Nobody's Girl: A Memoir of Surviving Abuse and Fighting for Justice by Virginia Roberts Giuffre... Final Thoughts

 Part II - Prisoner 

If you feel like letting go (hold on) If you think you’ve had too much Of this life, well hang on —“Everybody Hurts,” R.E.M.

I finished this 3-Part devastating Memoir last night! I was unsure how to proceed and finally decided that I would strongly recommend you read this book, if you care about young and older women's treatment in today's world. Over and over, I was appalled as how Jenna was treated by tabloid news representatives, by those who had actually abused her, as they tried to lie their way out of her accusations... But most of all, as I am prone to do, I connected two major paragraphs in the book...

I felt rage. How entitled and selfish do you have to be to continue hounding and threatening the very victims you’ve hurt before? It drove me crazy to think these people could potentially get away with silencing me for good. When someone on Twitter speculated that the FBI might kill me “to protect the ultrarich and well connected,” I felt the need to respond. If I died suddenly, I tweeted, no one should believe that it was an accident. “I am making it publicly known that in no way, shape, or form am I suicidal,” I typed hastily but resolutely (making several spelling and grammatical errors that I’ve corrected here). “I have made this known to my therapist and GP—If something happens to me—for the sake of my family, do not let this go away and help me to protect them. Too many evil people want to see me quieted.”

~

Donald Trump was now president, and in early 2017 he nominated Alexander Acosta—the former federal prosecutor based in Miami who had approved Epstein’s shameful, secretive nonprosecution agreement—to be secretary of labor. Acosta was confirmed in April 2017.

~

“I don’t want to talk to you,” the woman said. “Jeffrey’s dead, and you helped kill him.” That pissed me off. “I’m not here about what Jeffrey’s done,” I said. “I’m here about what you’ve done.” “I’m calling security,” she said, and soon, we were being escorted off the property.

~

“Ghislaine, twenty-two years ago, in the summer of 2000 you spotted me at the Mar-a-Lago Hotel in Florida and you made a choice. You chose to follow me and procure me for Jeffrey Epstein. Just hours later, you and he abused me together for the first time. “Together, you damaged me physically, mentally, sexually and emotionally. Together, you did unspeakable things that still have a corrosive impact on me to this day. I want to be clear about one thing: without question, Jeffrey Epstein was a terrible pedophile. But I never would have met Jeffrey Epstein if not for you. For me, and for so many others, you opened the door to hell. And then, Ghislaine, like a wolf in sheep’s clothing, you used your femininity to betray us, and you led us all through it.”

The above was written when she was told she could not participate in Maxwell's trial, because it would be "too disruptive..." (Everybody knew her name...) This statement was instead read at the trial as other victims testified... 

