It was a crisp March evening in 1990, and I reluctantly drove to an off-duty training party in my brother's beat-up 1972 yellow Pinto runabout. My own prized Firebird had been stolen, and my supervisor had convinced me to attend the party despite my lack of transportation. Little did I know that this night would become a defining moment in my career as a deputy sheriff. As I cruised down the 605 freeway in the early morning hours, I noticed a Chevy Impala full of what appeared to be four Hispanic gang members eyeing me suspiciously. With their shaved heads, white t-shirts, and visible tattoos, it was clear they were part of a gang. Realizing I was outnumbered and driving a car that could barely hit 100 miles per hour, I tried to change lanes and speed away, but they kept pace with me. Panic set in as I remembered my .38 revolver was tucked away in my duffle bag in the backseat, out of reach. I had to think fast. I slammed on the brakes, hoping to get behind them and exit the freeway, but that's when I saw it – a passenger in the back seat pointing a gun directly at me. Shots rang out, exploding both the driver and passenger windows, sending glass flying everywhere. Adrenaline pumping, I swerved and weaved, trying to get the attention of other vehicles or the Highway Patrol. Blood was everywhere, but I didn't feel any pain. I just knew I had to get off the freeway and to safety. As I exited onto Alondra Blvd., I realized I had been shot in the hand, the bullet tearing through my palm and exploding the tip of my right ring finger. Dazed and bleeding, I pulled into a nearby gas station, desperate to call for help. But the pay phone was useless, and the attendant, seeing my blood-soaked face, locked the door in fear. I fumbled for my badge, the pain in my hand hitting me like a freight train. I wrapped my hand in my T-shirt and waited for help to arrive. The response from my fellow deputies was overwhelming. They rushed me to the hospital, where I was prepped for micro-neural surgery. The media, my commander, and my captain ensured I was okay. But it was my father's reaction that stuck with me the most. A no-nonsense man, he asked me two questions: "Are you okay?" and "Did you do anything to embarrass us this evening?" I assured him I had followed protocol and done everything to keep myself and others safe.