Daniel’s Song : His life was full of high notes. Those who knew him wonder why that sweet singing had to end so early.

Footsteps no longer thump across the floor when the ice cream truck jingles, the telephone jangles or when Henry Isaac swings open the door as he returns home from work. Life has a different sound now. The house seems empty without footsteps.

The death of his grandson, Daniel Christopher Raggette, brought besetting silence to the lives of family and friends. Late at night, while Daniel’s mother lies awake in bed, she no longer hears his snoring emanating from the tiny bed next to hers in the room they shared since his birth; no more sighs or tossing about. Who would have thought that footsteps and snores could be music? But from the sudden silence in her life, Andrea Raggette, 31, has come to think of Daniel’s life as a song--sweetly sung, filled with high notes, abruptly ended.

“I feel very lost,” she says in a soft, weary voice. “I don’t know what my purpose in life is anymore. I don’t know where to go, where to turn. . . . I have buried my son and saw to it that he had a proper burial. I have prayed that the Lord would come and get me also.”

The two lived with Andrea’s parents, Marie and Henry Isaac, in a small house on a quiet street in Leimert Park. Daniel was her only child.

In many ways, Daniel was old beyond his years. He enjoyed being around adults, having grown-up discussions, playing dominoes or poker for chips with his “Papa”--as he called his grandfather.

He would warn Papa that too much hot sauce wasn’t good for his high blood pressure. “You eat your dinner, and I’ll eat mine,” Henry Isaac would tell him.

“OK,” Daniel would reply. “Just don’t use so much.”

He was a serious little guy, a perfectionist. When vacuuming, he would go over the same spot again and again, attacking the smallest crumb, until finally told to put the vacuum cleaner away. He performed housework without being told.

Sometimes adults had to remind themselves that he was a child, delighted by the adventures of Power Rangers and still young enough to cling to a tentative, hopeful belief in Santa.

His final day was like many others in his life, custom-made for a little boy. His mother and grandmother, “Nana,” were taking him to buy tickets for the circus, price decorations for the Isaacs’ upcoming 25th wedding anniversary and exchange a toy given to him as a gift.

They went to the Sports Arena first and bought circus tickets--front row, center. Daniel said he hoped the clowns would see him in the stands and choose him to be a part of their raucous, baggy-pants antics.

He asked his mother if she would take him over to the Coliseum, where he had seen his beloved Raiders play so often on television. Andrea drove into the parking lot, allowing him to peer through the gates. As they drove, he mourned the Raiders’ departure from Los Angeles. It was in those simple terms that he understood life’s injustice.

They arrived at the balloon shop on Vermont near 55th Street, where two weeks earlier they had bought decorations for his kindergarten graduation party. Daniel was trying to explain to Nana the difference between aqua and teal, the darker of which he contended would be a perfect match for the planned decor.

“Are you colorblind, Nana?” he asked.

“Maybe I am,” she said. They both laughed.

It was the day before the Fourth of July. The gunshots sounded like firecrackers as they sliced through the dark, tinted glass of the store, blindly stealing life. And footsteps.

Daniel Raggette was only 6 years old.

A Life of Fun Days

A special child who had touched many lives.

Andrea Raggette says she had heard that line often as a description of children caught up in tragedy. It was a fitting portrait of Daniel.

Something more inviting than his sparkling eyes and soft features drew people to her son. It was an indescribable quality that sometimes scared her. Strangers would approach and ask to touch him. It wouldn’t bother her when they merely shook his hand or even touched his cheek, but it went beyond that.

“Some people would come up to us and ask if they could touch his heart,” she says. “It would scare me. My heart would fall like a roller coaster whenever that happened. I didn’t understand why they would want to do that.”

Others saw it too. They say there was just something about Danny.

In dark moments, Andrea feared Daniel would be taken from her at an early age. She attributed her feelings to being a first-time mother in a world that could be frightening. When such feelings came, she beseeched God to not take him now. Not yet.

She made each birthday a huge celebration, renting tables and chairs and hiring clowns. Occasionally, she kept him home from kindergarten for “fun days” so the two of them could spend time with each other.

From his first breath to his last, Daniel made a deep, lasting impression. During the final stages of Andrea’s pregnancy, her stepfather, Henry Isaac, slept with his shoes next to the bed, always prepared to rush her to the hospital. He has no children of his own.

The first time he held Daniel, he thanked God.

‘A Very Deep Valley’

Officer Paul Clements, 43, didn’t meet Daniel until the youngster was struggling for breath.

