Between a little church and a nursing home with a bright, happy mural painted on its side is a residential section of Capp Street that looks idyllic. At 3 o'clock on ordinary weekday afternoons, you might see kids walking home from school past nicely kept Victorian flats, as the mail carrier chats with customers at the corner dry cleaner.

On this Monday in January, however, Roberto Ortega turns his Toyota Corolla onto Capp Street and sees three young men in red and black jackets walking down the middle of the road. Roberto knows red and black are gang colors, because he's in a gang. But he's wearing blue and white — Sureno colors — and the guys in the street are Nortenos.

Roberto slows his car, rolls down the window, and drives alongside the three Nortenos.

“Chapetes!” he taunts, using a word that means “red-faced” or “scared” in Spanish. It is the Surenos' favorite slur against Nortenos.

“Scrapas!” the Nortenos shout back. For them, Surenos are “scraps” at the bottom of the human barrel.

Roberto continues to drive slowly next to the Nortenos, keeping to their walking pace as they head down Capp, past the Seventh-day Adventist church and toward 21st Street. Roberto's girlfriend, Anna, is riding with him, but he continues to engage the Nortenos. He reaches for a metal pipe under his seat and waves it at them.

One of the Nortenos pulls a gun.

Just as Roberto begins to flinch and turn toward Anna, the Norteno fires five shots. At least one hits the back of Roberto's head.

Anna screams. Roberto slumps over the steering wheel. The blue Toyota lurches forward, crosses the street, and crashes into a Datsun parked on the other side.

Neighbors chatting on the sidewalk are stunned by what just happened in front of them. Others hear the gunfire, run to their bay windows, then call 911. As the Nortenos scatter, Roberto's seat belt holds his bloody, seemingly lifeless 19-year-old body in place in his car, and sirens begin to wail across the Mission District.

Roberto's best friend, Danny, is on his way to the Sureno hangout in front of Taqueria Can-Cun near Mission and 19th streets when he learns of the shooting. Some are claiming Roberto didn't die instantly, but is clinging to life-support. There's no way to confirm whether this is true. So Danny and the crew simultaneously pray for Roberto, and plot revenge.

About the same time, Paulo, one of the Mission District's top gang leaders, gets a page and is told about the attack. The date — Jan. 4 — is significant: Exactly one year ago to the day, a Norteno gunned down one of Paulo's closest friends, Marvin Garcia. On this anniversary, the Nortenos have fatally struck again. Something must be done.

“If they snatch one dog from us, we snatch 10 cats from them,” is how Paulo describes the gang code. “They kill one of us, we kill 10 of them.”

There is a no man's land in the war between the Mission District's two reigning Latin gangs. In what seems to be a linguistic anomaly, the Surenos — “Southerners,” or those who are recent Mexican and Central American immigrants — claim the northern area of the Mission. And the Nortenos — “Northerners,” or young Latinos born in this country — hold the southern segment.

Only a few blocks separate established turf: 19th Street is firmly held by the Surenos, while 24th Street is deep in Norteno territory. And then there are the unclaimed streets between the two gangs, including 21st, where Roberto and his rivals clashed.

These two gangs are actually alliances of many gangs. They fight not so much over pride of their claimed neighborhoods, but to protect the drug deals and clientele at each street corner they annex. While the intensity of the war goes in cycles, the fight has been almost perpetual. Right now, there is an escalation, aggravated by incidents that include the Capp Street shooting.

In the week following Roberto Ortega's death, no man's land is not a good place to be.

At Roberto Ortega's wake, dozens and dozens of Surenos file past his casket, all wearing their blue and white colors. Roberto's father finds nothing touching about their presence; it is an ugly reminder of what killed his son.

“You learn from this!” he lashes out, yelling at the gangsters in Spanish. The father is alone in a room filled with Surenos. His wife remained at home, beside herself. His other son, Roberto's older brother, is at the wake.

But he's a Sureno, too.

Many of the gangsters — just teenagers — openly cry when they approach Roberto's casket. His best friend, Danny, is just 16, and still very much a boy; despite the hint of shadowy peach fuzz over his upper lip, he hasn't quite lost all his baby fat. Danny's cherubic smile, tussled locks of dark, curly hair, and wide brown eyes have yet to give way to the hardened look of many of his gangster friends who are just a few years older. Danny can't believe what he sees in Roberto's casket is real.

