“The wind is causing fires all over the place. Palisades, Malibu, Altadena—big fires. I’ve got to get home and get things. I want to know, can I stay at your place?”
“Of course, if it’s safe.”
Her house was in Altadena. My house was on Fareholm Drive in the hills at the southern end of Laurel Canyon, an area also vulnerable to wildfires.
“Right now your house isn’t in the fire zone,” Maggie said. “I’ll go there. Is the extra key in the same spot?”
I had to think back to when we were married and shared the house.
“Yes, same spot. Hayley’s frog.”
Our daughter had made a frog at a pottery-painting party.
“I’ll see you at the house,” I said. “I’m heading to the airport now, and we’re landing at Burbank around six.”
“No, you’re not,” she said. “Burbank is closing. Probably LAX too. It’s hurricane-force winds.”
I remembered the warning Lorna had mentioned in the office yesterday. I hadn’t watched the news or read a newspaper since then. I had been consumed by the Tidalwaiv case.
“All right, I’ll see what’s going on and I’ll get to the house as soon as I can, Mags. Stay safe.”
“You too.”
I disconnected. Once we were in the rental but before we left, I filled McEvoy in. “Sounds like L.A. is burning and Burbank is grounding flights.”
“Shit. Where are the fires?”
“She mentioned the Palisades, Malibu, and Altadena.”
“Only?”
“I don’t know. Where do you live?”
“Sherman Oaks. In the flats.”
“You should be okay.”
“You?”
“In the hills at the front of Laurel Canyon.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
I looked at the JSX app to see if there was an earlier flight we could take, but there wasn’t; all flights out of Monterey and Oakland to Burbank were either canceled or delayed due to high winds.
I had apps for Delta and American, and I told McEvoy to check United and Southwest for any flights from Bay Area airports to L.A. or Burbank. Every flight I found that was still going to LAX or Burbank or John Wayne Airport in Orange County was booked, likely with travelers who had been moved off canceled flights. McEvoy found the same on the airlines he checked.
“We’re fucked,” he said.
“No,” I said. “We’re driving.”
12
WE CUT OVERto the 5 freeway, but it still took us six hours in heavy traffic to get down to L.A. The rental had satellite radio and we listened to what seemed like around-the-clock wildfire coverage on CNN, NPR, and Fox. McEvoy was also occasionally able to get video feeds on his phone from the KTLA Channel 5 website. Los Angeles was burning in what appeared to be catastrophic firestorms that flanked the county on the west and northeast sides. Maggie called me when she got to my house. She was panicked and angry, reporting that she had not been allowed to get to her home to salvage anything. Despite her standing as the elected district attorney of Los Angeles County, the roadblocks to her neighborhood in Altadena were enforced. Sheriff’s deputies refused to let her through, saying all lanes on the roads were being used for fire department vehicles and to evacuate citizens. Nobody could go in, only out.
The fact that she was safely in my home seemed to be of little consolation to her. After getting instructions from me on how to use the television remote, she said she was parking herself in front of thewall-to-wall coverage on the local channels and hoped there would be a home for her to go back to in the morning.
