Death and water

Last Wednesday, I drove to downtown Los Angeles to review documents I requested at the Metropolitan Water District of Southern California. The review is part of my ongoing water coverage of different agencies that supply water to our area.

After a couple of hours, I left the building, hopped in my car, and headed back to the Trib's office. During my drive, I got to thinking about the different types of stories I've done so far on these water districts. I've written about directors who potentially abuse their travel expenses, other directors who are being investigated by the District Attorney's office and other agencies that have unusual spending policies.

As these thoughts were going through my head, I braced myself for the traffic on the freeway. I pressed my foot on the brake, but the car didn't stop. I pumped the brake a few times, gripped the wheel, convinced myself I was going to die.

As the car started to slow down and I headed to the mechanic, I realized what was really going on: Some one cut the brake lines.

For 12 hours, I really believed that my coverage was so threatening to someone that they wanted me dead. But once I got the call from the mechanic, who told me that nothing was cut and that it was a leaking brake line, it hit me: I'm not important enough -- and my stories aren't good enough -- for someone to want to kill me. Not yet, anyway.