Symbols of a tragic time

Jenifer Ragland

o7 A playground. A tree. A wall. A plaque. A lawsuit.

Alone, they are simple, everyday things. The trivial, the inanimate, the

inevitable.

But together, they can forge a powerful story.

A story of innocence. Of unthinkable tragedy. Of a suffering community’s

swift resolve to recover and rebuild. Of the healing and celebration of

life that eventually comes. And of the slap of cold, hard reality once

again.

A year ago today, at 5:15 p.m., a man drove his brown 1967 Cadillac

through a chain-link fence that separated Santa Ana Avenue from about 30

preschoolers at the Southcoast Early Childhood Learning Center. The car

careened into the playground, running over children before smashing into

a tree.

Two children, 3-year-old Brandon Wiener and 4-year-old Sierra Soto, were

killed. Police said the driver, Santa Ana resident Steven Allen Abrams,

told them he did it on purpose, with the specific intent of “executing”

innocent children.

While Abrams makes his way through the legal system -- his case has yet

to go to trial and his attorneys are weighing a possible insanity plea --

five symbols remain of that sad afternoon last May.

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The Playground

It looked like any other tot lot. A sandbox. A dollhouse. A colorful

jungle gym resembling a castle. Though the yard was teeming with young

life, thousands of people drove by it every day, probably not giving it a

second thought.

The children at the day-care center loved the playground. They escaped

their classrooms and played there at least twice a day, squealing with

delight as they chased each other and engaged in games such as tag and

hide-and-seek.

Then, in a split second -- the time it takes a car to burst through a

fence -- everything changed. The children’s gleeful sounds were replaced

by horrific screams. Their once-safe haven invaded by darkness.

As the community soaked in the tragedy and stepped up to help, the

playground, day by day, was transformed -- the fence torn down, the

sandbox moved, new donated equipment erected. It changed from a reminder

of the nightmarish scene to one that had regained some sense of normalcy.

A year later, it has the unique quality of being similar enough to be a

reminder of the tragedy, but different enough to make it bearable.

“I don’t think I could have worked out on the yard if it was the same,”

said Carrie McCluskey, assistant director at the preschool. “Because it’s

different, it’s inviting.”

The Tree

It was one of the biggest heroes that day.

The towering pine that served as a source of shade for the preschoolers

and provided them with plenty of pine cones for arts and crafts projects

was the only thing standing in the way of the speeding Cadillac and

several toddlers.

The tree took a severe blow. The huge car left a deep gash across its

trunk, so devastating that the tree eventually had to be uprooted because

it posed a safety hazard.

Many parents of children who were protected by the tree grew attached to

the gentle giant, even protesting its removal. For them, it was the

ultimate symbol of salvation.

The tree is now gone, but pieces of it still exist -- in circular

slabs where it once stood on the playground, in classrooms and in the

homes of children who were saved by it.

The Wall

The memorial started almost instantly.

Hundreds of people from all over Southern California came by the small

preschool to pay their respects, to mourn the loss of the two children

and remember them with emotion-filled letters and written messages.

Around the scarred playground quickly grew a collection of flowers,

plants, candles, toys and cards.

And in the aftermath, with the hurt still fresh, there was a common

reaction: Something like this can never happen again.

So when the sprawling memorial was cleared from the perimeter of the

playground, a wall needed to be built. A sturdy barrier to replace the

flimsy chain-link fence that once surrounded the day-care center.

The wall would provide protection from the evil, unpredictable world. It

would be a large, visible bandage for the still-suffering preschool. And

it would be a symbol of community support.

Local businesses donated $50,000 in materials. School officials and

nearby residents and churchgoers put in the sweat equity. And they had a

wall.

The concrete-and-iron structure, which was built strong enough to stop a

big-rig truck, was at first controversial within the school community.

While some saw it as a painful but necessary barrier to the outside

world, others worried that it would give the children a false sense of

security or instill in them even more fear.

Then the wall stirred controversy among some of the day-care center’s

neighbors, who said it blocked their view of the street from narrow

alleyways where they parked. They wanted it torn down.

The spat with the neighbors -- eventually smoothed over by City Manager

Allan Roeder, who allowed the wall to remain -- foreshadowed more

divisive battles to come.

“For me, with the wall I felt a sense of comfort,” said Pamela Wiener,

Brandon’s mother, whose daughter, Shaya, also attended the preschool

until recently. “Unfortunately it was a little too late.”

The Plaque

It is a symbol of healing and closure, and etched into its granite plates

are two more, representing the short but happy lives of Sierra and

Brandon.

She was a shooting star, a bright light who just might have risen to the

top as a dancer.

He was all boy, a caring, lovable little thing -- his favorite stuffed

animal a cuddly teddy bear.

The memorial is mounted on the concrete wall at the corner of Santa Ana

Avenue and Magnolia Street -- the exact point where Abrams’ Cadillac

rammed through the chain-link fence.

By christening the location with the names, the community could say a

proper goodbye. Time had passed, the tragedy had softened and it now

seemed appropriate to celebrate the children’s short lives.

“When I look at it, I’m glad it was put up,” McCluskey said. “Like

anybody’s human emotions, you can look at it and be happy, and look at it

and be sad.”

More than 100 people attended the dedication ceremony in January to once

again show support for the center and the families. They cried, laughed,

prayed and remembered.

“It was one of the worst events that has happened in our city,” Costa

Mesa Police Chief Dave Snowden said at the time. “The plaque dedication

is a way of turning a very unhappy situation into something positive.”

The Lawsuits

If every tragedy is followed by renewal or redemption, so is it that the

austere snap of reality follows. In this case, the families of both

children filed lawsuits, reopening wounds, igniting debate.

Although the community probably should have seen them coming, the

lawsuits nevertheless hit hard, knocking the wind out of people.

The Wieners filed their lawsuit only days after the plaque dedication

ceremony in January. The Sotos would file theirs two months later.

“Honestly, it’s like a family member suing me,” center Director Sheryl

Hawkinson said at the time.

The civil lawsuits name not only Abrams, the driver of the Cadillac, but

the preschool itself and its owners, Coastal Lighthouse Community Church.

As they have in other cases -- most notably the death of Newport Harbor

High School student Donny Bridgman and severe injury of Homecoming Queen

Amanda Arthur in May 1997 -- the lawsuits divided the community.

Many wonder how the Sotos and the Wieners could sue the day-care center

after all the support -- the hugs, the prayers, the donations -- they had

received from teachers and parents in the aftermath of the crash.

But the families argue that the lawsuits are intended to promote better

safety standards at day-care centers. Had the concrete wall that now

surrounds the playground been there last May, the children’s young lives

would have been spared.

Ensuring that safety at other day-care centers is the hope that Wiener

clings to as she prepares to endure what promises to be one of the most

painful chapters of the story: the courtroom.

“Of course, I hope that there will be some good out of it, and what Cindy

[Soto] and I are fighting for, if we can make that happen, we will have

done something for our future grandchildren,” Wiener said.

o7 The playground, the tree, the wall, the plaque, the lawsuits.

Remnants of a day that left two children dead and lasting symbols of the

very best and the vert worst of our community.f7