Still, just a week after being shot, Eric -- a local rapper who goes by the name of Atak -- limped on crutches up to the mike at a battle-of-the-bands contest at Cervantes' Masterpiece Ballroom and rapped for the crowd through his clenched jaw. Most of the people in the audience knew what had happened to him in LoDo, and they absolutely lost it.
"They have a videotape of it," Eric says. "And the camera just starts shaking when I get on stage from the roar of the crowd."
Jim J. Narcy
A night out landed Rich Velarde in a wheelchair.
Jim J. Narcy
Eric Johanson was shot twice in this parking lot.
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But the moments of triumph are few and far between. Eric knows he's probably going to need speech therapy, and he's not sure if his voice is ever going to sound right. Of more concern is the weakened state of his left leg. It may impact his work as a painter, the trade that's supported him for the past eight years, since he will probably be incapable of scaling ladders or walking on roofs. And the bills are piling up. With no health insurance, Eric is juggling Medicare and victim's assistance with overdue rent and the numerous costs associated with his recovery. A benefit after the shooting netted about $900, but that doesn't last long when you have two children to support.
Things have been particularly hard for Eric and Rich's children. Eric's four-year-old son has taken to drawing menacing pictures of criminals with guns, then violently scratching out their faces. "He told me when he gets older he's going to get shot by the same guy who shot me," Eric says. "He's scared."
Rich's twelve-year-old stepson, Carlos, has been acting out at school; at a benefit for Rich shortly after the shooting, Carlos stayed uncharacteristically glued to his side. Mia repeatedly asks to live exclusively with her father now -- Rich is separated from Carlos and Mia's mother -- and recently delivered a heart-wrenching prayer over Christmas dinner. She was supposed to give thanks on Thanksgiving, but that was understandably tabled until December 25.
"We said to her, 'Okay, Mia, this is your chance,'" Jody recounts. "And she grabbed her daddy's two hands and she did everything right. She thanked God for the food, and then she said, 'Dear God, thank you for my dad being here. I don't care if his legs don't work; it's okay for people to be in wheelchairs.' We had to cut her short and just say amen, because it was getting way too emotional in there, and everyone was about to lose it. But that's what I remind Richard of now. When we get so bogged down with things like figuring out how to make his house accessible, when he worries about how he's going to make a living from now on, I just say to him, 'All that matters is that you're here. You're going to see your daughter grow. You can still hold her; you can still guide her.'"
Mid-morning on one of the last days of 2005, Rich is undergoing physical therapy, lying on a pad in Craig's therapy room, a large space where sports-team banners hang from the ceiling. While Jody and Butch watch, Mia, in pink shoes and a Tommy Girl shirt, sprawls on top of her father as a physical therapist pushes his leg inward, then pulls it outward, carefully bending it at the knee.
Rich has moved to an area at Craig where recovering patients inhabit transitional suites -- single apartment-type spaces -- to further their journey toward self-sufficiency. Rich is not quite there yet and must still undergo extensive physical therapy across the street, but his progress has been impressive. And he's taken himself off of the painkillers and anti-depressants, enduring the pain on ibuprofen alone.
His competitive nature drives him. In an impromptu wheelchair race with two other patients, Rich nearly blew a gasket flying around the course. Huffing and puffing, he finished a close third -- and a few minutes later realized that a wheel had been flat the entire time.
Rich eagerly anticipates his gym-class sessions, when patients play basketball and a less intense version of murderball -- wheelchair rugby -- in Craig's gymnasium, beneath the type of large, exposed heating ducts Rich used to install.
"He was always a good athlete," says Butch.
"And he always had one eye on the sideline, making sure we were watching," Jody adds before silencing Mia, who's whirling like a dervish next to her father. Rich just watches her and smiles.
The physical therapist positions Rich so that he's seated on the edge of the padded platform, with his back straight and his feet touching the floor. It's difficult for him to balance, so the therapist sits opposite him on a stool, places her feet against his and helps stabilize him with her knees. Rich leans forward slightly, meets the therapist's hands with his own, then leans backward, attempting to resume the position in which he started. This is one of Rich's most challenging exercises and he sweats and exhales from the exertion, his face contorting in pain.
The physical therapist soon surrenders the stool to Jody, coaching her on where to put her feet in order to help prop up Rich. (To expedite his recovery, Rich will voluntarily repeat all of these exercises tonight, alone in the therapy gym with his mother.) Jody puts up her hands, and Rich leans forward and meets them with his own. As Rich begins to lean back, toward his original position, Jody gives his hands a slight push to help.
"Like that?" she asks, turning her head toward the physical therapist.
"No, Mom," Rich interjects. "You barely have to touch me."