“I've never seen him that way, with his eyes closed,” Danny says. “I've only seen him happy; smoking weed and cruising around.”

The young Surenos are sad, but they also seethe with anger. The rebuke from Roberto's father goes unheeded. “He was cool. He was a nice guy. I was hanging with him every day, and now he won't be with us anymore,” Danny says. “They killed one of ours. We can't just let that go.”

The days following Roberto's death are ugly.

Mourning Surenos lay flowers, light candles, and leave notes at the spot on Capp Street where Roberto was shot. But it isn't long before Nortenos destroy the makeshift memorial, stomping and then urinating on the display. Nothing remains but cooled streams of candle wax on the sidewalk. [page]

“We have hate on each other,” Danny says when asked about the Nortenos' cruel act. “It's just hate.”

Hate fuels retaliation, and counterretaliation. On Friday night, four days after Roberto is killed, a car full of Surenos drives through Norteno territory; they shoot a Norteno walking down Potrero Avenue between 23rd and 24th streets. The bullet hits the Norteno in his left shoulder and exits through his back.

Two hours later, a red Jeep filled with four Nortenos heads for Sureno turf. Danny is standing at Mission and 18th streets with his friends when the Jeep stops and three Nortenos jump out.

“Who should I kill?” one Norteno yells, brandishing a .22-caliber pistol. Danny and his Sureno friends run toward Capp Street and around the block, but the Norteno with the gun goes around the block in the other direction and heads them off. Danny watches as the Norteno shoots his friend Glenn in the stomach.

Police try to keep on top of each quickly unfolding incident. Uniformed officers stop the red Jeep on Mission Street when the driver makes an illegal U-turn to pick up his Norteno buddies still on the sidewalk, harassing Surenos. Police call in more units when a brawl erupts on the sidewalk after a Sureno girlfriend slaps a Norteno, and the Norteno hits her back.

Then gunshots are heard a block away on Capp Street. A plainclothes gang officer, Mario, responds to the shooting and finds Glenn wounded. Danny tells the officer about the red Jeep and the Nortenos; the officer radios back to the officers at the Mission Street traffic stop to hold the suspects. Glenn is bleeding profusely as Mario calls for an ambulance.

“I don't want to die, I don't want to die,” Glenn cries as Mario rides with him to the hospital. It happens to be Glenn's 21st birthday.

“Hang on, you'll make it,” Mario says first, trying to calm Glenn. Then, remembering that Glenn is fighting a stolen car charge, the gang officer resorts to humor. “Hey, you can't die,” he tells the young gangbanger. “You've got a court date you have to go to with me.”

Glenn is more critically wounded than the Norteno, who was shot in the shoulder. The Norteno is treated and released from San Francisco General, but Glenn shows up at the same emergency room and is rushed to surgery.

It's touch and go, but he survives.

With the death of Roberto and the critical shooting of Glenn, along with Marvin Garcia's shooting death exactly a year ago, the Nortenos would seem to hold the upper hand in the latest escalation of the Mission gang war. But Danny begs to differ.

“We already got a Norteno for Marvin,” he says. “Now it's about Roberto.”

The Norteno supposedly killed in retaliation for Marvin's death is 19-year-old Angel Serrano, who was shot in a drive-by last September at the corner of Potrero and 25th by Surenos wielding a semiautomatic handgun.

“He was shot in the heart and died instantly. He was standing in front of the phones,” Danny says. “But my friends who did it got caught, and they're in jail.”

The Nortenos who killed Marvin Garcia and Roberto Ortega, however, remain free as police continue to investigate.

The notion that the Nortenos could be getting away with more than the Surenos does not faze Danny.

“This is not about winning,” he says. “It's just if you have a chance to take someone out, you take the chance. Because if you don't do it, they will first.”

Danny has to worry about more than revenge-seeking Nortenos. There is a faction within his own Sureno gang that is out to get him, too. The Mission gang war is not as simple as Nortenos vs. Surenos, or red vs. blue. But there is organization within the madness.

Under the Norteno umbrella, there are a half-dozen or more groups that claim the color red and number 14. (“N” for “Norteno” is the 14th letter of the alphabet.)

