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.

This story first appeared on The LA Local.

Since 1977, Richard Santillan has been to every Opening Day game at Dodger Stadium. 

“The tradition goes from my father, to me, to my children and grandchildren. Some of my best memories are with my father and children here at Dodger Stadium,” Santillan told The LA Local, smiling under the shade of palm trees near the entrance to the ballpark Wednesday morning. He was there to protest the team less than 24 hours before Opening Day.

Santillan, like countless other loyal Dodgers fans, is grappling with his fan identity over the team’s decision to accept an invitation to the White House and owner Mark Walter’s ties to ICE detention facilities.

More than 30 people joined Santillan on Wednesday morning for a press conference held near 1000 Vin Scully Drive to convey a message directly to the team. 

“We are demanding the Dodgers stop participating in funding of inhumane treatment of families and do not go to the White House to celebrate with the criminal in chief,” Evelyn Escatiola told the crowd. “Together, we have the power to make a change.”

Escatiola, a former dean of East Los Angeles College and longtime community organizer, urged fans to flex their economic power by “letting the Dodgers know that we do not support repression.”

Jorge “Coqui” Rodriguez, a lifelong Dodgers fan, spoke to the crowd and called on Dodgers ownership to divest from immigration detention centers owned and operated by GEO Group and CoreCivic.

Jorge Coqui H Rodriguez speaks at a press conference outside Dodger Stadium on March 25, 2026, to demand the Dodgers not to visit the White House following their 2025 World Series win.

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J.W. Hendricks

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The LA Local

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In a phone interview a day before the protest, Rodriguez told The LA Local he did not want the Dodgers using his “cheve” or beer money to fund detention centers. 

“They can’t take our parking money, our cacahuate money, our cheve money, our Dodger Dog money and invest those funds into corporations that are imprisoning people. It’s wrong,” Rodriguez said. 

Rodriguez considers the Dodgers one of the most racially diverse teams and said the players need to support fans at a time when heightened immigration enforcement has become more common across L.A.

The team’s 2025’s visit to the White House drew ire from the largely Latino fan base, citing the Trump administration’s ongoing attacks on immigrants. 

In June, the team came under further scrutiny when rumors swirled online that federal immigration agents were using the stadium’s parking, which immigration authorities later denied in statements posted on social media accounts.

The team again came under fire after not releasing a statement on the impacts of ICE raids on its mostly Latino fan base at the height of immigration enforcement last summer. The team later agreed to invest $1 million to support families affected by immigration enforcement.

When he learned the Dodgers were pledging only $1 million to families in need, Rodriguez called the amount a  “slap in the face.” 

“These guys just bought the Lakers for billions of dollars and they give a million dollars to fight for legal services? That’s a joke,” Rodriguez said. “They need to have a moral backbone and not be investing in those companies.”

According to reporting from the Los Angeles Times, former Dodgers pitcher Clayton Kershawsaid last week that he is looking forward to the trip.

“I went when President [Joe] Biden was in office. I’m going to go when President [Donald] Trump is in office,” Kershaw said. “To me, it’s just about getting to go to the White House. You don’t get that opportunity every day, so I’m excited to go.”

The Dodgers have yet to announce when their planned visit will take place. 

Santillan sometimes laments his decision to give up his season tickets in protest of the team. His connection to the stadium and the memories he has made there with family and friends will last a lifetime, he said. On Thursday, he will uphold his tradition and be there for the first pitch of the season, but with a heavy heart.

“It’s a family tradition, but the Dodgers have a lot of work to do,” he said.

A local favorite mom-and-pop bookshop in Eagle Rock is facing displacement due to a steep rent hike. The owners say theirs is just one of several small businesses along Eagle Rock Boulevard struggling to keep up with lease increases.

Over the past 19 years, many in the neighborhood have come to love READ Books for its eclectic collection of used titles and shop dog Florence.

Co-owner Jeremy Kaplan said it’s been a delight to grow with the community over the years.

“Like seeing kids come back in, who were in grade school and now they’re in college,” Kaplan said.

But the building where Kaplan and wife Debbie rent was recently sold, and the rent increased by more than 130% to $2,805 a month, Kaplan said. He told LAist it was an increase his small business simply could not absorb.

