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EARLY ON A THURSDAY MORNING in 1992, just before that year's long Independence Day Weekend, a dozen officers from the San Bernardino and Los Angeles County Sheriff's Departments and the West Covina Police kicked in Bernice Hatfield's front door. Hearing what sounded like an explosion, followed by footsteps, falling furniture and shouting, Bernice rushed to the top of the stairs in her modest suburban condominium, and looked down on a vision of terror. Guns drawn, the police stood in the knees-bent, two-hands-on-the pistol crouch that tells every television viewer that bullets are sure to fly.
The officers were calling for the surrender of her 17-year-old son ...