Like General Motors, there is a division for everyone. There is the “LNS” group (Locos North Side), which is a training gang for youngsters ages 12 to 17. The “SFM” group (San Francisco Mission) is for the older Nortenos — the “OG's,” or “original gangsters” — who have made it to their mid-20s or early 30s without being killed or incarcerated long-term. And then there is the “22B” crew, the most elite and violent Norteno division, composed of gangsters in their prime. The 22B crew was named for its initial territory — 22nd and Bryant — but has expanded to 24th and Alabama streets now.

Most Nortenos were born in the United States. As a rule, they look down on immigrants, are highly Americanized, and speak English as a first language. All the Norteno subdivisions get along and coexist down a long stretch of 24th Street in the Mission. Their common enemy is the Surenos, mostly Spanish-speaking immigrants.

The Surenos, however, do not all get along.

Though many Surenos and Nortenos share a Mexican heritage, the immigrant Surenos include a large number of El Salvadoran natives. At first, the Surenos welcomed the Salvadorans as fellow immigrants, but a Sureno civil war has been raging for two years, ever since one Sureno killed another.

In the early 1990s, a few Salvadorans decided to form their own Sureno subdivision as a way of asserting national pride. No one begrudged the Salvadorans their new “MS” group (Mara Salvatrucha, or “Salvadoran gang”). The Mexican and Salvadoran Surenos continued to use the same color (blue) and even the same number (13). For the original Surenos, 13 symbolizes the letter “M” and stands for “Mexican Mafia.” For the Salvadorans, the 13th letter of the alphabet could just as well refer to their new MS moniker.

The two Sureno divisions were united against the Nortenos until November 1996, when Jose Quezada, a 22-year-old Sureno, was shot and killed by an MS Sureno. Danny remembers the incident. He was just 14, but he looked up to Quezada — nicknamed “Quesadilla” — like a big brother. [page]

“It was my friend's fault, he did something to make the MS mad — it was over something stupid, like a girl,” Danny recalls.

Paulo, who helped found the MS group, says the fight in Woodward Alley, near Mission and 14th streets, actually centered on the ownership of a pair of shoes. “Yeah, that's right, and they let the whole clip on him,” Danny says. “He got shot 17 times for nothing.”

Paulo has fond memories of the days when the Surenos got along, before the split-up — the “misunderstanding,” he calls it — but knows they can never go back to those good times.

“We used to hang around, drink up, smoke, and kick it,” Paulo says. “But now it's not about shoes anymore. It's about 'You killed my homie,' so it's about revenge.”

On the Monday afternoon when Roberto Ortega is killed, Paulo gets a page. He doesn't really care about Roberto, who is an original Sureno, and, therefore, part of the new enemy to Paulo's MS gang. What he wants to know is if an MS did the shooting, or a Norteno. If it's a Norteno, Paulo cares. To the Nortenos, all Surenos are the same, and any Sureno could be in jeopardy if they don't strike back against a Norteno incursion. Paulo also knows that exactly one year ago, his best friend — an MS — was gunned down by the Nortenos, and it looks like they've done an anniversary killing. For the moment, the Sureno civil war shouldn't matter as much as trying to stave off the greater Norteno enemy.

But in a gang war run by 20-year-old generals, strategy is never that simple. Despite the Norteno attacks, the two Sureno groups continue to target each other. Just weeks after Glenn is shot in the stomach by a Norteno, the Sureno is jumped and stabbed at the corner of 20th and Mission streets — attacked, this time, by MS gang members. Again, Glenn is rushed to San Francisco General, now suffering multiple stab wounds to the right and left sides of his body.

“It's kind of crazy right now,” Paulo says. “Surenos against Surenos, plus the Nortenos coming down for all of us. On any block, we're killing each other. We have to watch our backs everywhere.”

Mario and Andy are watching, too. They are the plainclothes police officers who cruise the Mission every night in an unmarked car, trying to keep tabs on the district's estimated 700 to 800 Latin gang members.

Part of the job is to get to know the kids, see who's out and wearing what. So the officers spend a fair amount of time stopping and talking to gang members they've arrested before. If a crime happens late in the evening, there's a good chance Mario and Andy will have an idea of where to look for the suspects, based on the officers' contacts and observations earlier that night. And it's not unusual for the two cops to stumble onto a crime in progress as they roam the Mission's streets.

