The Bystander

Chapter One – 4 p.m., Friday, Jacksonville Waterfront

Anyone working for a news outlet within fifty miles of Jacksonville knew what was coming to the Waterfront on Florida-Georgia weekend. And every news station sent somebody like me to dive into the thick of it. My news director at WJAX-TV dispatched me there to tape a video package and do a live shot for the evening newscast. He told me to interview the college football fans and maybe stir up the rivalry a bit.

In today’s journalism racket, I’m known as a “one-man band.” There was a time when a local TV story was covered by a whole crew that included a reporter, a camera operator, and maybe even a sound person who dangled a boom microphone. Today, due to new technology and budget cuts, one person does it all, and in this case, that’s me. Back in journalism school, I learned how to operate cameras, position mics, test sound, edit tape, and so on. And now, all those skills have made me a valuable asset as a general assignment reporter for WJAX.

Typically, after getting the footage, I edit on my laptop or even on my phone, add a voiceover, and create a package that’s aired old school or shown on cable or a streaming channel like Hulu, YouTube TV, or Slingbox. You get the idea. The package is also uploaded to the station’s website so it can be viewed online and searched for years to come, which is good for search engine optimization. “Who clicks what” drives our coverage as much as newsworthiness or traditional ratings. I do my best to give my bosses a visually interesting and entertaining take on the day’s news. While I certainly didn’t get into journalism to chase clicks, review analytics, or drive ratings, I recognize that’s the business I’m in today. What I do is pretty far from hard news, but frankly, that’s a whole other conversation, better suited for a barstool.

I arrived at the Waterfront in midafternoon, glad to find not everybody drunk yet. The University of Florida versus the University of Georgia football game draws thousands of fans to Jacksonville every October for a weekend of partying viewed as one of college football’s great spectacles. The pre-game used to be known as “The World’s Largest Outdoor Cocktail Party,” but that name has been canceled by politically correct sorts. Even so, many fans still reminisce about great moments at “the cocktail party.” Call it a term of endearment—they don’t want to drop it just yet.

I had a good time getting some fun sound bites from the fans, lots of “this is our year,” recollections of legendary plays, tales of woe, and of course, the infinite complaints from armchair quarterbacks about what actual quarterbacks should do. Three Georgia fans tied a noose around a toy stuffed alligator the size of a German Shepherd and dragged it around the Waterfront to alternating choruses of jeers and cheers. The fans were into it, so I shot some footage.

Although I’ll be cheering on my Gators tomorrow, I kept it myself when I shoved a microphone toward their painted faces. When they asked me where I went to school, I didn’t lie. I just skipped undergrad and told them I went to Columbia for journalism, which is true. Around the world, that grad school’s pedigree opens a few doors, and New York is where I really learned to be a television reporter.

After I’d gotten enough interviews, I returned to my station-issued SUV and started editing my footage in preparation for the 5 o’clock news and a live shot from the Waterfront. The stuffed gator bit turned out to be pretty funny, and I was satisfied the package would give editors the light-hearted intro to the weekend that they were looking for. I seem to have carved a space for myself as the station's go-to reporter for events like this. I have covered my share of hard-hitting news events but have always felt more comfortable talking to people and doing more feature and lifestyle stories. I do know I will need a well-rounded reel if I want to get promoted out of this market, but today’s story is my kind of assignment because I understand this crazed football culture: The party is silly. The game is serious.

For the live shot, I found a spot near a large concrete planter so my tripod would be less likely to be bumped by a tipsy fan. I positioned my camera to face out toward the St. Johns River but with plenty of room to catch the fans walking back and forth.

I checked my sound levels with my earpiece and lapel mic.

I listened as one of the anchors introduced the segment: “We are going live at the Waterfront with WJAX’s Pete Lemaster, who’s talking with fans before tomorrow’s big game.”

I flashed a big smile and consciously dipped into the deep end of my voice’s register, then in three, two, one. . . I was on the air.

I had a quick and breezy on-air chat with the anchors back in the studio, and then I played the video package. As it ran, the crowd of beer-guzzling fans grow bigger and louder, and then the anchors were back in my earpiece with a few witty remarks. They asked me who I would be rooting for, and I made my Columbia joke and then said, “But you guys know I bleed orange and blue,” which drew some yelps and howls from a mixed group of fans who had stopped to watch. And then I was out.

I was slated for another live shot, but not until 6 p.m., leaving me time to catch up on messages and grab a snack. The wings, burgers, and fries, not to mention the beer, looked and smelled great, but the camera adds ten pounds, and one wing might turn into a dozen and a test of willpower, which I wasn’t quite ready to endure. Looking fit on camera is as important as having a strong chin and a full head of hair. And a brain.

As I put away my handheld mic and pondered whether to down a bun-less cheeseburger, I saw confused faces running away from the Waterfront. Then people started running and screaming like they were in a disaster movie.

