Jeff infused our apartment with laughter and light that year before breaking our hearts by heading to USC film school in LA. On so many occasions, he’d been a lifesaver. One time, I was called out of town to cover a breaking story and wasn’t able to attend Parents Night. I couldn’t bear the idea of Ellie finding the picture she’d drawn for me still in her cubby the next morning, so I called Jeff in a panic. He canceled his plans and sprinted to Spence, by far the cutest “dad” in the classroom.
THE STORY THAT kept me from Parents Night was one of the biggest of my career.
I’d been at an AIDS fundraiser in a Broadway theater when I got a call from Jeff Zucker: “There’s been a shooting at a high school in Colorado,” he said. “A lot of kids are dead. You’ve got to get on a plane ASAP.”
Horrific details were emerging. Two students in black trench coats carrying assault weapons had opened fire.
The community was shell-shocked, barely able to absorb what had happened. Finding anyone to talk about it was almost impossible. My tireless producer, Jen Brown, tracked down two people in the throes of grief: 16-year-old Craig Scott, whose sister, Rachel, had been murdered, and Michael Schoels, who’d lost his son Isaiah.
Time sometimes erases the details of the interviews I’ve done through the years, but I vividly remember everything about the morning of April 22nd. The show started at 5:00 a.m. mountain time. A small set had been erected overnight—the giant klieg lights illuminated a steady snowfall.
Craig and Michael were a study in contrasts. Everything about Michael was big—his Dallas Cowboys jacket, his eyeglasses, his gold rings. Craig was slight and blond with a boy-band haircut, looking younger than he was. He was white; Michael was Black.
Michael started to talk about his son, a football player, just five feet tall. “Isaiah was very outgoing; he had a lot to live for,” he said. At the time of the shooting, Isaiah normally would have been at lunch, but instead, he went to finish a paper at the library—where the worst of the carnage took place.
Craig was sitting near Isaiah when a teacher ran in screaming at everyone to get under the tables. The shooters came in, brandishing their guns, and spotted Isaiah. “One said, ‘There’s an N-word over here.’ Isaiah didn’t say anything and they shot Isaiah,” Craig recounted. Hearing the details of what happened to his son—the young man who had been so excited to be the first in his family to go to college that he kept a countdown calendar on the refrigerator—Michael tried to catch his breath as he wiped away a tear that had fallen from his left eye.
Craig told me he had played dead. When the shooters left, he and the remaining kids ran out of the library. Then they prayed for their brothers, sisters, and friends still inside. Craig’s big sister never came out. The gunmen, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, killed 12 of their fellow students and a teacher before turning their weapons on themselves.
While Michael spoke, I instinctively put my hand on his forearm. Then as Craig told his story, Michael reached out and grabbed his hand. At a certain point, Jeff said in my earpiece, “Keep going”—meaning he wasn’t cutting to a commercial.
Later, watching the show from the coffee shop in my hotel when it aired in Colorado, I noticed that the camera kept zooming in on my hand on Michael’s arm, then on Craig’s hand enveloped by Michael’s. I pictured Jeff in the control room shouting at the director, “Go back to Katie’s hand,” “Get their hands,” “Go back to the hands!” I understood all too well the power of a moment like that, but this felt exploitive. The connection we made didn’t need to be manipulated.
The interview garnered accolades for its intensity and sensitivity. When I later learned that Isaiah had been buried in his cap and gown, holding his diploma, the horror of that day washed over me again.
I’ve kept up with Craig Scott through the years. We had lunch in Aspen and a drink in New York; he’s grown into a really fine person. As for Michael Schoels, I heard he’d moved to Texas, then Tennessee. Craig lost track of him after the tenth anniversary of Columbine. I will carry the sadness I witnessed that April morning with me the rest of my life and hope that wherever Michael is, he has found some peace.
43
The Nicest Pal a Guy
Could Have
AT JAY’S FUNERAL, I had Emily ask those who knew him if they’d be willing to write letters to Ellie and Carrie. They are our most prized possessions—the linen-covered boxes we keep them in are the first things I would grab in a fire.