“It used to be bottles [as weapons], but now it has progressed to handguns and even Uzis,” says Mario, who has been working the gang beat with Andy for nearly five years.

A month after Roberto Ortega's killing, the retaliation drive-bys and stabbings continue. But Mario and Andy are hoping for a quiet Saturday night. It's early February and raining, and rain, Mario and Andy have found, is the only sure way to get gangsters off the streets.

It's 4 p.m., and the officers begin their 10-hour shift at the Mission Police Station, on Valencia and 17th streets. They'll drive around gang neighborhoods until 2 the next morning, but first they put on bulletproof vests under their street clothes and load their guns.

Both officers are beefy, in their early 30s, and Latino. Mario wears jeans, a black hooded sweat shirt, and a blue parka. He also puts on a red 49ers cap.

“I'm a Norteno and a Sureno today,” Mario jokes. Nortenos like San Francisco Giants and 49ers apparel; Surenos prefer the blues of Dallas Cowboys and Seattle Seahawks clothing.

Andy wears faded Levi's, a light-blue parka, and a black cap with a red skateboarding logo. If not for the dark, bushy mustache that extends to his chin, he could pass for a young gang member. Clean-shaven Mario has an even more boyish face, with a dimpled smile.

Andy takes a shotgun from the station and puts it in the trunk of the white Chevy Caprice they will drive. Both officers carry concealed handguns under their parkas. The unmarked car, used for surveillance and driven around the Mission for hours on end, is a mess. Empty water bottles, ticket books, food wrappers, and cigarette packs litter the seat and floor.

The Caprice moves slowly down Mission Street, close to the curb, as Mario looks out the passenger window to see who's hanging out on the sidewalk. Andy drives. No one is fooling anyone. Everyone on the street knows who Mario and Andy are. The white Caprice might as well be a white elephant.

“They see us a block away,” Mario says. “This is what the city gives us; it's either this or walk.”

Actually, Mario and Andy want to be seen. Their presence helps keep order. The officers know the gang members well, and by wearing street clothes — and to some extent, by being Latino — Mario and Andy are able to identify with the gangsters and build a rapport.

“Every contact is not a negative one,” Andy says. “We'll shake them down for weapons and drugs, but there's always a social element to the encounter.” [page]

“Yeah, it's like baby-sitting, that's what it is,” Mario says.

The gangsters all know Mario and Andy by first name, but not last. Despite the outward friendliness, the cops realize they are viewed as the enemy. Their badges are hidden, and for good reason. Both have received death threats on the job.

“They'll look at you in the face and be like your best friend,” Andy says, “and then shoot you in a heartbeat.”

Ethnicity is sometimes used against the officers; many gangsters see them not as authority figures, but as Latino sellouts. “They say we're not real Latinos when we arrest them,” Andy says. “But I tell them, 'Don't throw that shit in my face — that I don't know what it's like to be Latino or an immigrant — because I've been there.' I throw it right back at them.”

Andy was born in Cuba and came to San Francisco as a child. Mario arrived from El Salvador as a teenager. They have lived in and around the Mission most of their lives.

“Both our families started from nothing,” Andy says. “Growing up, we were exposed to the same things as these kids.”

Mario and Andy are well aware of the typical hardships an immigrant Sureno faces: language barriers, cultural isolation, assimilation anxiety, and unstable homes where parents — up against the same barriers and isolation — are often in no position to help their kids adapt. Sometimes, parents end up coping through substance or physical abuse. Or, the parents are simply absent, working multiple odd jobs trying to make ends meet.

These scenarios create fertile ground for gangs; scared, unsupervised kids looking for acceptance often find it in gangs, and the easy money drugs can bring.

“When I tell a group on the corner to go home, 'home' for the Sureno kids is not a place where they want to be,” Andy says. “They've got two or three families sharing the same space. It's not like 'home' for us, where you can kick back and relax.”

But Andy draws the sympathy line at Nortenos, many of whom are second- or third-generation Mexican-Americans and don't even live in the Mission, but in middle-class homes in Ingleside, Daly City, and Pacifica. They go to private Catholic schools, drive good cars, wear the latest fashions, and sport flashy jewelry. They are bored and restless, and drive into the Mission to make money on drugs and cause trouble. Then they drive home, to their own bedrooms and moms who cook hot meals.

