Marcia Clark: The Competition

Bailey went to the bar and asked Drew to turn up the volume. Charlie’s voice drifted over the clink of glasses and soft chatter. “Yeah, when I swapped cars with the dude a few days ago I had no [ bleep ] idea who he was.” Charlie leaned in and cocked his ear at the reporter. “What?” The reporter said something we couldn’t hear, and then Charlie said, “My car? Oh, my car was a beige 1999 Chevy. Back bumper’s a little dented, and the driver’s side door’s got a ding in it. Oh, and the front passenger door’s kind of messed up too.” Then he gave the license plate. The reporter asked another question, and Charlie smiled. “Nothing unusual about the dude at all. He was just a regular guy, about so high.” Charlie gestured six inches below his head. “Had short hair…uh, that’s about it.”

Bailey and I exchanged a look. I shrugged. “We should probably thank the fool. The whole world’s going to be looking for that car now.”

“That ought to tighten the screws on psycho boy.”

Friday, October 18

7:08 a.m.

I was havinga nightmare about being chased by a man in a ski mask-it doesn’t take Freud to figure out the symbolism in my dreams-when my hotel phone rang. I sat up before I grabbed it, hoping that would make me sound more awake. “’Lo?”

“I woke you up.” Bailey sounded triumphant.

“No, you didn’t. I was just lying here thinking about what to wear.”

“Sure you were.” I can never get away with anything. “I just wanted to warn you to wear boots and a heavy coat since we’re going to be sitting outside for a few hours.”

Outside? Then I remembered. Today was the memorial for the victims of the Fairmont High shooting.

They’d chosen the San Juan Theater, a lovely outdoor amphitheater on the north side of the Santa Monica Mountains. The stage was set into a steep hill planted with beautiful multicolored shrubs and scrub oak trees. Above the entrance to the theater was an open rooftop that afforded a north-facing view of the mountains. That space was used for private parties, and I’d had the chance to attend one a few years ago. A flamenco troupe was performing that night, and standing there under the stars, seeing the dancers move against the dramatic backdrop of the mountains, was an incredible experience.

“Nine o’clock?”

“I’ll pick you up at eight.”

Friday, October 18

7:14 a.m.

“He’s here!He’s at the school! I saw it! I saw his car!”

The 911 operator spoke with deliberate calm. “You need to give me a name. Who’s there? And where are you?”

“The shooter! That guy from the school! He’s here!”

The dispatcher stared at the blinking dot on her monitor, then put out the call.

7:15 a.m.

“Zero hour”-when band members and athletic teams had practice-was at seven thirty at Taft High School. The janitor opened the doors to the main entrance and found two tenor sax players and a wide receiver already waiting. They straggled in, still half asleep. “Good morning to you,” he said with an amused smile.

The principal and three teachers pulled into the faculty parking lot. An older Honda Civic stopped in front of the main entrance and three students carrying instrument cases got out. Then it headed for the student parking lot, which faced Ventura Boulevard.

No one noticed the beat-up beige Chevrolet parked in the middle of the lot.

But a few minutes later, a squad car slowly cruised down Ventura Boulevard, past the school. The officer in the passenger seat tapped the driver on the arm. “Hey, there it is.”

The driving officer pulled to the curb. “Call in the plate.”

The passenger officer called it in. “I can’t tell whether anyone’s in the car,” he told the dispatcher.

Within seconds the dispatcher confirmed it was the car Evan Cutter got from Charlie Herzog, and reported the sighting to the Valley Division. When she came back on the line, she relayed the captain’s orders. “Stay in the area, but do not approach. Repeat, do not approach. Stand by for backup.”

As the squad car slowly circled the block, five male students in workout sweats poured out of a van and entered the school.

Principal Dingboom sat down at his desk, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. The hour before regular classes began was always a welcome quiet time. He’d just raised his mug to take a sip when the phone on his desk rang. Startled, his hand jerked, and coffee spilled on his desk and dribbled onto his lap. He grabbed a Kleenex and wiped his trousers as he picked up the phone. “Principal Dingboom,” he said.

“This is Captain Vroman of the West Valley station of LAPD. I need you to listen carefully and do exactly as I say.” The captain told him that Evan Cutter’s car had been sighted in the school parking lot. “I need you to lock the front doors, then round up everyone in the school and evacuate them through the back doors. Immediately. SWAT officers are on their way. Do you understand me?”

The principal’s throat tightened. He barely managed to choke out “yes.” He dropped the phone into its cradle with a shaking hand. Outside, he saw five more students and two teachers walking up the front steps of the school. The principal yanked open the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out his set of keys, and ran.

Seconds later, four SWAT officers pulled up behind the school and hurried to the gate in the chain-link fence that surrounded the football field. The team had just begun to warm up. The officers called out to the coach. He stared for a moment, then hurried over and let them in. The coach’s weathered face blanched as he listened to what they said.

When they’d finished, he blew his whistle to gather the players. They huddled around him and a SWAT officer stepped forward. “Don’t ask questions, just do as we say. You’re going to exit through the back gate, fast and quiet. Follow your coach. Do it now.”

The players, too stunned to question the orders, rapidly filed out. The coach handed his keys to the officer, who gave his final order. “Take those kids as far away from the school as you can. Then call the station. They’ll have someone pick you up.”

The coach joined his players outside the gate, raised an arm, and gestured for them to follow as he ran down the street. The SWAT team headed into the school.

Outside, officers had begun evacuating all homes and businesses within half a mile of the school and were cordoning off the entire area.

West Valley Detective Dwight Rosenberg and his partner, Meg Wittig, drove up in an unmarked car and badged their way through the line of officers guarding the perimeter. They stopped at the west edge of the school parking lot, five hundred feet behind the beige Chevrolet. Seconds later, three other unmarked cars lined up behind them.

Meanwhile, the SWAT officers shepherded the principal, the teachers, and all the remaining students out through the back door of the school, where squad cars waited to take them out of the neighborhood. The SWAT officers then went back inside and continued to clear the building.

Within minutes, more backup arrived. A dozen uniformed officers and four canine units swarmed in through the back door of the school and fanned out through the hallways. They combed every inch of the school for bodies, bombs, spring-loaded guns, and IEDs. Lockers were swept, trash bins turned upside down, bathrooms, classrooms, and offices searched top to bottom.

Finally, the SWAT officer in charge reported that the building had been cleared. All officers left through the back door.

At the front of the school, all was quiet. Unnaturally so. Traffic had been diverted for a six-block radius, and more than three dozen officers encircled the outer perimeter of the school grounds. All had their guns drawn and ready.