~

There are other men whom I was trafficked to who have threatened me in another way: by asserting that they will use litigation to bankrupt me. One of those men’s names has come up repeatedly in various court filings, and in response, he has told my lawyers that if I talk about him publicly, he will employ his vast resources to keep me in court for the rest of my life. While I have named him in sworn depositions and identified him to the FBI, I fear that if I do so again here, my family will bear the emotional and financial brunt of that decision. I have the same fears about another man whom I was forced to have sex with many times—a man whom I also saw having sexual contact with Epstein himself. I would love to identify him here. But this man is very wealthy and very powerful, and I fear that he, too, might engage me in expensive, life-ruining litigation. I do not make this decision to hold back lightly. Part of me wants to shout from the highest rooftop the names of every man who ever used me for sex. Some readers will question my reluctance to name many of my abusers. If I am, indeed, a fighter for justice, why have I not called them out? My answer is simple: Because while I have been a daughter, a prisoner, a survivor, and a warrior, my most important role is that of a mother. First and foremost, I am a parent, and I won’t put my family at risk if I can help it. Maybe in the future I will be ready to talk about these men. But not now.

~~~

As I read, the book moves forward as she tells her story... But the faltering begins, when she begins to learn that those with whom she shared, would backstab her later, often coming back for more "dirt" than she was willing to give or to insinuate that she was not telling the whole story--that she was getting rich and famous...et.al., I recognized a brave woman that was willing to stand up and be brave... she shares of interaction online and about her desire and action to help not only those who were abused by Epstein, but the many others--she includes many recent events that have occurred after the Me-Too movement began and how it moved across the country like a fire of those who had been abused in some way... I joined that group...

At one point I was also going to write a memoir, with the title, A Single Christian Woman: Is Sex All That? As you know, I quickly abandoned that once I started paying attention to the news in 2015 and saw just how even a president can treat women who got in his way, or even just didn't support him... Since then I've read many fictional and nonfiction books describing what can and has been done to women... And when I read the story of Tamar, the daughter of King David during early times, I learned...and began to wonder... have we not learned anything since the death of Jesus for us?

Instead, not only rape, but ongoing abuse, trafficking for sex, and so much more is done to today's girls and women... A major book became available years ago about the grooming of our teenagers... Nothing significant has occurred. Indeed during the last decade we learned over and over about the rich and famous using out children for sexual favors... And, today, the leader of the House has sent everybody home, rather than having to deal with a request to release the huge volume of documentation that was accumulated on the Epstein case... Simply because Trump and Epstein were friends for ten years...

So, let's take a final look at the reality of the massive  misogyny that began in the "BC" years--the days of harems, of the theft of daughters from citizens to become a member of the King's courts... Until today.

Of course, there were times of women speaking out to gain the right to vote, to gain equal pay for equal work... Little things like that... Sarcasm intended...

But, still, when it comes to sexual abuse, the ratio of women to men has always been extremely different. Why is that? Why is it when one young girl out of hundreds, possibly thousands of teenagers is chosen, escaped, finally found love, that she is hounded not only by those who had abused her, but those who are afraid of her desire to help solve this major problem?

Could it be that the young boys were never taught to actually respect women--their mothers, their sisters, and later their children? Perhaps because they read that King David did nothing when one of his children was raped, and another, a brother, committed murder in retribution... We began to question what our lives would have been like in biblical times...

Or is it just those who chose power over others, in whatever form, in order to achieve their own personal goals of greed which their power had permitted?

Jenna, yes, did write of her time when she thought it would be better for her family if she was gone... She did try suicide... But remember, by that time, there were trucks driving up to their home, sitting in a menacing manner... There were break-ins as well... There were trolls on social media who blamed her or thought she did it for the money, the glamor of her abuser's attention... Get real. No young virgin has ever thought about selling her body for the honor of being abused night after night, of being trafficked to men who were not even named--all they did was rape her... And sometimes even physically attack her bodily... 

What I know is that, after reading her book and what I might have written about my own abuse, it was minor in comparison of what this young woman went through... Yet, she tried throughout her life, to forgive those family members who participated in her early abuse that was even before her teen years...

I have to ask about Jenna... Did she die just as we all believe that Epstein died? Was she murdered? She goes from claiming early that she would not ever commit suicide due to her experiences... Yet, by the end of her book, she had changed it to admit that there were a number of powerful people so influential that she was afraid to even reveal their names... What happened between the first firm statement of her not being the type to commit suicide... To, by the interaction with news reporters, lawyers representing her as the victim, against the lawyers of those powerful men who she knew were so powerful that she became more afraid for her husband and three children, than for herself... Will these possibilities ever be considered further, I doubt it... 

Right now, the victims, which included Jenna have come together as a sisterhood, working individually and in a group to ensure that what Epstein and Maxwell did to them would be made public... And, right now, the Speaker of the House has sent the members of Congress home for months...for fear that the ultimate ability to vote on the release of the Epstein files, when a new member is sworn in, which he has delayed purposely, and required to proceed with the vote...

We all know that there is only one man who wants the files to never be released... The man who controls the Speaker and everybody else he brought with him...

I really wish I could understand how so many of those who were Christians suddenly bowed down to a man who is now tearing the nation and much of the world apart... What I do know is that Jenna was a woman who I admire, who felt strongly about helping others who had gone through the years of turmoil she had experienced in her life... 

And why powerful men choose to believe that they have the right to do anything they want with the bodies of females... There is no mention of God being a part of her life, before she met Robbie... She began to learn about life--love--when she was 19...

Experts say that children learn by the age of four what they will learn from their parents...

Except if the love learned becomes a nightmare of pain and confusion... That child has also learned...

I was thrilled that Jenna did finally learn about love... And when she had a daughter, especially, that she was even more convinced that she had to work to change this world... I pray that her death will not be in vain...

GABixlerReviews 

If you’ve read this far, I hope my story has moved you—to seek ways to free yourself from a bad situation, say, to stand up for someone else in need, or to simply reframe how you judge victims of sexual abuse. Each one of us can make positive change. I truly believe that. I hope for a world in which predators are punished, not protected; victims are treated with compassion, not shamed; and powerful people face the same consequences as anyone else. I yearn, too, for a world in which perpetrators face more shame than their victims do and where anyone who’s been trafficked can confront their abusers when they are ready, no matter how much time has passed. We don’t live in this world yet—I mean, seriously: Where are those videotapes the FBI confiscated from Epstein’s houses? And why haven’t they led to the prosecution of any more abusers?—but I believe we could someday. Imagining it is the first step. In my mind, I hold a picture of a girl reaching out for help and easily finding it. I picture a woman, too, who—having come to terms with her childhood pain—feels that it’s within her power to take action against those who hurt her. If this book moves us even an inch closer to a reality like that—if it helps just one person—I will have achieved my goal.

Another Victim...

Nobody's Girl by Virginia Roberts Giuffre - The Music Stops... Part 2

 One night we were in his room, and rain was pouring down outside. Tony put The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” on his stereo, and we ended up having sex. I was probably fourteen. I’d find out later that it had been his first time.

The music seemed to stop when she was approached by a woman at her Mar-a-Lago job, where she happened to be standing in for another employee in the Massage area... Her short time with a peer friend, Tony, had ended and, as most people know, this was to lead to Jenna's life with Epstein and his consort. Jenna was asked the right questions--did she work here? Did she do massages? Maxwell asked all the right questions. And then proposed that she meet a man who needed massages and Maxwell said she would teach her...

It wasn't surprising that Maxwell took her to a private home--a magnificent home--which started her fear, her confusion... And when she was taken almost immediately into a room where a naked man lay, she grew petrified. Maxwell knew just what to do. She took her arm and explained that she would begin teaching her right from the beginning. They moved to his feet. Maxwell took the right leg; Jenna was to follow exactly what she would do... And they began...

At some point, Epstein began asking about her past "experience" and then used that to manipulate how he related to her. Unfortunately, the combination of fear of men together with a fear received in her early life, that she had no choice but to obey, Jenna soon became a favorite to Epstein. She traveled everywhere with them. She was told she would be on-call 24/7 and no excuses would be accepted... Jenna then was given a tour of the home and "began work" immediately...

While there are always fear, Jenna could not help but be excited with all the clothes that were purchased for her, even jewelry... And, she was always pulled into the many party-type events where there were older rich and sometimes famous men there. She recognized several. She learned though that those who attended were selected for their own privilege and wealth. They came from everywhere, even higher education institutions, politics, and, of course, anybody who was rich enough to be in the same social arena... Jenna normally stayed with Epstein and his consort and they became a known threesome who traveled together... 

Until it was time for the next step. Jenna began to be trafficked to other men, wherever they asked her to be. No details are to be provided here. Men AND women can realize what was happening... Until a prime minister got rough and she was rushed to a hospital... But it passed... Then began a discussion of what might come next when she was back "home."

Jenna was an intelligent girl, obviously acquainted with the world where men use children for their own purposes. 

As I became a regular at Epstein’s house, it was difficult to avoid the demeaning nature of this transactional relationship. Epstein took delight in explaining to me, for example, that he had painted his house pink because “I love pink. Pink is for pussy!” But so many of my connections to men had been humiliating that I think I saw this one as a challenge; maybe for once, I thought, I could make it work for me. This only makes sense, of course, when you consider how little I’d grown up hoping for. As Epstein used me to satisfy his perverse appetites, I rationalized that perhaps he might also help me to better myself. If he and Maxwell made good on their promise to get me trained as a masseuse, perhaps that would set me on a path to freedom and prosperity. I told myself it was worth the gamble. But then, probably two weeks after I’d met them, Epstein upped the ante. I was upstairs, cleaning up after another “massage,” when Epstein told me to come to his office. “How about you quit your job at Mar-a-Lago,” he said, “and work for me full time?” Unsure what to say, I admitted I was worn out from pulling double shifts each day—the first at the spa, the second at El Brillo Way. Epstein nodded. He wanted to make things easier on me, he said. But he had a few conditions. As his employee, I would be at his beck and call, day and night. No exceptions. When he said, “Jump!” my response would have to be, “How high?” And another thing: I could no longer live in my parents’ trailer. Seeing me come and go at all hours might make them suspicious, he said, and he didn’t want that. He held out a wad of cash—probably $2,500. “Use this,” he said, “to rent yourself an apartment.” I was stunned. I’d never held that much money in my hand before. I thanked him, even as a twinge of worry crept into my head. By this point, I had seen dozens of girls coming and going from his house. Many came once and never returned. If he got rid of them so quickly, would Epstein eventually throw me away too? It felt foolish to rely on him for my livelihood. Epstein must’ve sensed my qualms, though, because he walked around his desk, picked up a grainy photograph, and handed it to me. The image had been taken from some distance, but it was unmistakably my little brother. Skydy was walking away from the camera; I could see his backpack, and the outline of the side of his face. I felt a stab of fear. Why did Epstein have a photo of the person I loved most in the world? “We know where your brother goes to school,” Epstein said. He let that sink in for a moment, then got to the point: “You must never tell a soul what goes on in this house.” He was smiling, but his threat was clear: should I ever be tempted to betray him and go to the authorities, he would hurt Skydy. I stared at him. He stared back. “And I own the Palm Beach Police Department,” he said, “so they won’t do anything about it.”

