappled with in-custody deaths. Out of necessity and desperation, he said, these families likewise taught themselves how to read autopsy reports, using anatomy books, along with legal and medical dictionaries.

Keel hopes his book finds its way to people who think in-custody deaths are an issue from which they’re far removed.

“[T]here is a perception that [this] is a Black and brown problem,” Keel told LAist. “But when you look at the data, look at the raw numbers, white Americans are the largest group in the nation being killed by police. ... And when you look at all of the people who are dying in custody, every single demographic in [the U.S.] is represented.”

Disclosure: Julia Barajas is a part-time law student at UCLA.

Angelenos looking up Saturday may have noticed a particularly striking sight — a vibrant sunset framed by clouds.

Tropical moisture coming in from far off the coast could explain it.

“One thing that might have played a role in making it look awfully nice yesterday was those high clouds that were moving in,” Robert Munroe, meteorologist with the National Weather Service, said. “The way the sun was hitting the high clouds made some bright yellows and oranges in the sky. That moisture is actually related to probably mostly Odalys.”

An early sunset at yesterday's "Be The Light" 5K event in Valencia last night.

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Jenn Baughman

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Jenn Baughman

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Odalys is the hurricane (since downgraded to a tropical storm) churning off the coast of Mexico, along with Hurricane Polo.

Neither is expected to make landfall here, but they're forecast to bring high surf, dangerous rip tides and potential flooding to coastlines already battered this month by Hurricane Marie.

The bright side is Munroe said those high clouds from yesterday will be sticking around through at least today, which could make for another pretty sunset this evening.

An earthquake with a magnitude of 3.6 struck off the South Bay at about 8:40 a.m. and was reported as being felt as far as Oxnard.

The U.S. Geological Survey says it was centered about four miles west-southwest of Hermosa Beach. More than 1,500 people reported feeling it within the first hour after it struck. [You can report what you felt to the USGS.]

No significant damage has been reported, which is typical at this low of a magnitude.

The quake was below the threshold of 4.0 magnitude that triggers an alert on the ShakeAlert app.

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Courtesy ShakeAlert

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We have earthquake resources

We don't want to scare you, but the Big One is coming. We don't know when, but we know it'll be at least 44 times stronger than Northridge and 11 times stronger than the Ridgecrest quakes in 2019. To help you get prepared, we've compiled a handy reading list:

• Your guide to surviving the Big One
• For earthquakes, forget the 'go-bag.' Here's how to prepare
• How to not get life-threatening diarrhea after a major earthquake
• 10 earthquake-related questions to ask your landlord immediately
• How to prepare for an earthquake if you have a disability

Listen to our podcast

On a Sunday night at the Mexican restaurant La Popular in Claremont, diners are eating to a soundtrack that starts with cumbia and jumps to J Balvin and Bad Bunny before landing on Luther Vandross.

That’s the aim of DJ collective Compás Discoteca — to bring connection and community through live vinyl mixing at La Popular and El Balcon in Ontario.

How Compás Discoteca was born 

Ricardo Carlos, Elias Ruiz, Albert Piña and Adrian Silva have been friends for about two decades. They all DJ as a hobby and often share music. On a night out in 2024, they saw a sign: a parking space for a “compact car,” minus two letters.

“The C and T are missing — compá. Like, ‘We're compás,’” Carlos said, recounting that night.

A "Compás Discoteca" turntable mat.

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Dañiel Martinez

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LAist

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Their DJ collective, Compás Discoteca, was born. “Compás” means “buddies” in Spanish and “Discoteca” means “nightclub."

Seasoning the scene

When Compás Discoteca first formed, the members said Southern California’s vinyl-listening scene was more focused on track selection, letting songs play out in full. The collective wanted to bring more life to the experience by mixing music live.

“It just seemed a little stale,” Silva said. “I feel like we helped to bring some seasoning to that.”

They also wanted to play genres people wouldn’t normally hear together.

