Gun Chic and a Boy Named Jesus

Flying up here Monday, I came across a fashion story on the latest trend in post-riot L.A. Handguns, the New York Times reported, have become chic, a “fashion accessory.” The merits of various firearms, the article went on, are debated among the “smart set” with a passion formerly reserved for fine wines or plastic surgeons. A Sig Sauer 9-millimeter semiautomatic, for instance, is described by one expert in the piece as the “Rolex of guns,” while a Colt is said to offer the magic of tradition, “like a Gucci.”

The gun story interested me, for I happened to be headed here on a gun story myself. In this gun story, though, the pistol was not a bone-handled, high-powered beauty. It was a common .22-caliber revolver. The setting was not Beverly Hills, but a working class San Jose neighborhood. The shooter was not of the “smart set.” He was a 4-year-old boy named Jesus.

One year ago, his grandfather sought to greet the New Year in modern style--blazing away blindly into the night. Somehow, in all the fun and revelry, the loaded pistol was not locked away. Instead, it was left amid a pile of clothes on a bedroom floor. Later that morning, Jesus went alone into the room to dress himself. A gunshot was heard. The boy was found with one shoe off, one shoe on, and a bullet through his heart. How’s that for a fashion statement?

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In a state where gun deaths often don’t qualify as news, the shooting of Jesus Valencia achieved quick notoriety. The reason was this: At 12:01 a.m. on the day of the shooting, a new California law had taken effect. Under the Children’s Firearm Accident Protection Act, adults could be tried as criminals when recklessness with guns resulted in children getting shot. Nicolas Conchas, Jesus’ grandfather, would be the first to be prosecuted under the statute. If convicted, he faced a maximum prison term of three years.

Things did not look good at first for the immigrant house painter. It was reported that he had been drinking beer that night. It was reported, in tongue-clicking tones, that young Jesus had been given toy pistols as Christmas presents the week before. The district attorney, on filing the felony case, expressed hope it would help send “a message” and “save some kids.” Law enforcement officials and even the NRA applauded.

Conchas’ attorneys, while pressing a legal appeal, hired a media consultant and made their case in the public arena. If California wanted to make an example, they argued, Conchas was not the right man. They produced letters of support for “Grandpa Conchas,” as they called the 48-year-old family patriarch, from priests and business associates. Jesus’ mother stood beside Conchas at press conferences. “It wasn’t my dad’s fault,” she declared. “I don’t think he should go to jail.”

And, in the end, he won’t. A Municipal Court judge declared last month that Conchas was not the sort of person for whom the law was intended, and he reduced the charge to a misdemeanor. The defendant pleaded guilty, short-circuiting any court tests of the law. Conchas, though, was ordered to begin telling his story of guns and their consequences to reporters, and thus to the public--a media age version of the stocks.

“I’ve been on 48, 14, 8 in Salinas, and 7 in San Francisco,” Conchas was saying Monday with what seemed a mixture of pride and weariness. Conchas, a short man with ruddy cheeks and a fine smile, had come from work and his sneakers were covered with paint. We started with small talk--his brother lives a few blocks from me, it turns out--and moved gradually to what his attorney called “the message.”

“Don’t use guns,” Conchas said.

“Secure them around children.”

“Celebrate with food and music, not firearms.”

He spoke, too, of pain and of loss, of how much he loved the boy and misses him, but really there wasn’t a whole lot to be said, and I asked for directions to the cemetery.

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It is important to remember--you purveyors of gun fashion--that Grandpa Conchas was not the victim in this case. Since the shooting, he has lost 30 pounds, lost his health, his hair and, say his friends, his sense of humor. There was no Christmas in the Conchas house this year, no New Year’s. It is easy to feel sorry for the man.

The true victim, though, won’t be heard from here, or on 48, or 14, or even 8 in Salinas. He can be found in the Mission City cemetery, in an unmarked grave that by now has settled down almost even to the grass. Jesus is buried in the cemetery’s “Children’s Garden,” and in tribute to the season the little graves around his Monday were decorated with Christmas trees, Santa Claus balloons and green and red pinwheels that spun furiously in the January wind. It was a sad, almost maudlin, scene, and in a way melancholy and sweet. What it was not, though, was chic.