The fast runners were slicing through slow ones, shoving people aside and knocking people down.

Women were crying.

Children were screaming for their parents.

Some of the bigger men picked up the women they were just holding hands with and carried them as they ran, like firefighters sprinting out of a burning building.

I froze. What the hell is going on?

As the crowd thinned, I saw him. A man wearing a motorcycle helmet about forty yards away was pacing in front of the High Topper sneaker store and waving a rifle.

Holy shit, an active shooter.

Bam. He fired a shot in the air.

People hit the ground and crawled for cover. More crying.

Without thinking, I crouched down, turned my camera toward him, and hit “record” before dropping behind the concrete planter. I hooked my foot around one leg of the camera’s tripod.

A few people seemed to like my planter idea and crammed in next to me. A girl in a UGA tanktop whimpered beside me, literally curled in a fetal position.

A drunk man in Gator attire crouched behind me and slurred, “Is this for real, is this for real? What the fuck, man?”

“Stay down, bro,” I whispered.

Do I run? Stay put?

I don’t own a gun, and I wouldn’t have been carrying it even if I did. The only weapon I had on me was one of my Buck pocketknives, which wouldn’t do much against a rifle.

I peeked over the planter and watched in horror as another man wearing a blue baseball cap quickly shuffled toward the shooter. He was holding a pistol with two hands, his arms extended out like he knew what he was doing. Maybe a cop but in street clothes. Dressed like any other fan.

Blue baseball cap slowed to a deliberate and methodical-looking pace, just to the right of me and about thirty yards from the shooter, who was then holding the rifle flatly against his chest.

Bam, bam, bam. Three shots. The guy with the rifle crumbled to the ground, his gun hitting the concrete with a loud clack.

Blue baseball cap then bent down and gently set his pistol on the ground before he raised his hands in the air.

“Holy shit, he got ‘em,” I said to the drunk Gator fan.

Jacksonville sheriff’s deputies seemed to come out of nowhere and quickly surrounded blue baseball cap.

All the cops had their guns drawn, some looking around the shops and up at the rooftops.

They told everyone to stay down. A few seemed to attend to the shooter.

The crowd of police grew even bigger, and I couldn’t see much anymore.

Loud cries, unmistakably from a woman, pierced through the shattered window of the High Topper.

I stayed down but lay prone to stretch out and see if I could pull the tripod to me without knocking it over.

While I was still shaking and seeing people running and screaming—and literally grown men crying—I thought the danger was over.

Holy shit. Holy fucking shit! I think I’ve just filmed some dude take down an active shooter in high def.

After a few deep breaths, I got to my feet only to hear a cop yell at everyone to stay down.

I slid down to one knee behind the planter and saw the number of police and security guards at the Waterfront growing exponentially. Again, my gut said this thing was over, but survival instincts and guys with guns were enough to keep me low to the ground. This would be a stupid moment to be killed by the good guys.

Cops started to talk to witnesses and move some folks away from the body.

After another short moment, I started to lower the legs on the tripod so I could reach the camera. I finally retrieved it and sat down on the ground with my back to the crime scene, still behind my concrete planter.

I stopped the recording and watched the camera go blank. I still had my lapel mic on, my earpiece dangling behind me.

More cops and security guards were coming into the Waterfront, but I was focused on my camera, and whispered softly, This could be big. Career-changing big.

I put in my earpiece, pressed play, and watched the screen.

0:01 The shooter paces and waves the rifle in the air. He’s wearing a motorcycle helmet with the shield down, a gray sweatshirt, and jeans.

0:03 Screams. Crowds of fans running. Screaming throughout.

0:05 Mumbling between me, the UGA girl, and the drunk guy.

0:07 Drunk guy: “Is this for real, is this for real, what the fuck, man?”

0:11 Me: “Stay down, bro.”

0:15 Blue baseball cap approaches the shooter. He looks like any other fan. Jeans, T-shirt but clearly armed.

0:18 Shooter turns toward blue baseball cap.

0:20 Bam, bam, bam. Bullets hit the shooter.

0:21 The shooter falls to the ground.

0:24 Me: “Holy shit, he got ‘em.”

0:30 More screams, and blue baseball cap puts down his gun and raises his arms in the air.

0:32 Police start to converge.

Thirty seconds of journalistic gold. I had it, and a lot of people were gonna want it.

I immediately called my colleague, Ted Stone, at the newsroom.

He didn’t even say hello, just, “Pete, they’re saying shots fired at the Waterfront. Where are you? Did you see anything?”

“I got it all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Holy shit, you’re not gonna believe it,” I said, “I have footage of the shooting.”

“OK, OK,” Ted said. “But what the hell happened?”

“A good Samaritan just took down an active shooter. I have the whole thing,” I said between breaths.