A 20-year veteran with the Los Angeles Police Department, he was partnered with Officer James Jeffreys, a former lifeguard who had been a cop only three months, when they passed the balloon shop on the afternoon of July 3. They were about to get off duty and were responding to a firecracker complaint when they heard gunfire.

They immediately made a U-turn and saw a crowd gathering in the small strip mall. When Jeffreys saw Daniel lying face down on the blue-gray carpet, he quickly weighed the alternatives.

He knew that he should put on gloves and a one-way mask to protect him from diseases that could be transmitted by blood, diseases like the virus that causes AIDS. He knew that he could have focused on controlling the crime scene, waited for rescue workers; but there wasn’t time. Too much blood already had spilled from Daniel’s 64-pound body.

“I knew it had just occurred so the chances of helping him and being successful were relatively high,” Jeffreys says.

“I didn’t see any other options. . . . There were relatives at the scene. They were looking at us for help. I don’t know--looking back--if I could live with myself if I had stood there explaining to them that the Fire Department was on the way and should be there any minute when there was a child there not breathing, knowing that I had training and could have assisted the child.”

Clements and Jeffreys carefully turned Daniel over and saw the paleness in his face, the glaze of his eyes. They couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from, how many times he had been shot. They didn’t know the bullet had struck Daniel in the neck and severed his jugular vein. Jeffreys performed rescue breathing and was soon covered with blood.

After puffing a couple breaths into Daniel’s mouth, the color started coming back to his lips.

“The little guy was a fighter,” Jeffreys says. “He never gave up.”

But it was a struggle Daniel couldn’t win.

There are some lessons that can’t be taught at the academy, and on July 3, being a cop took on new meaning for the 25-year-old Jeffreys. The gunshots, the fear, the adrenaline, the blood. For the first time, it became brutally real. He could see it and feel it.

“The blood,” he says, “it was so warm.”

Jeffreys must have monthly blood tests for one year as a precautionary measure.

Clements sought counseling after the incident, unable to let go of those seconds and minutes that ran like a film loop in his mind. If only he could have gotten there sooner, if only he would have seen a hint of what was to occur as they passed by the balloon shop seconds before. It was four or five days before he could finally open up and discuss details of the shooting with his family.

“There are peaks and valleys in this line of work,” he says. “This was definitely a valley, a very deep valley.”

Daniel’s final breath came at County-USC Medical Center.

Stolen Dreams

Dr. David Wagner, 36, was one of about 10 doctors who worked for about two hours trying to save Daniel. Each time his heart stopped beating, they were able to bring it back until finally it was gone forever.

“When it was all over, I remember watching them remove him from the gurney and thinking, here’s a young child that had gotten up in the morning thinking it was going to be just another day. Then in a matter of seconds, all his dreams and aspirations were taken from him in one senseless act.”

They come to the ER in all shapes and sizes, all colors and ages. The ones that really affect Wagner are the children.

“Dealing with trauma is difficult enough,” he says. “But when it involves a young child like that, it really gets to you.”

Wagner doesn’t usually take his problems home with him, but that night he told his wife about Daniel.

“You have to detach yourself from your emotions while you’re working so you can do what you have to do,” he says. “But when it’s all over, it sinks in. If I ever stop feeling that, I’ll know it’s time to move on.”

*

Andrea suffered three minor bullet wounds during the shooting. When she arrived by ambulance at the hospital, she immediately asked for a priest to be with Daniel. Shortly after she was brought back to the emergency room after having X-rays taken, doctors told her that they were unable to save her son. She went and kissed him goodby.

Her first impression of Daniel’s death was his stillness. “Even when he slept,” she says, “he was never that still.”

She whispered to him that he was too good for this world, that she would always love him. And to rest well.

A Church Says Farewell

Daniel’s first funeral was his own. He was dressed in the navy blue suit he often wore to church. He always insisted on wearing a suit to Mass, just like Oscar Pratt, the choir director at Transfiguration Catholic Church in Leimert Park.

It was about three years ago that Pratt, while directing the gospel group during Mass, saw a choir member trying to get his attention and pointing toward the congregation.

Pratt glanced over his shoulder and saw Daniel standing in the pews mimicking his movements. Each Sunday it was the same, and a year later, Daniel had mastered Pratt’s every move to every hymn. Andrea started sitting in back of the church with her son, concerned that Daniel was disturbing other parishioners.

Eventually Pratt started inviting Daniel to the altar to help conduct the final song of Mass. Sometimes Pratt would let Daniel--who was developing his own style--take over. It became a part of the service.