“You might hear us jump from funk to cumbia to hip-hop to disco, soul to house. We're just trying to take people on a journey with us,” Silva said.

Each compá takes their turn at the turntables for two 30-minute sets. And each brings their own sound.

Three of the "compás" pose for a picture in between their sets.

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Dañiel Martinez

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LAist

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Silva is the “party-starter.” He gets people dancing.

Carlos has a Latin bent, taking influence from his Puerto Rican, Salvadoran and Creole roots.

Ruiz lives for “jaw-drop moments” and brings records he thinks will surprise his fellow DJs.

Piña spins rare world grooves in the funk and boogie vein.

“He probably gets the most Shazams from us and from the audience,” Ruiz said of Piña. “But most importantly, you feel like you're hanging out and with some good music.”

Albert Piña prepares looks through a box of vinyl records during his DJ set at "La Popular" in Claremont.

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Dañiel Martinez

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LAist

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Feeding off the energy

Compás Discoteca DJs at El Balcon in Ontario on the first Friday of each month and at La Popular in Claremont on the third Sunday.

The vibes for Sundays are chill, they said, and Fridays are for letting it all loose.

“There's like an energy there, like, ‘Oh, man, we made it through the week.’ We try to feed off of that,” Piña said.

Along Highway 62 in Joshua Tree, a stack of high school lockers holds something the High Desert was missing: a real New York-style bagel.

For that, you have DIY baker Richard Lee to thank.

“I want a bagel. What do I do?” Lee remembered thinking after moving to Twentynine Palms in 2023 from Los Angeles, where he had lived for more than a decade.

The Bagel Portal off Highway 62 in Joshua Tree.

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Richard Lee

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It wasn’t just any bagel the born-and-raised New Yorker was craving, but the kind from back home that gives “a little crunch” when you bite into its crust — with a “chewy, softer” inside and a taste Lee calls “ineffable.”

“Like maybe a sourdough or an Italian bread,” he said.

Taught by YouTube, tested by family in New York

Richard Lee converted his garage in 29 Palms to make bagels.

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Courtesy 29 Loaves

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A tinkerer by nature, Lee launched 29 Loaves in early 2024, bringing bagels he handcrafts in his licensed home operation to Twentynine Palms, Joshua Tree and surrounding communities.

“I went to the culinary school of YouTube,” he said, having watched more than 100 videos on how to make a bagel. At first, he relied on his own taste buds as a guide, before sending his creations to his family in New York to taste.

After months of overnight shipping, Lee said, “Even a UPS store is asking me, ‘Why are you doing that?’”

“I know it makes no sense,” he told them. “That's how I operate.”

29 Loaves serves up New York-style bagels to Joshua Tree and other desert communities.

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Courtesy 29 Loaves

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Eventually, his sister gave the thumbs-up. To be extra, extra, extra sure, Lee went to folks living in the desert with New York ties to get their blessing.

“Attention is an ingredient,” Lee said of his bagels. It’s a philosophy he’s honed while running his other business providing IT services, which he now operates remotely.

“Garbage in, garbage out,” he said. “If you make a mistake or something falls on the bagel and marks it, it’ll end up that way as a finished product.”

Why bagels mean so much to him

Lee, whose father is Korean and mother is Brazilian, said his bakery is ultimately about food memories — and draws inspiration from what he ate growing up. The only other baked good 29 Loaves sells is pão de queijo, a gluten-free Brazilian cheese puff he makes.

Richard Lee handmakes New York-style bagels at his home operation.

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Courtesy 29 Loaves

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But nothing rivals bagels. Sundays were often bagel days in his childhood home in the Long Island suburbs. As a teenager working for his father, Lee remembered they would make detours off the Long Island Expressway to grab fresh bagels.

“They were nice and plump, and they were so hot,” he said.

Father and son would eat them straight out of the bag — no cream cheese, no nothing.

“Those were the types of memories that I wanna bring here,” Lee said.