“There's really no excuse, especially for the kids born here — they already have the extra chance that I didn't have,” Andy says.

At 19th and Mission, Mario sees two familiar faces walking toward Taqueria Can-Cun, a known Sureno hangout. “Hey, come here,” Mario yells from the car. Andy pulls to the curb.

“What's up?” Mario asks as he gets out and approaches the two Surenos.

It's Danny and Glenn.

They outstretch their arms so Mario can pat down their blue and white windbreakers. They open their mouths and raise their tongues for Mario to look inside for any swallowable packs of drugs. He asks how they've been. Just a few weeks ago, Mario was rushing Glenn to the hospital with a gunshot wound to the stomach.

“Three days later, he's back on the corner drinking beer,” Mario says, shaking his head as he wanders back toward the undercover car. “Today's victim, tomorrow's suspect.”

In a matter of days, Glenn will be rushed to the hospital again, this time from a stabbing that happens not far from where he is standing. Tonight, though, Danny and Glenn are clean, on their way to a party. So Mario gets back in the car and Andy drives around the corner toward Valencia Street.

Passing by a laundromat, the officers notice a group of Surenos standing in front of a brick wall. “Hey, move out of there,” Andy yells from the car. “Right now! You make me get out of the car, and you'll get a ticket.”

“We just don't want them to get shot,” says Mario. “They're a perfect target up against that wall. Nowhere to run.”

“They don't care if they're targets,” Andy says. “But I do. If they get shot at, the bullets are going to spray, and chances are someone innocent will get hit.”

A few blocks later, the officers drive by some young women talking to a group of Surenos. They are the girlfriends, and often just as active in the gang business as the boys. The gangsters use the girls to carry weapons and drugs.

“They figure the cops won't frisk them and that we only target the boys,” Mario says.

But with the girlfriends added to the mix, more innocent lives are put at risk.

“One of my biggest pet peeves is when I see the girls rolling strollers right through the gang turf, with their little babies dressed in Dallas Cowboys clothes,” Andy says.

Turning onto 20th Street, the officers spot a white, late-model Honda Prelude. They know the owner. A court has ordered him to stay away from the Mission; Andy turns on a red light affixed behind the rearview mirror and blows a siren. The Honda pulls over, and Andy walks toward the car, opening up his parka to expose his gun. Mario radios for backup.

The Honda's windows are tinted and Andy can't be sure who's inside, but his suspicions are quickly realized. It's Paulo, one of the founders of the Sureno's MS division.

Paulo, wearing a Dallas Cowboys jacket and a blue knit cap, lumbers out of the car. He's a big guy who's been in and out of jail on a variety of charges, and had plenty of time to bulk up in the jailhouse weight room. Paulo shot and nearly killed a Norteno near the McDonald's at Mission and 24th streets, and Mario arrested him for it. Mario knows Paulo well. [page]

“He's a big player,” Mario says.

“He's a shit-disturber,” Andy says. “He gets people riled up.”

With a black-and-white cruiser and two uniformed officers now on the scene, Mario and Andy begin searching Paulo's car.

“Got any drugs or guns?” Mario asks.

“No, I make sure he's clean before I let him get in my car,” Paulo says, pointing to his passenger, another MS leader.

“Well, that's the smartest thing I've heard all day,” Andy says, laughing.

Mario and Andy poke around the car and sniff some containers. Despite the technical violation of the stay-away order, for which they could arrest Paulo on the spot, they let him go. He says he was just on his way home.

“This is a busy district, and we don't have time to chickenshit people. When you catch someone, it's for good reason,” Andy says. “Every time we've arrested [Paulo], it's been righteous. No chickenshit from him.”

At the age of 22, Paulo is a convicted felon, and a father. While in jail for trying to kill a Norteno, Paulo missed the birth of his son — and had plenty of time to think about what it meant. For 45 minutes each month, Paulo got to see his son, hold him, and play with him. Those 45-minute visits jolted his sense of reality, something that had been dormant since he became a gangbanger at 15.

“Looking at my son, I knew I had to be there for him,” Paulo says. “I don't want my son being a fuck-up like me. I want to be there to tell him what I suffered.”

