"Name?"
"Felix."
"Age?"
"Twenty-three."
Felix sat in a conference room, face-to-face with two investigators from LASD Internal Affairs. They were here to review the shooting.
"I'm Officer Steve, this is Sam," one of them said. "This is a formal inquiry. Please briefly describe what happened."
"I was with Officer Mark on an assignment assisting Rosemead's municipal operation to clear encampments. I was talking to two tourists when I noticed the other officers rushing in one direction. I followed.
Then I saw an African-American homeless man fighting a uniformed officer. They fell to the ground. I heard the officer yell, 'He's got my gun!'
I drew my weapon and issued verbal commands. They were ignored. The officer managed to push the suspect off, but the man tried to point the gun at him. I fired to stop him. That's what happened."
Steve flipped through the file.
"The report says you fired five rounds. All hit the suspect's torso. Officer Hank was inches away, completely unharmed. That's impressive aim—for a rookie."
"I've got a knack for shooting. My training officers all said I progressed fast. The distance was close—maybe six or seven feet. And I was lucky."
"You weren't afraid he'd shoot you first?"
"I didn't think about that. I don't have much experience, like I said. In hindsight, I should've moved to his left—it would've been safer."
Steve narrowed his eyes, gaze sharpening.
"Your training file says you joined the force 'to fight evil.' Is that accurate?"
"It is."
"Then how can we be sure that belief won't push you to use excessive force to meet your own ends?"
Felix met his eyes. His voice stayed even.
"According to LASD patrol policy, when an individual exhibits violent intent or possesses deadly force, and poses a threat to officers or civilians, deputies are authorized to escalate force—after verbal commands have failed—in order to prevent greater harm.
In this incident, the suspect assaulted a sworn officer, attempted to seize a firearm, and ignored repeated commands. I fired in accordance with policy. I surrendered my weapon and gear immediately after. Multiple senior deputies were present. Their body cams captured everything.
I pulled the trigger to protect a fellow officer. I regret the loss of life—but not the decision I made."
Steve saw he wouldn't budge. No hesitation, no cracks.
He sat in silence for a moment, then asked two perfunctory follow-ups, closed his notebook, and rose to leave. Sam stood with him. The two exchanged a look.
At the door, Steve extended a hand.
Felix stood and shook it.
The grip was firm. Deliberate. But the eyes behind it were cold.
The door shut behind them. The room went quiet.
Felix remained standing, eyes resting on the half-full paper cup on the table.
A minute later, Mark and Frank pushed the door open.
"What were you talking about? Those two looked like they'd bitten a lemon."
Felix gave a short summary.
Mark raised an eyebrow. "You're not wrong. They were looking to pin something on you. But damn, you were awfully tough on them."
"If I hadn't been, I'd be a murder suspect by now."
He was calm, but he meant every word.
Better to show his spine now—there would be more shootings, more reviews. If IA thought he was easy to shake, they'd be back every time.
Let them know he wasn't soft, and they'd tread more carefully—unless they had something solid.
"Can I go back on patrol tomorrow? What about my gun?"
Mark rolled his eyes. "You kidding? It's gonna be at least three to seven days before you hear anything. And your weapon's staying in the evidence locker until this is closed. Just go buy another one. You've got the cash. Register the serial with Linda, mark it as a backup, and you're good to use it on duty."
"Got it. Lunch?"
Frank was pulling a night shift—extra pay for his family.
Mark had paperwork to file as the reporting officer.
Felix left the station alone.
He found a Korean-Chinese diner run by a local family and had a bowl of bibimbap. Afterward, he drove to the gun store.
He needed a legal firearm for patrol. His old Glock was locked away.
He started with ammo—picked up a 500-round box of Hornady 9mm FMJ for $175. Came out to about 25 cents a round.
He debated picking up a Glock 45 MOS—similar to his old Glock 19, just a bit slimmer. In the end, he went with a SIG Sauer P320 X-Five Legion.
It was a competition-grade pistol, built for performance.
Seventeen-round mag, skeletonized frame, tuned trigger—miles apart from the crude, utilitarian Glock.
Exactly what he needed.