~~~

It’s taken me a long time to understand that Epstein and Maxwell solidified their power over me by offering me a new sort of family. Epstein was the patriarch, Maxwell the matriarch, and these roles were not merely implied. Maxwell liked to call the girls who regularly serviced Epstein her “children.” She and Epstein once took me to a boat show in Palm Beach and spent the afternoon introducing me as their daughter, just for kicks. As bizarre as that sounds, it felt kind of good to me. Less good, given my history, was that Epstein sometimes insisted that I call him “Daddy” during sex. While I was hardly equipped to judge, it often seemed to me that Epstein and Maxwell behaved like actual parents. The first time we ate a meal together, for example, they were appalled by my table manners. So Maxwell taught me how to hold a knife and fork, just so, and to fold my napkin in my lap, the way civilized people do. Soon, she’d be telling me how to do my makeup, how to dress, and where to get my hair cut (the celebrity stylist Frédéric Fekkai groomed many of the girls in Epstein’s world, including me). Even then, part of me knew she was having her dentists whiten my teeth, or sending me to a waxer to remove my body hair, to please Epstein. But the role Maxwell played in my life sometimes felt like more than that. One day in the fall

 of 2000, we heard “Yellow,” Coldplay’s new love song, on the car radio. I loved it and couldn’t get the tune out of my head. A day later, Maxwell presented me with the CD as a gift. She also gave me my first cell phone. Of course, it served her to have me on a short tether, for her and Epstein’s use. But the gift also felt vaguely protective. I was no expert on mothers, but in those early days, I sometimes imagined Maxwell as mine. —

As Jenna got deeper and deeper, she began to realize and think about how many girls came a few times and then left, never to be seen again... So that, later, when discussions began about planning for the future,

But what they asked me to do for them still shocked me. I knew I had to stall somehow... 

Jenna willingly discussed their plans, but, she brought up the promised training to become a certified masseuse and begged time to have than occur before any future plans were firm. Fortunately, that was agreeable and Maxwell found the, supposed, best place to be taught... It was in Thailand...