Kaplan said he originally was given 30 days notice of the rent increase. After some research, assistance from Councilmember Ysabel Jurado’s office and some pro-bono legal help, Kaplan said he pushed back and got the 90-day notice he’s afforded by state law.

California Senate Bill 1103 requires landlords to give businesses with five or less employees 90 days’ notice for rent increases exceeding 10%, among other protections.

Systems Real Estate, the property management company, did not immediately respond to LAist’s request for comment.

What can small businesses do? 

Nadia Segura, directing attorney of the Small Business Program at pro bono legal aid non-profit Bet Tzedek said California law does not currently allow for rent control for commercial tenancies.

Outside of the protections under SB 1103, Segura said small businesses like READ Books don’t have much other recourse. And even then, commercial landlords are not required to inform their tenants of their protections under the law.

“There’s still a lot of people that don’t know about SB 1103. And then it’s very sad that they tell them they have these rent increases and within a month they have to leave,” Segura said.

She said her group is seeing steep rent hikes like this for commercial tenants across the city.

“We are seeing this even more with the World Cup coming up, the Olympics coming up. And I will say it was very sad to see that also after the wildfires,” Segura said.

Part of Bet Tzedek’s ongoing work is to advocate for small businesses, working with landlords who are increasing rents to see if they are willing to give business owners longer leases that lock in rents.

What’s next 

After READ Books posted about their situation on social media, commenters chimed in to express their outrage and love for the little shop.

While he looks for a new spot, Kaplan says he’s forming a coalition of local businesses and activist groups to see what can be done to help other small businesses facing similar displacement. He wants to address the displacement issue for businesses like his, which have made Eagle Rock the distinctive neighborhood that it is today.

Owl Talk, a longtime Eagle Rock staple selling clothing and accessories in a unit in the same building as READ Books, is facing a “more than double” rent increase, according to a post on their Instagram account.

Kaplan said he’s been in touch with the office of state Assemblywoman Jessica Caloza and wants to explore the possibility of introducing legislation to set up protections for small businesses like his, including rent-control measures or a vacancy tax for landlords. Kaplan said he also reached out to the office of state Sen. Maria Durazo.

By his count, Kaplan said there are about a dozen businesses within surrounding blocks that are at risk of closing their doors or have shuttered due to rent increases or other struggles.

When READ Books was founded during the Great Recession, Kaplan said he knew it was a longshot to open a bookstore at the same time so many were struggling to stay in business.

“It was kind of interesting to be doing something that neighborhoods needed. That was important to me growing up, that was important to my children, that was important to my wife growing up,” Kaplan said.

“And then somebody comes in and says, ‘We’re gonna over double your rent.”

Topline:

Frozen budget: Most of the city’s Bureau of Street Lighting budget comes from an assessment that people who own property illuminated by lights pay on their county property tax bill. The amount people pay depends on the kind of property they own and how much they benefit from lighting. A typical single-family home currently pays $53 annually, and in total, the assessments bring in about $45 million annually for the city to repair and maintain streetlights. Changing the amount the Bureau of Street Lighting gets from the assessment requires a vote among property owners who benefit from the lights.

Ballots: L.A. City Council’s vote gives city staff the green light to prepare and send out those ballots. Miguel Sangalang, who oversees the bureau, said at a committee meeting earlier this month that he expects to send out ballots by April 17. Notices about the ballots will be sent out prior to the ballots themselves.

Near unanimous vote: L.A. City Councilmember Monica Rodriguez was the only “No” vote Tuesday, saying she wanted to see a more current strategic plan for the bureau. Sangalang said the bureau developed a plan in 2022 that lays out how money will be spent. Councilmember Imelda Padilla was absent for the vote.

Vote count: Votes will be weighted according to the assessment amount. Basically, the more you’re asked to pay yearly to maintain streetlights, the more your vote will count. Ballots received before June 2 will be tabulated by the L.A. City Clerk.

How much more money: According to a report, the amount needed in assessments from property owners to meet the repair and maintenance needs of the city’s streetlighting in the next fiscal year is nearly $112 million.

Use of the money: Sangalang said at a March 11 committee meeting that the extra funds would be used to double the number of staff to handle repairs and procure solar streetlights, which don’t face the threat of copper wire theft. That would all potentially reduce the time it takes to repair simple fixes down to a week. Currently, city residents wait for months to see broken streetlights repaired. The assessment would come with a three-year auditing mechanism.