Paulo is trying to go legit. His probation has him landscaping for the San Francisco Conservation Corps and earning his high school equivalency degree. He must be to work at 7 a.m. every weekday, which makes him think twice before staying out late. And now Paulo, who lives with his older brother's family, regularly sees his son, who lives with his teenage mother and her family.

Paulo wants to get out of the gang, but it's not easy. His friends still page him, and he feels compelled to keep tabs on what's happening. Paulo is revered by his adopted gang family. He is on his way to OG status.

“My homies love me, and I love them back. They have respect for me; I'm a role model,” Paulo says. “You get older and find out you've accomplished nothing, and that this stuff is stupid. But there's no way out for me. I know too much, and I've been around too long. I'll die a Sureno.”

So Paulo finds himself going to areas where the courts say he can't be. And finds himself running into Mario and Andy. Paulo knows he's lucky to get off this time.

“I was fucking around again,” Paulo says. “Being out where I wasn't supposed to.”

Paulo's best friend, Marvin Garcia, was not as lucky when he went back to visit the neighborhood. He ended up becoming the spark that ignited the current flare-up in the never-ending Mission gang war.

Like Paulo, Garcia was on probation, a new father, and looking to get out of the gang life. He had finished his Conservation Corps commitment and was holding down a job as a short-order cook. He had even dropped his colors and started dressing in casual clothes, things Paulo still refuses to do. But a year ago, drawn to see his old friends, Garcia was hanging out in front of La Rondalla Restaurant, at Valencia and 20th, when a red Chevy Cavalier filled with Nortenos drove by. The 18-year-old saw the car coming; he was shot in the back and killed as he turned to run into the restaurant for safety.

“I feel lucky. I've been shot at a thousand times, and I'm still standing,” Paulo says. “But you never know when the bullet's going to hit you.”

As retaliations between gangs rage the week of Roberto Ortega's killing, Jewli Judd-Tsongas and her husband drive up to their Lexington Street home, one block from the corner of Valencia and 21st streets. It is 6 p.m., and they are bringing their 4-year-old son home from day care. Tsongas' husband begins to unbuckle their son from the car seat when four gangsters turn the corner, two on foot, chasing two others on bicycles. One pulls out a gun and aims for the bikers.

“He's got a gun! Get down!” Tsongas screams to her husband, who throws his body over their son, Galen. No shots are fired. This time.

Tsongas has lived in the Mission for six years. She's worked in community groups trying to tackle the gang problem, like the Lexington Lookouts. She's gone to countless meetings, patrolled the streets, and even joined a neighborhood Internet group called Cyberwatchers, which monitors gang activity. But she's fed up.

“I can't raise my kid in this environment. It's crazy,” Tsongas says. “We live on a beautiful tree-lined street, but it's just an illusion. This is the heart of the Mission, and things have not gotten better. It just escalates. I don't want to live here anymore.”

Most every night, Tsongas says she hears shooting or bottles breaking. Then there are the guns and knives that neighbors find in their gardens, where gangsters drop them when police are on their trail. And the gangsters congregating on stoops and drinking beer.

“It's very disturbing, because we become prisoners of our own home,” says one neighbor. “The yuppies who come to the Mission on weekends do not appreciate the real Mission. They are overlooking the danger of it.”

There is indeed a nightlife boom going on along Valencia Street. Trendy eateries and bars now line the corridor between 16th and 20th streets, and Valencia even boasts fusion restaurants with valet parking and martini bars. [page]

But Mario and Andy, the district's gang officers, say the partygoers visiting the Mission for the first time should be more aware of the district's reality. “They're oblivious to what's going on,” Mario says. “They're walking by a war zone and don't even know it.”

“I don't want to overdramatize,” Andy says. “Valencia is relatively safe, and the fact that our police station is on Valencia helps.”

Besides, gangsters are not interested in yuppies on Valencia Street, MS gang leader Paulo says.

“They're safe; they don't owe us nothing. They're just coming to have a good time,” Paulo says.

But there is the cross-fire to worry about.

“If they are in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Paulo says, “there's nothing we can do about it.”