Arrangements were quickly made by Maxwell, as usual, and soon Jenna was traveling alone to a strange country, on her own, for the first time in over two years. There was a feeling of freedom, underneath, her very much being afraid...

But she was soon taking classes, meeting those who were at or near her age, and even having friends. One in particular would spend time with her, going places that she wouldn't have gone alone... And one day, he mentioned that his friend was in town--would she want to meet him...

Unexpectedly, the story take a sharp turn, Jenna saw a man surrounded by others. She was intrigued, wondering who he was. And then, he looked up at her, as if he could feel her eyes upon him. They stood staring at each other--as they say, everything disappeared but the two of them... Love at first sight... Robbie wanted to be married at the Soi Suthep Temple... 

At one point, I asked Robbie if he believed in God. “God is like the wind,” he said, explaining how reading about paganism had taught him to see God in nature. “Can you see the wind? No. But you can feel it when it brushes your cheek.” Did I believe in God? I couldn’t answer that. I’d always been comforted by the idea of reincarnation because it promised that my piss-poor excuse for a life was not the only one I was going to get. But God? I wasn’t sure. Hadn’t Forrest, one of my earliest abusers, invoked God to manipulate me—just as the counselors at Growing Together had done? In my experience, God had been wielded by others to get what they wanted. Still, meeting Robbie at the very moment I needed him most seemed the best evidence I’d ever had of the existence of something divine. Lying in the sand on that pristine island, exchanging stories about our lives and our beliefs... 

Soon the relationship had developed and they were serious about each other... Robbie asked him to marry him...She was ecstatic, because they had discussed the past with each other and Jenna was relieved that he still cared for her... Phone calls to parents were done. And then, Robbie told Jenna that she needed to end the connection with Epstein... She was afraid--what if he sent somebody to bring her back?! But she dialed the number and was somewhat relieved Epstein answered?

A few tense moments passed before Epstein picked up. “Hello?” he said, and his voice—that smug Brooklyn growl—sounded impatient. “I fell in love and got married, Jeffrey,” I blurted out. “I’m never coming back.” There was the briefest pause. “Have a great life,” he said. Then a click—Epstein had hung up on me...

To Be Continued...

NOBODY'S GIRL - A Memoir of Surviving Abuse and Fighting for Justice - Published Posthumously by Virginia Roberts Giuffre - Including Playlist - Part 1

My hope is that this book can aim some light at the darkness and force it to crawl back into its cave.

