David Christopher Uribe |
| Posted 2009-12-17 by Sharla |
| OFFICER DAVID CHRISTOPHER URIBE , age 48 passed away in Phoenix, May 10, 2005. He was shot in the line of duty. He was a veteran of the US Army before he joined the department August 2, 1982 and served the community at Maryvale Precinct and Cactus Park Precinct. During his 22 years as a Phoenix Police Officer he received numerous commendations and the Medal of Merit. David is survived by his wife Kerry, sons Christopher and Police Officer Adam, daughters Alyssa, Aislinn, and Catherine and stepsons Wayne and Taylor. He is also survived by his mother Olga Hait, stepfather Bill Hait, father Domingo, sister Valerie Hait, brothers Gilbert Uribe and Patrick Hait and 5 grandchildren. Visitation 5-8 PM Monday May 16, 2005 at Shadow Mountain Mortuary, 2350 E. Greenway Rd. Phoenix. Service, 11:00 AM at Radiant Church, 15522 W. Paradise Lane, Surprise, AZ. Burial will be at Greenwood Memory Lawn Cemetery, 2300 W. Van Buren, Phoenix. In lieu of flowers donations are requested to The 100 Club, 5151 N. 19th Ave, Phoenix 85016. VALLEY MOURNS FALLEN OFFICER In the midday sun, Julian Sanchez waited for the procession that would bring the body of Phoenix police Officer David Uribe to its final resting spot. "Alyssa," Sanchez said to his 3-year-old granddaughter, "where are you going to put your hand when the policemen go by?" Alyssa lifted her little hand to her heart. More than an hour later, when the funeral procession made its way from Radiant Church in Surprise to Greenwood Memory Lawn in Phoenix, Alyssa stood on the curb and waved an American flag. Her right hand knew just where to go. Nearby, Bernie Medina lifted his hand in a salute that he held for 20 minutes. A tear trickled down his cheek. The community collectively wept on Tuesday for Uribe, an officer shot and killed during a traffic stop, as his family said their final goodbyes to a husband, a son, a brother, a father of seven, a grandfather of five. It is a family that knows too well the risks of patrolling the streets. Yet Uribe's son, Adam, a Phoenix police officer, and his wife, Kerry, a Glendale police dispatcher, were overwhelmed that a community could so completely share in their grief. About 100 people stood on 27th Avenue, outside Greenwood Memory Lawn, some holding American flags and thank-you signs and waving to officers, as Uribe's body passed by in a white hearse. "He's an officer of the law," said Jesse Godinez, who came from Buckeye to watch the funeral procession. "These people are important to us. This guy gave his life. This is the least we can do." Thousands of mourners packed Uribe's home church in Surprise to remember the life he lived. Stoic faces yielded to tears as bagpipes began a mournful wail and the honor guard ushered in a flag-draped coffin carrying the body of the 48-year-old officer. Minister Lee McFarland looked out from the podium and acknowledged the pain uniting the crowd: "We're stunned. We're hurting and we don't understand." McFarland could only offer the simplest explanation to why something so bad had happened. "We live in a world full of crime." Being a police officer and keeping others from harm had been one of the loves of Uribe's life. He worked for 22 years as a patrol officer, never opting to go after a job that would have kept him off the streets. Uribe's tenure on patrol is rare, Phoenix Police Chief Jack Harris said, adding, "He knew the neighborhoods, knew the streets and was a leader of his cohorts." Harris shared a letter that he received from a woman Uribe had helped in a traffic accident. "Dave was kind and gentle," Harris read. "He was an angel that day." Uribe was remembered as the "top dog" of his unit, a veteran who wasn't above helping a fellow officer dust for prints, a guy with a wicked sense of humor. He was a "prankster architect" who could dish out a joke and be embarrassed if caught in one himself. He was the master of the deadpan but would be smiling at you with his eyes, his trademark toothpick bobbing in his mouth. Uribe's son, Adam, shook with emotion as he struggled to talk about his father. "We look upon your passing as a day we cannot forget. But we know you wait for us in heaven." His voice broke and he paused, long enough to move the toothpick to the far corner of mouth. "You will always be remembered . . . to eternity, a legend to the end. Rest in peace, Brother." Outside the cemetery, two Phoenix Fire Department trucks raised their ladders and firefighters unfurled an American flag. Capt. Doug Graham pointed to his right and firefighters shifted the flag so it was exactly centered. He gave a thumbs-up. "We're here to help honor," Graham said. "Everybody's out here showing respect." Uribe was shot in the head and neck May 10 when he stopped a car with a stolen license plate at 34th Avenue and Cactus Road. Three men were formally charged Tuesday in connection with the slaying. "You just feel really bad for the family," said Terry Hinsberger, who stood on 27th Avenue with her son, Michael, 4. "You want to do something for them, but there's not much you can do." And so she sat on the curb with her son, hoping that some day, when Uribe's family looked back on this day, they would "feel better that people came out to support them." Lori Donelson taped a sign to the gates wrapping the cemetery. "God Bless," it said, "Thank you all." "This is to show all of the other officers how grateful we are that they put their lives on the line every single day," said Donelson, who pulled her son, Chaz, 10, out of school to watch the procession. "We take it for granted." When the procession started, Donelson, her son and Kyle Gluck, 18, moved the sign to the roadway, calling out "Thank you" to each officer. The three had met only recently at a fundraiser for Uribe. "All the cops in Phoenix, they protect us and they don't have to do that. They chose to do that," Gluck said. "He died in the line of duty protecting us. . . . His kids lost a father. His wife lost a husband. I pray for them each day." It didn't matter whether those along the procession route knew Uribe or not. He was a police officer who no doubt wanted to go home safely to his family when each shift ended. And he was killed. A little boy held a thank you sign as his mother hoisted him onto her shoulders. A woman waved an American flag and held a sign: "Praying for all of you. Peace be with you. God bless." Capt. Graham stood ramrod straight in front of his fire truck, as the procession, which took 35 minutes to pass and was estimated to be 24 miles long, slowly wove into the cemetery underneath the towering ladders. Medina held his salute. "I'm overwhelmed by what I see, the turnout for this policeman," Medina said. "He put his life on the line for us. That's what life's all about, wonderful people." At the gravesite, officers rested their hands on their hearts as Uribe's casket was escorted from the hearse to its final resting place. A riderless horse, its black mane shining in the sunlight, preceded the casket down a long line of police from across the state. "It feels so sad," said Mercedes Nunez, 75, a friend of Uribe's mother. "These things happen everywhere but I don't know why they happen to people like him." Carmen Cruz, 45, who grew up next door to the Uribe family, clutched pink carnations. "We lost a good guy, a good fellow," Cruz said. "I know he's going to be in a better place. Hopefully, this will bring us all closer together. People's hearts will break for this, but we all need to stick together." Mourners wiped away tears and some clutched each other's hands as bagpipes wailed "Amazing Grace." In the traditional missing man formation, six helicopters flew over the cemetery in a line until one of the choppers made a sharp turn to the north, heading out of sight. Uribe was buried in the shadow of an angel statue, its bronze hands clutching a bouquet of flowers and a small scroll of paper, its wings standing ready to fly. "This is the last call for Officer David Uribe, number 4276," a dispatcher said over the police radio. Her voice breaking, the dispatcher summoned Uribe to the cemetery and broadcast that he was out of service. "923 Bravo," she said, using his police call sign. "Goodnight sir. "You will be deeply missed." See Also: Find A Grave |
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