‘This bombing is now being treated by the LAPD as a homicide as it resulted in the death of a security guard who worked at the clinic.’ I stared blankly at the set, feeling myself in freefall. Even though I knew the guy with the taser couldn’t have survived, hearing it confirmed on the television was beyond terrible. Would that image of him on fire – and me finding a hose and trying to extinguish the flames engulfing him – ever go away? Would I keep replaying it years from now?

I sat down at our little kitchen table, trying to steady myself. I wanted to tell my wife that I’d been there, that I’d seen that man die. Instead I stayed silent. I learned that the security guard killed was named Jose Fernandez; that he had a wife and two children, and that the police were looking for a motorcycle courier who threw ‘the homemade bomb’ that exploded in the clinic’s front doorway. There was also an interview with the head of the Well Woman Clinic, a Dr Mary Morgenstern – who looked shell-shocked and simultaneously defiant. She talked about ‘those who scream that they are pro-life yet engage in an act of domestic terrorism and kill a husband and a father who was simply doing his job and protecting patients and the staff and doctors who work at this clinic’.

I swallowed hard and found myself thinking: in the chaos of yesterday I should have told the cops about seeing the motorcycle courier. But I didn’t get his license number. I didn’t see his face as his helmet visor was deliberately pulled down. But then there was an interview onscreen with the manager of the coffee shop. He said:

‘I saw the guy on a chopper speak into the security phone at the clinic – so he must have told them that he had a package for them or something. The door opened electronically and this guy lit up this rag in a bottle and slammed it into the entranceway. Then … bam! This crazy explosion. Flames everywhere. Never seen anything like that before …’

Well, at least the police had a statement from the other eyewitness. Nothing I could tell them would add to what Mr Coffee Shop told them. And that cop on the scene did order me to run. But I still felt guilt about not giving the police a statement.

‘That poor man who died …’ Agnieska said. ‘Why did he take that job? Of all places to work …’

I could see her turn away, knowing full well that she was crossing over into that territory which was a minefield for us; that continued to drive us further apart. This morning, however, after all that had gone down, all that I’d witnessed, I found myself unable to ignore her, to stay silent.

‘Maybe he didn’t have a choice,’ I said. ‘Maybe it was the only job on offer.’