Picture a girl sitting alone on a curb, her face stained with tears. She is fifteen, but so skinny that she appears even younger. She could be pretty, with her blue eyes and long blond hair, but her freckled face is swollen, her throat is bruised, and in her mouth is a taste she will never forget: gunmetal. Bleeding from places she didn’t know she could bleed, this girl has been hurt before, but not like this. A gust of wind makes the palm trees above her shudder. She wipes her bloody lip. What would it be like, she wonders, to matter? Then she sees the stretch limousine. As it glides toward her, black and shiny, the girl catches a glimpse of the driver behind the wheel. Her mind flashes on the limo in Disney’s 101 Dalmatians, the one that Cruella de Vil drives around London, looking for puppies to skin. How many times has she watched that movie? But this isn’t a scene from a cartoon. That’s kids’ stuff, and the girl hasn’t felt like a kid in years. This is real life in Miami, Florida. And the girl is me. Busting out of the juvenile detention facility in Palm Beach County forty-eight hours earlier, I’d been so full of hope. I knew from experience that I needed to ditch my juvie uniform—a navy polo and khakis—or the cops would pick me up right away. So my first stop had been a Marshalls discount store, where I quickly changed into a new T-shirt and jeans and made a show of returning my prison-issue garb, neatly hung on a hanger, to a rack. Then I exited the store without paying and headed straight for Delray Beach. I’ve always been good at talking to strangers. On the sand, I met a stoner dude—way older than me, but with a mellow energy. He was smoking a joint, which he offered to share as we looked out at the Atlantic. When I told him I planned to sleep outside that night, he said I could crash on his couch. I worried that he wanted sex, but I was wrong. When we got to his place, we just smoked some more pot and then he found me a clean towel so I could take a shower. “Please be gone by the morning,” he said before he went to bed. “I go to work early. And please don’t fuck up my house. Do the right thing.” Not all men are monsters. The next morning before dawn, I did the right thing, pulling the front door shut with a quiet click. Then I headed for the train station, where I took most of the money I had—a twenty-dollar bill I’d panhandled from a gas-station attendant—out of my ponytail scrunchie, where I’d hidden it, and bought a one-way ticket to Miami. An hour and a half later, I arrived at the Miami-Dade station, fifty miles south of Palm Beach. I’d run away dozens of times before, but I’d never made it this far. From the station, I headed east on foot, figuring I was about an hour’s walk from the ocean. Right away, I saw the pink and orange glow of a Dunkin’ Donuts up ahead. Back home in Loxahatchee, I’d often begged for change outside the local Dunkin’, so the sight of its logo—a cheerful steaming coffee cup—felt like a good omen. I went inside and bought two of my favorite chocolate-topped donuts. With food in my stomach for the first time in days, I walked out feeling confident. I had no place to go, but I’d figure it out, somehow. I must have been walking for about twenty minutes when a white van pulled over just ahead of me. “Need a lift?” the driver asked, sounding friendly. “I’m going your way.” Maybe it was the sugar high, but my guard was down. Besides, it was hot and humid, and the dark-haired driver looked like a skinny shrimp—bigger than me, but not by much. I got in and buckled up. The driver glanced at me, then back at the road. He was probably in his late thirties and dressed as if he worked construction. “I need to make one quick stop,” he said. He owed someone money, he said, and needed to pay them back. That’s cool, I replied, in a voice I hoped sounded tough. The van turned west, away from the water, then parked in front of a seedy-looking motel. “Come upstairs with me,” the construction worker said. “It’ll only take a sec.” I followed him up, then through a door into a dingy, worn-out room. He was on me immediately, and I knew right away I had underestimated his strength. He overpowered me and held me down on the bed, one hand around my neck. Then he pulled a gun and put its muzzle into my mouth. He raped me from the front first, then from the back. The only lubrication was the saliva he spit into his palm. He choked me until I lost consciousness, then let me breathe, then choked me again. I imagined myself dead, dumped in a ditch. And then a miracle: the man’s cell phone rang, and he released me so he could answer it. “Stay here,” my attacker told me. “Try to leave, and I’ll find you and kill you.” Then he turned back to his phone and stepped outside. I suspected he was going to kill me either way. So I waited until I couldn’t hear his voice anymore. Then I ran. That’s how I became this tearstained girl sitting on a curb in an empty beach parking lot. It is dusk when I see the limousine slow to a stop in front of me. The tinted rear passenger window hums as it opens, revealing the pasty face of a stranger in his sixties. He is heavyset, balding. I watch his eyes as they roam over my swollen, bruised face and battered body. “Oh, you poor baby,” the old man says. His concern sounds genuine. Peering into the car, I see a pretty girl in a short red dress sitting next to him. She smiles at me. The old man wears black slacks and a collared shirt. The men in my family tend toward blue jeans or coveralls. I hope this stranger is different from them in other ways too. “Come in here so we can take care of you,” the old man says, as the girl nods encouragement. I think of my attacker driving around in his white van, his gun in his lap, searching for the girl who got away. I stand up, wobbly. The limo door opens, and the old man slides over to make room for me. The old man tells the limo driver where to go, then introduces himself. His name is Ron Eppinger, and he runs a modeling agency called Perfect 10, he says. He gestures toward Yana, the girl next to him, who is from the Czech Republic. Would I like to become a model like her? He asks me how old I am, and at first I say sixteen because it sounds better to me, less vulnerable. Eppinger shakes his head; he isn’t buying it. So I tell him the truth, that I’m fifteen, which seems to please him. “As long as you never lie to me again, I will take you in,” he says. “What does that mean?” I think, but don’t ask out loud. Then Eppinger’s fleshy face turns sad. He had a daughter once, he says. Susan Marie. She died when she was fifteen, when the driver of a truck she was riding in fell asleep and crashed into a utility pole in Pompano Beach. Eppinger has never gotten over it, he tells me, and for a moment, I feel sorry for him. That’s when he reaches for me and strokes my hair. “If you want,” Eppinger says, “I can be your new daddy.” How quickly he does that, twisting the father-daughter bond into something sickening. But I already know that trick, and I want to believe it doesn’t work on me anymore. I don’t trust parents—especially fathers. I don’t need a daddy, old or new. I just want a break from fending for myself. When you grow up female, danger is everywhere. I’ve known that for as long as I can remember. Just hours ago, the construction worker in the white van showed me a darker shade of evil. I know I can’t go home again. There’s no safety there. My whole body aches, inside and out. I have no good options. The old man, the model, and I order takeout from an oceanfront stand. As we eat—I scarf mine down like an animal—we listen to the waves. Then Eppinger says he wants to take me shopping. We go to a nearby GapKids, and he steers me toward short shorts that don’t cover my backside and tops that are way too small. From the look on the saleswoman’s face, it’s easy to tell what she’s thinking: This isn’t what most grandfathers buy their granddaughters. Next, we go to a lingerie store where Eppinger seems to be a regular. He picks out G-strings and other lacy things that I’ve only seen grown women wear in the movies. He holds them up to my newly developed body, leering. Finally, he tells the chauffeur to take us home. Inside his huge apartment in Key Biscayne, with its sweeping views of Miami across the Rickenbacker Causeway, Eppinger introduces me with a wave of his hand to five other girls, most of them wearing underwear or nothing at all. Only a few speak English. Then, he takes me to a back room—his room. There is a circular bed and a mirrored ceiling. I ask where I can sleep. “With me,” he says. Part of me feels a familiar dread. Is it too late to get away? But another, bigger part remembers how life was in rehab and in foster care and, worst of all, on the run. Maybe this is the way all men behave? I am tired. I want to feel nothing. The old man calls me “Baby.” I am the youngest girl there, so the nickname sort of fits. I want to become someone new so badly that I accept it. “Baby” is now who I am. — It’s breakfast time, and my kids—ages eleven, fourteen, and fifteen—are tearing around the house, almost late for school. At the sunny end of our kitchen island, I sip a perfect cup of coffee, cherishing the chaos. My husband, Robbie, hands out the lunches he’s packed: three healthy snacks and one oversized sandwich. (Robbie’s family is from Sicily, and his Italian subs are hard to beat.) My job is to confirm that everyone has their homework, their permission slips, their gi uniforms for their after-school martial-arts classes. As Robbie herds them toward the car, I hug my daughter and two sons tight, ignoring how they wriggle to get free. “Hurry up!” Robbie yells. “That bell is about to ring!” Then, impulsively, I decide I want to come too. Though still in my pajamas, I jump in the front passenger seat as Robbie opens our electric security gate, and I marvel that this is my life. Later, I’ll take a Pilates class and make coq au vin for dinner, giving Robbie (our family’s primary chef) a well-deserved night off. But first I must return to the job of examining what came before. It’s no fun, this task I’ve assigned myself, but it is necessary. Would it be easier to spend my waking hours walking on the beach with Juno, my French bulldog, or taking my daughter, Ellie, shopping for earrings, or getting ready to overdecorate our house for Christmas? (My husband complains every year, but I can’t help but go overboard on Christmas.) Yes, it would be easier. And I do all those things too. But it’s finally time, I’ve decided, to put all the puzzle pieces of my life together. I couldn’t do that as a child, which is part of the story. Children don’t have the luxury of that kind of reflection. Especially if they are in bad situations as I was, they must focus all their energies on simply trying to survive. In the present, my life is organized around two things: my devotion to my husband and children and my determination to hold my abusers accountable. Part of me would prefer to start in the here and now, describing the gratitude I feel as I arrange Santa Claus figurines, say, or shiny strands of tinsel. But my past demands an audience. It has been hidden for too long. So how did I end up in Miami, penniless, battered, and alone, at the age of fifteen? There are so many answers to that question, but if you’d asked me in 1998, unpacking them all would have hurt too much. Instead, I would have offered the shortest explanation. “I ran away,” I would have said. “I ran away from Growing Together.”

