UNDERSTANDING THE RIOTS--SIX MONTHS LATER : Touched by Fire / A Legacy of Pain and Hope : THE VICTIMS : Emotional and Physical Scars Are Slow to Heal

For many Californians, the riots were more than a momentary blip on the screen--they were a flash point for lasting and fundamental changes in their lives. The devastation left a legacy of broken dreams for many, awakened a sense of social justice in some, unleashed anger and hatred in others, and rekindled a spirit of hope among others. Six months after the riots, Times reporters visited some of the people and places touched by the extraordinary events of last spring and on these pages we tell their stories.

At the height of the riots, evangelist Wallace Tope went to Hollywood to save some souls.

He stationed himself in front of a Sav-on drugstore on Sunset Boulevard and began preaching to the mass of looters pouring past with armfuls of liquor and disposable diapers.

Now, six months later, he lies in a coma, barely clinging to life--the result of a savage beating that damaged his brain.

He is the only riot victim still hospitalized.

Inside a North Hollywood convalescent home, he lies virtually motionless, although his eyes open at times and appear to scan the walls of his tiny room. He can move his legs when someone touches them, and he occasionally opens his mouth as if struggling to say something.

But his brother, Dennis, said doctors already have told him that the movements are only illusory signs of recovery.

“Is there hope? Not really,” he said. “It would take a mighty miracle.”

The plight of Wallace Tope remains a haunting legacy of the upheaval that swept Los Angeles in April and May. Most of the nearly 2,000 victims treated in hospital emergency rooms have made complete recoveries, but Tope remains trapped in the prison of unconsciousness.

Unlike the thousands of residents who fled the area or bolted their doors during the height of the riots, Tope had purposely sought out the danger of the streets.

“He saw society coming unglued before his very eyes,” said Victor Marquis, a friend who visits Tope several times a week. “He just wanted to tell people, ‘You’ve got to turn away from this; you’ve got to turn to God.’ ”

Tope, 53, grew up in Glendale, the oldest of three children. Although his family was not particularly religious, he became a born-again Christian while studying electronic engineering at Cal Poly San Luis Obispo. After a short stint as an engineer, he embarked on a full-time career as an evangelist.

He had no congregation but was known by thousands who had read his religious tracts or heard him speak. He had no church, preferring instead to preach on the streets.

“Wally had a passion for people--the ungodly ones,” his brother said.

On the second day of the riots, he left the tiny office he shared in Pasadena and headed for Hollywood. On his desk, he had a copy of that morning’s newspaper, describing the outbreak of rioting throughout the city.

Friends warned him not to go, but he was determined. He told them God would protect him.

About 8 p.m., as he stood before the surging crowd of looters, one man broke from the crowd and attacked Tope, chasing him into a parking lot. A second man joined the attack as hundreds of people watched. No one did anything to help, police said.

For several minutes, Tope was punched and kicked in the head, until a passing ambulance stopped and took him to the hospital.

He was still conscious at the time and asked the driver to take him back to his car. “God bless you; believe in Jesus,” he said as they rushed on to the emergency room.

Soon after arriving, Tope lapsed into a coma. He never regained consciousness.

In the six months since the riots, his condition has gradually improved, although he remains unconscious. He was moved to a convalescent home in North Hollywood several months ago.

Hundreds of friends have come to visit, to jot down a few words of encouragement on a legal pad next to his bed or massage his joints to keep them from stiffening.

They pray for recovery, hoping for a miracle--an event not impossible to those in Tope’s world of born-again Christians.

“We have not lost hope,” Marquis said. “We all agree Wally belongs to a miracle-working God.”

Dennis Tope is less optimistic. He visits his brother about once a month now, making the long drive from Mojave to spend a few hours by his bed.

He has gradually come to accept the fact that his brother will probably never wake up again, and that even if he does, the chances of him leading a normal life are slim.

The only thing that has really changed in six months for Dennis Tope is the arrest of two men in connection with his brother’s beating. A month after the riots, police arrested Leonard Sosa, 23, and Fidel Ortiz, 20, both of Los Angeles.

Dennis Tope has attended most of the preliminary hearings, glaring at the two men, thinking thoughts he knows his brother would never condone. “I can’t get my eyes off of them,” he said. “They’re animals; they don’t deserve to live.”

A month ago, the family made the difficult decision to allow Tope to die if his condition deteriorates.

“There will be no heroic measures,” his brother said. “I’ll be honest; I hope he passes on. He’s done his work here on Earth.”