“Are you fucking kidding me? An active shooter on Florida-Georgia weekend, and you got it on camera?” As a former newspaper crime reporter and investigative producer, Ted immediately knew how big this was.

“Yep, tell the brass,” I said.

“I will,” Ted said. “But Pete, listen to me. You need to send that footage over right away and then see what else you can find out. The cops are gonna want to see it, but send it to us first. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “I’ll send it to you right now. Ted, the shooting is the big headline. But the subtext here is that this guy got dropped by somebody in the crowd. This is gonna get nuts.”

“The cops are gonna want it, probably in the next few minutes,” Ted said. “And we should give it to them, but let’s get it saved to our server and talk to Rod about getting it on the air.”

“Sending it now,” I said. “Then I’m gonna go see what else I can find out.”

“Keep your phone close,” Ted said as he hung up.

I knew jaws would be dropping all over WJAX. This was big.

It took a couple of minutes to upload the video clip to the station’s server, which gave me a chance to collect my thoughts. I took a bunch of deep breaths, like I’d learned in yoga classes, and exhaled slowly after each one.

Upload done.

I grabbed the camera and the tripod and started to walk through the crowd, now a confused mix of law enforcement officers and fans, some clearly stunned and upset, others gawking. Police were tightly packed near the body, but I was able to see the shooter lying on his side. Bloody and definitely dead. The police had taken the helmet off. He looked Anglo, probably in his late twenties, clean-shaven, and hair trimmed above his ears. He had on jeans, running shoes, and the gray sweatshirt. From my viewpoint, I could see only three letters on the sweatshirt, USN. I’d been around this town long enough to know the fourth letter was an A. United States Naval Academy.

Oh man, the plot thickens if this guy’s Navy.

I tried to get closer, but a Jacksonville sheriff’s office deputy saw my gear and told me to back up. “The media guys will probably set up an area for reporters in a few minutes, but right now, this is an active crime scene,” he added. He didn’t ask if I had any footage.

“Is Rebecca Dawes coming?” I asked.

“You know Rebecca?” he said.

“Yep.”

Know her? Worship her might be more fitting.

The flatfooted officer said he imagined she’d be here soon.

I’d covered a few crime scenes in Jacksonville, and only the big ones drew out major players like Rebecca Dawes. She was smart, fair, conscientious, and incredibly nice. And easily the prettiest cop you will ever meet.

She'd attended UF, like me, but we didn’t overlap. I met her a year ago at a press conference, and a few days later, I asked her out. She politely said that she was dating a marketing executive for the Jacksonville Jaguars. I still flirt with her whenever I see her, and she humors me.

I sent Rebecca a text. I could have called her, but I guessed a call during the biggest crime of the year from a guy who had unsuccessfully asked her out nine times would get pushed to voicemail.

I let my thumbs do the talking: This is Pete Lemaster at WJAX. I’m at the Waterfront. I have the whole thing. Call me.

Thirty seconds later, my phone rang. It was Rebecca.

“Hey, I’m at the Waterfront, are you on your way?” I asked.

“Yes, of course. What do you mean you have the whole thing?”

“I was filming a package about the cocktail party and did my standup right before the guy was shot,” I said. “I spun my camera around and got the whole thing.”

“Holy crap, we’re gonna need that footage, Pete.”

“I know,” I said. “Wewant you guys to have it, but I don’t need one of your lunkheads seizing my gear. It’s already in the cloud on our server. Anyway, what I’m saying is, your people and the feds can get it from the station, but I can show it to you when you get here so it doesn’t catch you off-guard.”

“Are you OK?” she asked.
Wait, is she concerned? About me?

“Yeah, I’m fine. It was nuts, but I’m OK.”

“That’s good,” she said. “Now tell me exactly what you saw.”

I hustled through the details of the clip. “One more thing. You’re going to be good to me, right?”

“What does that mean?”

“Ha, nothing inappropriate.” I laughed. “No, listen, I need you to help me stay a step ahead of the Evening Star and anyone else who comes sniffing around down here. Deal?”

“Sounds like you’re already ahead, but ‘deal,’” she said and hung up.

The Florida Evening Star was the only local daily newspaper still in business in Jacksonville. It had been the paper of record in the area for decades, and they were our main competition for reporting real news.

I saw a small crowd gathering around a woman in a UF hoodie. A young guy with a reporter’s notebook was asking her questions. I leaned in and saw his ID badge.

Dammit, Evening Star.

The woman was explaining that blue baseball cap was her boyfriend and they’d come to the Waterfront for an alumni happy hour and barbecue.

I overheard her say they ran for cover and then her boyfriend took out his gun and fired two, or maybe three, shots at the shooter. The reporter took this down, and then another eyewitness started rattling her version of the incident, at which point the Evening Star reporter turned away from the girlfriend. Hack move.