When Diana Garcia tries to drive down Capp Street on Jan. 4, around 3:30 p.m., she is stopped by the yellow police tape sealing off Roberto Ortega's murder scene. She wonders if there's been a gang hit. This isn't the first time she's seen the yellow tape.

In her own attempt to stem the gang problem, Garcia teaches a weekly parenting class for Spanish-speaking moms and dads who are trying to get their children out of gangs before the kids get killed. If the commotion she sees on Capp Street is about gangs, she'll have to talk about it at class — but this shooting is more relevant than she realizes. Roberto Ortega's father is one of her parenting “students.”

For Garcia, it's one thing when young kids get caught up in gangs and are killed because they've slipped through society's cracks. But when Roberto Ortega dies, despite all the best efforts by family and social workers to save him, the prospects of saving anyone else seem bleak.

“There is no magic plan,” Garcia says. “Parents can think they've done everything, but in the blink of an eye, the street wins.”

With one son already dead, Roberto's father keeps trying to get help for his remaining son, who is also a Sureno. Garcia counsels the father as he grieves over his youngest son and fears for his oldest.

Unlike Roberto, who made some effort to leave the gang by holding down a laborer's job, the 21-year-old Ortega is not going to school or working — just hanging with the gang. But he still has a warm bed waiting when he comes home drunk at all hours. Mom still cooks him breakfast, no matter what time he wakes up from a night of gangbanging. She even does his laundry.

“He's got it made, and he's going to continue no matter what,” Garcia tells the father. “Don't support it.”

The father finally locks his son out of the house. But the son keeps coming back, sleeping at the door, crying to be let in. After six days, the father relents, even though his son still hangs with the gang.

“It's called emotional blackmail, and the parents fall for it,” Garcia says.

In her parenting class, Garcia doesn't pull any punches about laying the responsibility for gangbanging on parents. The Ortega family is not unique. Garcia sees many parents guilted into coddling their kids, which only makes running with the gang easier.

“If you don't start being parents and say, 'No,' your kids will be taken by the streets,” Garcia tells her class.

But which kids join gangs can sometimes only be explained as a matter of personal choice.

Consider Danny, who at age 16 has already seen two close friends die by gunfire, and watched another be shot and stabbed within the space of weeks. Danny, one of the non-immigrant Surenos, was born in San Francisco and lives with his mom, three younger sisters, and older brother in a cramped, run-down city housing project. Living in the Mission and coming from a poor family, Danny was more welcomed by the Surenos than the Nortenos. He was drawn to the gang's promise of inclusiveness and financial gain.

“They are the only friends I have in San Francisco,” Danny says. “I have nothing but them.”

Danny says gang members consider themselves family and will back each other up, no matter what.

“You know you'll always get helped out, and you make a lot of money,” Danny says, who is already on probation for narcotics possession. “You also take a risk — like getting killed — but it's worth it.”

Yet Danny's brother faced the same environment, and stayed in school and out of gangs, even as Danny dropped out to spend more time dealing drugs with the Surenos.

“My brother says he thinks the gangs are stupid; that we're just killing each other because we want to. I tell him it's because we have to,” Danny says. “He worries about me, but there's nothing him or my mom can do. It's not like they'll get me out.”

It saddens Diana Garcia to realize some kids like Danny will probably be lost. But what upsets her most — what creates the greatest sense of defeat — is when she loses young men like Roberto Ortega and Marvin Garcia, who try to get out of the gang life, but don't make it.

“Marvin had finally realized gang life is futile; that's why he was trying to get out,” says David Escobar, a social worker who counseled Marvin. “He was at the homestretch and he gets blown away. That's what makes this so insane.”

The rumor on the street was true.

When Roberto's bullet-ridden body was loaded into the ambulance on the night of Jan. 4, he was still alive.

But there were no miracles. Roberto was brain-dead when he got to the hospital; the machines there just kept his heart and lungs going through the motions. Roberto's 20th birthday was only a week away. Suddenly, his family had to plan how to get his body back to Mexico for burial. [page]

But the life-support machines pumped and beeped just long enough for one good thing to happen. Doctors were able to harvest several of Roberto's young, healthy organs for transplant.

“You can't paint him as a saint, but Roberto was no villain, either,” Diana Garcia says. “No matter what he did in life, in death he's helping others. He lives on.”

So does the war.