She began as a loving and happy child who her mother daily spent time with her...until she didn't... She had been good in school, had friends...until she didn't... You see, that was about the time that her father had noticed how she'd grown older... Old enough to begin visiting her in her bedroom at night... Her mother pulled away from her, Jenna not knowing why, but missing her terribly, because she had become afraid... She had learned that he'd be back...

Perhaps when her husband started brining his friend around to get to know his daughter--maybe trade daughters... That was when her mother decided that Jenna was unmanageable and sent her away... to a place that, maybe was ever worse than at home... In any event, Jenna was soon out of there, on the streets, running...

When he’d belt out the chorus, in which a young girl demands again and again, “Don’t call me daughter,” I’d chime in at the top of my lungs.

When an older man in a long limousine saw her on the street, and ordered his driver to pull up beside her... For a short while, she was fed, warm, and in a nice room... until he, too, wanted more...

What happened next would be funny if it weren’t so appalling. Forrest stood up and grabbed me by my shoulders, then pushed me to my knees, where he’d forced me to be so many times before. This time, though, he was clothed. “You need to ask God for forgiveness,” he said, sort of bellowing, “for what you did with your dad and me.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. As horrible as I felt about myself, some part of me knew that what had happened with Dad and his friend wasn’t all my fault. But standing over me now, Forrest just kept on, half-yelling, half-preaching. Suddenly, I knew what hate tasted like. It was bile in my mouth, bitter, and I had an appetite for it. I hated Forrest. I hated my parents. I hated every living being in Loxahatchee.

~

In some published accounts about this period in my life, I’ve been inaccurately described as an eager participant in Eppinger’s world. In her book Perversion of Justice: The Jeffrey Epstein Story, the Miami Herald’s Julie K. Brown writes that after I heard from Eppinger’s other girls about the expensive clothes and jewelry that their clients gave them, I “began to think that this lifestyle wasn’t only exciting; it was an acceptable way to earn a living.” That’s bunk. I wasn’t excited. I was a defeated, hopeless child. I knew what was happening wasn’t right. Soon, after Eppinger began trafficking me to his friends, I knew how it felt to be a puppy picked from a litter, just hoping its new owner wasn’t the whipping kind. I was merely trying to survive. The only bright spot in this dark chapter came when Eppinger, sensing that law enforcement was onto him, sent me away...

Jenna was on the move again since after Forrest's tirade, her mother told her to leave again... Running, on the streets, until she hooked up with a fellow student she'd been friends with, who offered to let her stay with him--a locked room with his mother. Still, it was better than any other place where she was able to be free, to talk, to know somebody was listening, and to choose what she wanted to do... They'd spend hours listening to music...

More than that, though, who am I kidding? I had no place else to go, no one else to turn to. Setting aside all the indignities I’d suffered at the hands of my parents and others, the consequences of my own choices were becoming evident, even to sixteen-year-old me. I was a high school dropout. I had a boyfriend I lived with but didn’t want a future with. I was damaged in more ways than I even knew, and I was a long way from getting the help I needed to repair myself. I had little money and few prospects for making any. “Well, I’ve been down so long / Oh, it can’t be longer still,” Jewel sang into my earphones around this time. “I’ve been down for so long / That the end must be drawing near.” I thought I had nowhere to go but up. What happened next, then, seemed like a gift. In the summer of 2000, my father—then a maintenance man at Donald Trump’s Mar-a-Lago Club in Palm Beach—got me a job there as a $9-an-hour locker-room attendant.

To be Continued...

Tanmay Mehta Presents Ganesha: The Unyielding Child - Travel with me to Historical India...

 Visit her Site - Find her on YouTube

Trailers for two earlier books...

