tap. I felt the tremor of gunfire and heard myself shout. There was a
thud as something heavy fell to the floor. I moved her arm aside and
gathered up the baby.
The bell rang. The auditorium emptied. I went to the computer lab. I
hesitated for a moment over the keyboard—struck by a premonition
that this was information I might regret knowing—then typed “Ruby
Ridge” into the browser. According to Wikipedia, Ruby Ridge was the
site of a deadly standoff between Randy Weaver and a number of
Federal agencies, including the U.S. Marshals Service and the FBI.
The name Randy Weaver was familiar, and even as I read it I heard
it falling from my father’s lips. Then the story as it had lived in my
imagination for thirteen years began replaying in my mind: the
shooting of a boy, then of his father, then of his mother. The
Government had murdered the entire family, parents and children, to
cover up what they had done.
I scrolled past the backstory to the first shooting. Federal agents had
surrounded the Weaver cabin. The mission was surveillance only, and
the Weavers were unaware of the agents until a dog began to bark.
Believing the dog had sensed a wild animal, Randy’s fourteen-year-old
son, Sammy, charged into the woods. The agents shot the dog, and
Sammy, who was carrying a gun, opened fire. The resulting conflict left
two dead: a federal agent and Sammy, who was retreating, running up
the hill toward the cabin, when he was shot in the back.
I read on. The next day, Randy Weaver was shot, also in the back,
while trying to visit his son’s body. The corpse was in the shed, and
Randy was lifting the latch on the door, when a sniper took aim at his
spine and missed. His wife, Vicki, moved toward the door to help her
husband and again the sniper opened fire. The bullet struck her in the
head, killing her instantly as she held their ten-month-old daughter.
For nine days the family huddled in the cabin with their mother’s body,
until finally negotiators ended the standoff and Randy Weaver was
arrested.
I read this last line several times before I understood it. Randy
Weaver was alive? Did Dad know?
I kept reading. The nation had been outraged. Articles had appeared
in nearly every major newspaper blasting the government’s callous
disregard for life. The Department of Justice had opened an