Way on Down the Track
It's midnight, and I'm in the back of a cab heading across town to Farmdale station. Louis, engineer and expert witness, is up front with Jesus, our driver. Penny and I are separated by the legs of the mannequin that didn't quite fit in the trunk. We've also got bright orange markers, wasp spray, and headlamps. And a measuring wheel.
They say he was drunk when he fell off the platform around 1am. He could have been lying there for god knows how long. The second train stopped, but the first one didn't. That's all I know about Lawrence Furbush Jr, 42 years old. That and his family's suing the Metro.
I almost didn’t come. The idea of shooting pictures out a train window did not hammer my buttons. One in the morning. Rough side of town. Getting back home at 3 or 4 in the morning meant busting my internal clock. Penny talked me into it. People on the train. There’d be something to capture my imagination. It would be fun. By the time Zak responded to my call for a sub, I had already committed. He had thoughts on security that might include his buddy, the #2 guy at MTA. Wasp spray was Murph’s idea. “Nothing good happens that time of night.” We were on a call earlier in the day about something completely different. I mentioned the assignment, and he immediately brought up security. My Leatherman wouldn't cut it. Wasp spray. And a headlamp. And a call to the local police to let them know what we were up to. Murph knows these things. Five years watching out for and cleaning up messes for a wealthy OC family teaches you what to do. And what not to do. Like if a Russian prostitute steals your quarter million dollar watch, how to get it back for $500 or less. What, you thought those girls would end up with a toe tag? Yeah, me too.
We reach Farmdale station, and there's a welcome party. Their lawyers. Our lawyers. Forensic photographers toting Canons. Me and my Nikon. The safety crew. Security. Train operators, one for each end.
Jesus stays with his car, and we enter the train for a safety briefing. We put down the orange markers at their designated spots and lay out the mannequin on the tracks where Lawrence got run over. Then we head down to the previous station so we can stop at each marker and grab shots down the track in the night.
We take a second run, without twelve stops, so we can record a video at speed. And then it's over, about an hour ahead of schedule. We gather the markers, the mannequin, the wheel. Everything but the sadness we leave at the scene of this gruesome tragedy.
Lawrence Furbush Jr, 42 years old. Drunk, they say. Gone. Forgotten. Maybe that wrongful death suit will bring some peace to his family, and keep his memory alive, way on down the track.