When you get a chance to learn more...do it! I often interact with authors online and get curious about their book(s). This is probably the first comic I've read since I visited the Chicago Book Fair over 20 years ago... Books were available and I picked up a couple of graphic novels... Me? I enjoy the words for my normal reading. But this book pulled me in purely by the graphics--a set of artistic pictures which are outstanding in their creation and also fully telling the story...

Her stories are about Hindu deities and mythical figures within India's past... This one shares the part of the story where Ganesha was "born..." just as man was, out of clay... I have included the book description for your information:

Ganesha: The Unyielding Child

An illustrated mythological tale by Art by Tanmay Mehta

He was born from clay and devotion. He stood firm at the gate. And he defied the gods themselves.

In this powerful retelling of one of Hindu mythology’s most iconic legends, Ganesha: The Unyielding Child brings to life the dramatic origin of Lord Ganesha — the elephant-headed god of wisdom, strength, and beginnings.

When Goddess Parvati creates a child from her own essence to guard her sanctum, no one foresees the storm to come. As the child stands boldly at the entrance, refusing even Lord Shiva himself, divine fury and maternal rage collide — and destiny is rewritten forever.

With breathtaking illustrations and emotional depth, Tanmay Mehta reimagines this epic tale of innocence, duty, and transformation. Experience the clash of cosmic forces, the pain of loss, and the birth of a god whose story still echoes through the ages.

Perfect for:

• Fans of Indian mythology and epics
• Readers who love origin stories of deities
• Comic enthusiasts of all ages
• Parents and educators introducing cultural tales to children

Discover the courage of a child who stood against the gods — and became one.

Some of you may already know that the Comic Book Genre has grown in stature and reputation... But, just in case some of you, like me, may not have been routinely exposed to the genre, I first offer what it is all about:

The comic book art form consists of sequential juxtaposed panels that represent individual scenes. Panels are often accompanied by text and dialogue in the way of text bubbles which is emblematic of the comics art form. Comic books are best known to feature superhero and supervillain stories.

This book offers all of the features as the comic style. It is in the graphics that Mehta has moved the form forward. The cover is just an example! Fortunately, there are videos which give the "flavor" but too quickly to absorb the fantastic character creations by this fantastic artist. For THIS book is a Work of Art, worthy to be displayed in any forum that shares mythological figures... even in comic form... I just checked--my last stats showed that my usual readers from India are visiting continuously. So to those from India,  though you may already be aware of Mehta, this particular book may not have reached you yet. I urge you to check out this artist! She represents your history in a truly magnificent way!

And to those who enjoy historical stories, while the narration and dialogue is a minor part of the book, you will soon find that the artwork actually tells the story! You will meet gods from India's history and can begin to appreciate how the past has been preserved through these stories, just as each country has done so since the beginning of time. Ganesha presents a "reimagined" version of the ancient tale... May I offer my appreciation and enjoyment of this version for your consideration...

This is a one-of-a-kind artistic book that should not be bypassed because of the genre. It ...is ...simply ...amazing! Without a picture to show of a typical scene, I offer the following video to talk about the god of water... Imagine if you would, a god of water being in the midst of this type of water display. In the portrait, the capture of the water is just as important as the character in this book... The scene presents to readers water at its most furious, with the water god and Ganesha in combat... the talent exhibited in the merge of water and waterman is excellent. Just as for the god of fire and more...

Highly recommended. Kudos to the creator of this world! A final note, I thoroughly enjoyed the male characters who created the entire war because Ganesha was just following his mother's orders... A bit of humor that should not be ignored... "Cause you won't want to meet his mother when she's mad!

GABixlerReviews

Extraordinary Psychological Thriller Created by Lisa Friedman - Nothing to Lose - You'll Decide Which Side You're On...for the Death Penalty...

"Some of it was gruesome, but I was detached and thinking clinically so it didn't penetrate really," Anita said. "The part that got to me was the parole system. I saw petty criminals retained in custody because the state needed the funding, and hard-core criminals released for the wrong reasons. It's an insane system, based on unsound thinking and emotional conclusions.

Like the pardoning of January 6th criminals  in jail... 

Nothing seemed to work as it should have; nothing was untouched by politics and money. It was a very disturbing experience." Her intense feelings forced her round face to tighten and shrink until the smooth skin looked gutted with deep dark lines. "That's when I came to believe that some people are simply evil," Anita said...

...challenges the morality and personal consciousness of every last one of us. What would you do? That premise has launched philosophical debates, psychological studies and dinner table discussions. Nothing to Lose takes that premise to the farthest reaches of the imagination in a wildly entertaining story of determination, unexpected behavior and social justice.