“Everything kids do is cute,” Pratt says, “but this went way beyond cute. Daniel had a gift, and that’s what we shared. I always assumed that someday he would take over the choir for me.”

The day of Daniel’s funeral, Pratt stood alone in front of the choir, and in his rich, deep voice sang “God Is,” not sure whether the knot of grief and anger would leave his throat long enough for him to get through the solo.

“I didn’t really understand why people before would say something like, ‘I’m leaving this town,’ ” Pratt says. “Not that I’m going anywhere, but when I heard about Daniel, I understood for the first time why they would say that.”

A Boy and His Teddy Bears

Daniel was enrolled at Transfiguration’s preschool, where Pratt is principal, but when he discovered that the school had no caps and gowns at graduation, he persuaded his mother to have him transferred to Divine Providence kindergarten.

The cap and gown symbolized something important to Daniel. For years he talked about it with anticipation. The week before the June 17 ceremony, the rain fell steadily. Andrea had invited 80 people to the house to celebrate and was worried about where she would put them if it rained.

“Don’t worry Mommy,” Daniel said, “The Lord won’t let it rain on such a special day.”

He turned out to be right. It was a sunny day. They went to the ceremony and Daniel took gifts to two fellow graduates. One of them was 6-year-old Jessica Ventura.

“He was a special friend for me,” Jessica says. “He even gave me a Teddy Bear for my graduation, a little one with a cap and gown. . . . When I gave him a hug, he said, ‘Wait till my friends hear about this.’ ”

She named the bear Daniel. Jessica says she understands that her friend is gone, that he was killed. He is somewhere else now, she says, touching her chest. “He’s in my heart, and he’s in heaven.”

For Father’s Day, Daniel gave his godfather, Brian Raphael, a card with two bears on it--a big bear with a little bear perched on its shoulder.

“You know what?” Daniel asked.

“What?” Raphael replied.

“That’s me on your shoulder. I’m the little bear.”

That was the last time Raphael, 22, saw Daniel. A constant reminder of Daniel is a hoop earring that the little bear gave him as a gift that day. The other earring was buried with Daniel.

While Daniel had the face of a teddy bear, he had an insatiable competitive drive. He could beat adults fair and square in dominoes, and he would often take older cousin Michael Franklin to the cleaners on the back-yard basketball court.

“He had a burning fire,” says Franklin, 36. “When he lost, he’d want to play again. He didn’t play to play, he played to win. When he’d finally beat me, I’d say, ‘We done now?’ and he’d say, ‘Yeah, we done.’ He would play you until he wore you down.”

Daniel also played the role of referee, peacemaker. He was bothered by squabbles no matter how minor they were. “If he knew there was an argument going on in the house, he would tell you to make up with the other person,” Marie Isaac says. “He wouldn’t let you go on being mad at somebody.”

And if he saw you were troubled, he would offer comfort. He was the one who told the adults that things were going to work out. For the most part, he was right.

‘I Was Always Danny’s Mom’

The days only get longer and more difficult for Andrea Raggette. She wakes up in the morning and the thud of reality, worse than any nightmare, slams hard against her heart.

She sees Daniel’s empty bed, his clothes and toys. Each day, she relives his death. One day, she hopes to study respiratory therapy, but her life was so intertwined with Daniel’s that it almost seems as if the same bullet killed both of them.

“I don’t know what to do with my life. I have no purpose. I was always Danny’s mom. That was my purpose, and now I don’t know what to do.”

She thinks about David Williams, 19, the man arrested for killing her son. Police believe Williams is a gang member who was acting on instructions from another man to fire at the store.

“I want this person to get justice and hopefully be taught something, learn something, learn the value of life so he doesn’t hurt anyone else.”

She sees Daniel in every child, and has this message to parents: “Don’t take children for granted. Give them a sense of love and a sense of worth.”

Daniel was a member of the St. Brigid Catholic Church New Generation Choir, and on Aug. 6, the group dedicated its annual concert performance to Daniel, whose soprano voice once flowed from the front row.

Keisha Johnson, 18, and Tobi Lankford, 17--who have lost other friends to violent death--remembered Daniel in a poem, which they read just before the performance:

I wish I could say, rest in peace, my friend

But in my mind Daniel will have to die, over and over again.

Though they caught one, there are thousands more ready with guns

The battle of children killing children is far from being won.

“It just seems like it’s never going to end,” Tobi says.

Young people keep dying, their footsteps silenced.