Heartache in Highland Park written in grief-stricken faces
Prosecutors seek justice after July 4 massacre brings "loss of life, devastating injuries, and overwhelming psychological trauma."
In the immediate moment of aftershock from the massacre at a July Fourth parade, the pain afflicting the suburban community is unimaginable, indescribable, but unmistakable.
Grief is written in the faces of survivors, many of whom can't quite find the words to express it. The few who can plead with the rest of the country to recognize the cruelty in a swift, senseless shooting that preyed on the innocence of young children and robbed their neighbors of their sense of safety in their own homes, and for seven unfortunate souls, their freedom to keep breathing.
"Keep their stories alive and hopefully it won't happen anymore," grandmother Wendy Rush, a survivor of the massacre, implored the morning after. "Why is this happening so often in our country?"
The sorrow An American nightmare
Hundreds of flowers line the steps along the parade route where Highland Park residents were slaughtered in a celebration of their nation's 246th birthday. The people who laid the flowers along the brick wall semi-circle wiped away tears, each one of them visibly carrying burdens of sorrow.
American flags along the parade route where a man opened fire on a crowd
When the sun rose over Lake Michigan Tuesday morning, its rays shone through an American flag waving at half-staff over Central Avenue. Hundreds of lawn chairs, strollers, towels, books, and children's toys littered the street. Throughout the day, scores of mourners approached the edges of the crime scene. You could see reality set in their anguished eyes. Yesterday wasn't merely a bad dream. Their American nightmare was real.
An all-American downtown strip features a barbecue restaurant, Chinese food, a pancake house, a coffee shop, and a gelato store. Those storefronts were closed, blocked off by federal investigators and the remnants of the fateful day before.
Media descend on Highland Park
Dozens of morning news crews and TV cameras surrounded the perimeter.
One man in his mid-thirties sat on the ground, his back leaning against a telephone pole, as he stared ahead. His jaw quivered. He grew up here. The backdrop of his upbringing was now plastered on TV screens across the country with talking heads describing the place where he made his childhood memories. We parachuted in to document the horrors. After we're gone to chase the next tragedy, he said he'll never be able to look at it the same.
"When is it enough," another older man muttered as he walked his dog. "Go home already."
Many of the journalists knew their assignment, but carrying it out brought trepidation. One cable news field producer worried his search for survivors and their stories of a brush with danger might only add to their pain.
Survivors Living with trauma
A businessman in his mid-sixties who had retired to Florida carried a cup of coffee to the edge of the street. His brow furrowed. He wanted to talk, but not on camera. Dried blood stained his neck where shrapnel cut his flesh the day before. He was fine physically, he assured, but he spoke frantically and sporadically. Between long pauses, he described his encounter. He couldn't believe Americans who live far from here would find ways to fight about guns.
A father slowly walked with his two sons to the back of the press gaggle and timidly asked why so many cameras had gathered there. Prosecutors were preparing to announce criminal charges against the 21-year-old man who carried out the massacre. He pulled the trigger and started emptying several high-capacity magazines from high-powered rifle just as a high school marching band played in the street.
Toys and items left behind at Highland Park
"They were my friends," the older boy said, adding that they were all rattled but unhurt. His eyes were fixed on the scene. He kept talking, almost in a daze. His father, concerned, tussled his younger son's hair. He looked up at his dad and older brother with a sad sort of confusion on his face, as if to ask if it was okay for him to be there witnessing such a dreadful conversation.
Another journalist working the scene took a call from his own children. After hanging up, he said his young kids watched the news about the bad man in Highland Park, and now they feared going to play at their local park for fear the bad man might be there too.
The helpers Springing into action
Two blocks to the east, a young married couple in their early thirties stood and stared from the quieter side of the empty street. She asked if she could cross the police crime tape to retrieve her belongings. No officers were in sight. She, too, had been hit with shrapnel. Her husband looked down at his sandals while she described their young daughter's fright when she saw her mother's shirt soaked in blood during the parade on Monday. Their family friend had been shot right next to them and is at home recovering from her injuries.
"The scars that will leave on some of these children," Rush shook her head. "Will they ever be able to enjoy the Fourth of July again? Will they ever be able to walk in a parade again?"
She, a medical doctor by trade, rushed into action when the bullets rang out.
"Something in my brain just switched into, 'This isn’t a day off. This isn’t my holiday anymore. This is time to get to work,'" she said. "And I did run across the street and attended to a very critical gentleman who happened to pass away.
"There were times when he opened his eyes and looked up," she said. "He was very much fighting for his life and we were fighting for him as well."
Around the corner, a family-owned Mexican restaurant seated two women at the bar where they rehashed the frenzy that had consumed their hometown. When their takeout orders arrived, they thanked the owner for remaining open through it all.
Throughout the day, the crowd of mourners grew and the flowers piled higher.
Memorials in Highland Park
The aftermath Enter policymakers
Lake County State's Attorney Eric Rinehart spoke with firm resolve, even rousing the crowd to cheers when he called for a nationwide ban on assault weapons. During his fiery speech against gun violence, the seasoned prosecutor stammered a bit and choked up when he said, "This is where I am raising my family also."
The streets were packed with families, many of them with young teenagers, when Secret Service agents and a pool of White House reporters arrived. Vice President Kamala Harris and her entourage followed close behind.
After shaking hands with police, prosecutors, and local officials, Harris approached a rake of microphones and spoke quietly. Very few people in the crowd could hear what she said.
“We’ve got to be smarter as a country in terms of who has access to what, and in particular assault weapons,” Harris, a former prosecutor, said. “We’ve got to take this stuff seriously, as seriously as you are, because you’ve been forced to take it seriously.”
Vice President Kamala Harris speaks at Highland Park
Two waitresses working at a hotel restaurant nearby set down their pitchers of coffee to watch the replay of their remarks on the lobby televisions the next morning. One wiped away tears before turning to go fill up another cup.
Rinehart said on Tuesday that "the trauma will ripple forever outside of the courtrooms."
"What should have been a celebration of freedom ended in despair for our community," Rinehart said. "All of the people who died steps from here lost their freedom. All of it. Every ounce of freedom they had: the freedom to love, the freedom to learn, and the freedom to live a full life. Their freedom matters, too."
Kevin and Irina McCarthy were 37 and 35-year-old parents. Their two-year-old son Aidan is now an orphan.
Jacquelyn Sundheim was a 63-year-old preschool teacher who helped her neighbors celebrate their most memorable moments at their synagogue.
Katherine Goldstein was a 64-year-old wife and mother.
Stephen Straus was an 88-year-old grandfather.
Nicolas Toledo-Zaragoza was a 78-year-old grandfather visiting from Mexico.
Eduardo Uvaldo was 69.
"The loss of life and these devastating injuries, and the overwhelming psychological trauma demand we seek justice and that we take broader action to protect life," Rinehart said.
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