Their loved one is gone but we do respect them
Three months after Sergeant Michael Paredes and Officer Joseph Santana were killed responding to a stabbing call at an El Monte motel, several hundred community members gathered not to mourn in silence but to act — raising funds, sharing meals, and bearing witness to the families left behind. The event, held at the El Monte Moose Lodge in mid-September, was a reminder that grief without community becomes isolation, and that solidarity, when it takes the form of presence and resources, is among the most honest expressions of human care. What the community offered that Saturday was not the restoration of what was lost, but the refusal to let those who lost it stand alone.
- Two officers were shot and killed in minutes on June 14 when a 35-year-old probationer opened fire as they entered a motel room responding to a stabbing call.
- The suspect fled to the parking lot, exchanged gunfire with another officer, then turned the weapon on himself — leaving behind a wound the entire city of El Monte would carry.
- Three months later, the risk was quieter but real: that the world would move on, that the families would be left to grieve in the silence of a news cycle that had already shifted.
- Hundreds showed up to the Moose Lodge to push back against that silence — with live music, shared food, raffles, and the simple, powerful act of being present.
- A retired detective framed it plainly: without a space to gather and act, collective grief has no outlet — the fundraiser gave the community somewhere to put its pain.
- The event was not about healing what cannot be healed, but about witnessing — telling the families of Paredes and Santana that their loss had been seen and would not be forgotten.
On a Saturday in mid-September, several hundred people filled the El Monte Moose Lodge to honor Sergeant Michael Paredes and Officer Joseph Santana, killed three months earlier when they responded to a reported stabbing at a motel. The community had not come to relive the tragedy — they had come to do something concrete for the families left behind.
The gathering looked, on the surface, like any community fundraiser: live music, a shared meal, raffles. ABC7's Sid Garcia emceed. But the weight beneath was different. The beneficiaries were not abstractions — they were a widow, children, parents whose lives had been fractured by violence in a way that money could not repair, only slightly ease.
Judith Gunther, an El Monte native who attended, put it simply: the families needed to know they were not alone. Dan Glass, a retired local detective, added another dimension — without a space like this, there was no outlet for the community's collective pain. A fundraiser becomes an act of witness: we saw what they sacrificed, and we are not going to leave you to carry this alone.
The shooting itself had been swift and brutal. Justin William Flores, a 35-year-old probationer, opened fire as the officers entered the motel room, then fled to the parking lot where he exchanged gunfire with another officer before turning the gun on himself. The violence lasted minutes. The aftermath would last years.
What El Monte was doing that Saturday was not healing — healing implies a return to wholeness that was no longer possible. It was witnessing. In a moment when the families might have felt abandoned by a world that had moved on, several hundred people chose, on a Saturday afternoon, to stay present. That choice was the story.
On a Saturday in mid-September, several hundred people filled the El Monte Moose Lodge to honor two officers who would not be coming home. Sergeant Michael Paredes and Officer Joseph Santana had been killed three months earlier, on June 14, when they responded to a reported stabbing at a motel. Now the community gathered not to relive that moment, but to do something concrete: raise money for the families left behind.
The event was structured around the ordinary rituals of support—live music played, people shared a meal together, raffles were held to collect funds. ABC7's Sid Garcia emceed the gathering. On the surface it looked like any community fundraiser, the kind that happens in towns across the country when people want to help. But the weight underneath was different. These were not abstract beneficiaries. These were the widow and children of Paredes, the family of Santana, people whose lives had been fractured by violence in a way that money could not repair, only slightly ease.
Judith Gunther, who grew up in El Monte, was among those who came. When asked why she made the effort, her answer was simple and direct: the families needed to know they were not alone in their grief. That knowledge mattered. It was not sentimental—it was practical. A family without a breadwinner, without a parent, needs the community to show up. Not once, but repeatedly. Not in words, but in presence and in resources.
Dan Glass, a retired detective who had worked in El Monte, spoke to what these events actually accomplish. The community was hurting, he said. People felt the wound. But unless they gathered like this, unless they created a space to act, there was no outlet for that collective pain. A fundraiser becomes a way of saying: your loved one is gone, yes. But we saw what they did. We know what they sacrificed. We are not going to forget, and we are not going to leave you to carry this alone.
The shooting itself had been brutal and swift. Justin William Flores, a 35-year-old probationer, had opened fire on the two officers as they entered the motel room. After shooting them, he ran into the parking lot, where he exchanged gunfire with at least one other officer. Then, in the parking lot of that motel, he turned the gun on himself. The violence was over in minutes. The aftermath would last for years.
What the El Monte community was doing that Saturday was not healing—healing is a word that suggests a return to wholeness, and that was not possible. What they were doing was witnessing. They were saying: we see you. We see what happened. We see the cost. And we are here. In a moment when the families might have felt abandoned by a world that had moved on to other news, other tragedies, other concerns, the community chose to stay present. That choice, made by several hundred people on a Saturday afternoon, was the story.
Citas Notables
The family has to know we support them. I think that's really important.— Judith Gunther, El Monte resident
The community is hurting because of this event. There's no way for them to be a part of doing something unless they do events like this to show the family that their loved one is gone but we do respect them and acknowledge them for the service they did.— Dan Glass, retired El Monte police detective
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
Why does a community need to gather like this, months after the fact? Wouldn't the families prefer privacy to grieve?
Maybe some would. But grief doesn't end when the news cycle does. The families still wake up without their loved ones. Bills still come. A fundraiser says: we're not moving on without you. We're staying.
What did the shooting itself look like? How did it happen so fast?
Two officers walked into a motel room responding to a stabbing call. A man with a gun was waiting. He fired. They fell. He ran. Within minutes, he was dead by his own hand. The whole thing was over before most people even knew it had started.
And the suspect—who was he?
Justin Flores, thirty-five years old, a probationer. The kind of person the system was supposed to be watching. He exchanged gunfire with officers in a parking lot before shooting himself. He made sure no one would ever hold him accountable in a courtroom.
So the community fundraiser—was it well-attended?
Several hundred people showed up. That's significant in a city like El Monte. It means people made a choice to be there, to stand in a room with others who were also grieving, also angry, also wanting to do something.
What did the money actually do?
It went to the families. Paredes had children. Santana had family. A police officer's salary stops the day they die. The community's money doesn't replace that, but it helps keep the lights on, keeps food on the table, keeps the family from having to figure out how to survive alone.
Is this the kind of thing that happens often in El Monte?
Not often enough that it becomes routine, but often enough that people know what to do when it happens. They know how to show up. They know that presence matters.