Long Mile Home: Boston Under Attack, the City's Courageous Recovery, and the Epic Hunt for Justice by Scott Helman, Jenna Russell Page A
Authors: Scott Helman, Jenna Russell
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unseasonable heat at the 2012 marathon had kept the medical tent exceptionally busy, with hundreds of runners needing treatment. So far in 2013, things seemed to be much calmer. And for that everyone was thankful.
• • •
B righid and Brendan Wall had miscalculated. With three young children in tow—their own, ages four and six, plus their five-year-old nephew—they had hoped to avoid a long wait at the finish line. So they postponed their arrival, riding the Swan Boats in the Public Garden, lingering over lunch, aiming to get there just before Brighid’s sister raced down the homestretch. Still, despite their efforts, they got there too soon. The children grew restless. The parents promised ice cream in exchange for patience. They were on the sidewalk outside Starbucks, next to Forum. The kids were pressed up against the barricade, next to the street, high-fiving the occasional runner who ventured near. It was her sister’s tenth time running Boston; Brighid had wanted to surprise her, so she had not told Siobhan that they were coming. Siobhan thought all of them, her own son included, were at home in Duxbury, thirty-five miles away. Brighid imagined her sister sprinting over, grabbing her son’s hand, and running with him to the finish. They would remember a moment like that forever. She checked her phone again, tracking Siobhan’s progress. By 2:40 the wait was almost over. She tried to refocus the children’s attention: The moment they had waited for all day was almost here. “Watch for her; keep your eyes open,” she told them. “Look for her red shirt—she’s coming, any minute.”
A short distance to her right, closer to Forum,another family was waiting, too. Bill and Denise Richard had their three children with them; their son Martin, eight, and daughter, Jane, seven, were also standing up against the barricade between the sidewalk and the street. The family had been watching a few blocks away, where the runners turn onto Boylston at Hereford Street, when they decided to take a break for ice cream. Returning to the race about 2:30, they opted to move closer to the finish line. They were watching for some runners they knew from their Dorchester neighborhood. Jane and Martin stepped up onto the metal fence in front of them to get a better view.
• • •
A long with the families and young children, college students jammed the Boylston sidewalks. Standing near the Richards out in front of Forum,Lingzi Lu was one of them. She was twenty-three years old, a graduate student from China studying statistics at Boston University. She had just learned on Sunday that she had passed an important exam, and it had put her in a happy mood. Monday morning, over breakfast with her roommate at their Arlington apartment, Lingzi had toyed with the idea of going to the marathon. She decided that she would, after doing some work on a project; her friend Zhou Danling wanted to go, too. They had made their way to the finish line. Now they stood close to the runners bearing down on the finish, the day’s great drama unfolding an arm’s length away.
• • •
S he wasn’t in the marathon, butAlma Bocaletti was still running. Running along the sidelines. She and six others had gone to support another friend, Natalie, who had entered the race. They’d made matching black-and-white T-shirts with the image of a sunflower. They’d drawn up posters. They’d bought a bouquet of yellow balloons, so Natalie could find them in the crowd. After seeing Natalie pass at mile seventeen, they hopped on the train to Boston hoping to see her at the end, too. Bocaletti wanted to go all the way to the finish line but was worried she wouldn’t make it before Natalie crossed. So she took off running, figuring she’d reconnect with her friends later. She dashed up to a spot in the crowd near Marathon Sports, where the flags of all the countries stood. The freckled face of a stranger turned around.
“Who are you
• • •
B righid and Brendan Wall had miscalculated. With three young children in tow—their own, ages four and six, plus their five-year-old nephew—they had hoped to avoid a long wait at the finish line. So they postponed their arrival, riding the Swan Boats in the Public Garden, lingering over lunch, aiming to get there just before Brighid’s sister raced down the homestretch. Still, despite their efforts, they got there too soon. The children grew restless. The parents promised ice cream in exchange for patience. They were on the sidewalk outside Starbucks, next to Forum. The kids were pressed up against the barricade, next to the street, high-fiving the occasional runner who ventured near. It was her sister’s tenth time running Boston; Brighid had wanted to surprise her, so she had not told Siobhan that they were coming. Siobhan thought all of them, her own son included, were at home in Duxbury, thirty-five miles away. Brighid imagined her sister sprinting over, grabbing her son’s hand, and running with him to the finish. They would remember a moment like that forever. She checked her phone again, tracking Siobhan’s progress. By 2:40 the wait was almost over. She tried to refocus the children’s attention: The moment they had waited for all day was almost here. “Watch for her; keep your eyes open,” she told them. “Look for her red shirt—she’s coming, any minute.”
A short distance to her right, closer to Forum,another family was waiting, too. Bill and Denise Richard had their three children with them; their son Martin, eight, and daughter, Jane, seven, were also standing up against the barricade between the sidewalk and the street. The family had been watching a few blocks away, where the runners turn onto Boylston at Hereford Street, when they decided to take a break for ice cream. Returning to the race about 2:30, they opted to move closer to the finish line. They were watching for some runners they knew from their Dorchester neighborhood. Jane and Martin stepped up onto the metal fence in front of them to get a better view.
• • •
A long with the families and young children, college students jammed the Boylston sidewalks. Standing near the Richards out in front of Forum,Lingzi Lu was one of them. She was twenty-three years old, a graduate student from China studying statistics at Boston University. She had just learned on Sunday that she had passed an important exam, and it had put her in a happy mood. Monday morning, over breakfast with her roommate at their Arlington apartment, Lingzi had toyed with the idea of going to the marathon. She decided that she would, after doing some work on a project; her friend Zhou Danling wanted to go, too. They had made their way to the finish line. Now they stood close to the runners bearing down on the finish, the day’s great drama unfolding an arm’s length away.
• • •
S he wasn’t in the marathon, butAlma Bocaletti was still running. Running along the sidelines. She and six others had gone to support another friend, Natalie, who had entered the race. They’d made matching black-and-white T-shirts with the image of a sunflower. They’d drawn up posters. They’d bought a bouquet of yellow balloons, so Natalie could find them in the crowd. After seeing Natalie pass at mile seventeen, they hopped on the train to Boston hoping to see her at the end, too. Bocaletti wanted to go all the way to the finish line but was worried she wouldn’t make it before Natalie crossed. So she took off running, figuring she’d reconnect with her friends later. She dashed up to a spot in the crowd near Marathon Sports, where the flags of all the countries stood. The freckled face of a stranger turned around.
“Who are you
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