A few weeks later, I was getting dressed in a hurry when a Special News Break interrupted the morning talk show on television. I stepped out of my closet, half dressed, and stared at the television. The reporter stood at the side of the picture, huddled against the wind, waiting for her cue. Glass Lake looked like a serene but gray place, misty, cool, and damp. Tall, striking redwood trees covered the landscape. Huge Blue Mountains blocked the background. The lake in the foreground was still and dark. A layer of white mist stretched across the lake from shore to shore, hovering just above the waterline. The reporter drew the microphone up to her mouth and squinted into the false light of the cameras. She clutched the fake fur lapels of her coat up next to her neck. The tip of her nose was red, and her breath burst from her mouth in rhythmic white puffs. Suddenly, she looked alert; as a signal transmitted to her that she was on the air. "I'm standing across the street from the sight of the murder of Edmund Garetzky, the feared serial killer who seemed to be one step ahead of our own Federal Bureau of Investigation for the past three years. Garetzky had been on the FBI's Most Wanted list since the arrest and conviction of his partner, Martin Ling. Ling was tried on nine counts of kidnapping and murder and was sentenced to three life sentences in the penitentiary. He committed suicide after just three months in prison. "The FBI had been tracing Garetzky for three years. Ironically, the FBI was alerted to Garetzky's whereabouts just yesterday by an anonymous caller who saw his photograph on the television program America's Most Wanted. Special Agent Arthur Brucemann told KUBS News how the FBI discovered Edmund Garetzky." Agent Brucemann spoke soberly and carefully: "The FBI Special Unit for Criminals at Large received a tip from a citizen and we followed up on that immediately. We arrived in Washington last night and began our search at that time. We were in the process of conducting a sweep operation from Old Forge, thirty miles north of Glass Lake, through Adeho, when we discovered Garetzky's body in the lavatory of the Stop 'N Shop at Glass Lake. We believe Garetzky stopped for cigarettes at the Stop 'N Shop, and then went to use the lavatory. That's all I can say at this time."

Brucemann moved through the cluster of microphones and tape recorders with his chin down, ignoring the excited and eager questions fired at him. "Who is that woman?" Several reporters shouted at once. The cameras whirled past Brucemann, losing focus as the lens sought out the next target. In the center of a pack of men wearing FBI windbreakers stood a woman of about fifty years in a smart green raincoat that shone like a beacon in the grim mass of men. The picture shook erratically as the cameraman ran toward the mystery woman. All around, reporters and camera crews stumbled over each other and equipment in a frantic stampede toward the woman in the green raincoat. "Who are you?" "Did you see anything?" "What's your name?" "What happened?" The questions came all at once, insistent and shrill. The agents surrounded the woman with their bodies and held their hands up to deflect the lights of the cameras.

Within all the frantic pushing and shouting, the woman remained calm and quiet. Finally, she held up her arm and waved. "I would like to say something," she called to the reporters. The agents parted, exposing her to the cameras. "My name is Margaret Linen, and I killed Edmund Garetzky." A roar formed as the collective voices of reporters and crews blended together. The woman closed her eyes and put her hand out as if to ward off the noise. The microphones reached toward her as the crowd became quiet. "I killed him because I care about society. He was a threat. He deserved to die." She paused, and the cacophony rose up again. She waited for the thunder of voices to subside before continuing. "I will tell you about him. This man kidnapped people at knifepoint. He brought them, some of them children, to a cabin in the mountains where he and his accomplice repeatedly tortured and brutalized them beyond our most horrific imaginations. The screams, gasps for breath, cries, and moans were recorded on audiotape and labeled. On the labels was a rating. Stars. Five stars if the victim suffered well, and fewer stars the less entertaining the victim was. "Parents of missing children and families trying to find missing people listened to some of the tapes in an effort to identify the screams of their loved ones. Can you imagine?" She slowed her speech, letting the impact of her words settle. "This man was evil. Evil beyond our scope of understanding. Evil beyond humanity."

"Were you victimized by him?" "Did they kidnap someone in your family?" "What is your connection to this serial killer?" "We are all victims of people like Edmund Garetzky. They perpetuate a circle of violence that affects us all. They are animals preying on us, and worst of all, they are protected by our laws. The criminal justice system does not work. We have all seen evidence of this at one time or another. In the states where the death penalty exists, it is rarely used. Special interest groups hold up the process by insisting that everyone deserves life. Well, the real truth is that some people do not deserve life. "Our government is unable to keep our families and our children safe. Bureaucracy clogs the arteries of the system and some violent criminals fly away scot-free. Well, not this one. Not anymore." "Did you know the victim?" "How did you kill him?" "Do you represent any organization or group, Ms. Linen?" "I came here on my own, to do what society is unable to do for itself — rid itself of Edmund Garetzky. Someone had to do something. And I couldn't stand by and watch our system grant this animal a trial and a life after what he did to us. He did not deserve a lawyer. He did not deserve a fair trial. He did not deserve a life, certainly not in a place that provides meals and a bed, and particularly not at our expense."

She paused for a moment, thinking. "I am going to die." She said it like a statement. "What did she say?" "Who's going to die?" She continued to speak so quietly that the camera crews and reporters had to strain to hear. "I will not be around to protect my family, my grandchildren, from evil," she said. "But now I have assured that we are safe from the monstrous behavior of one terrifying criminal. I did it because I could. I believe that we fail as a society in terms of justice. I did it in order to accomplish something positive for society before I die. My family need not fear Garetzky, society need not fear him, nor will they be forced to spend any time or money on him. I feel I have truly contributed something. I have made the most extreme contribution to society; I have given something back to the good people in this world. I have given all of you freedom. Freedom from this monster. I am not sorry." She looked into the camera lenses, one by one. Then she concluded with a small smile: "I will die in peace." The agents and enforcement officials flanking Margaret Linen were silent. They responded to her cultured, quiet voice and stood back, letting her finish. Possibly, they agreed with her. Whatever the reason, they let her speak without interruption. After she finished they moved in a huddle toward a dark sedan parked nearby with all four doors open wide. The reporters continued to shout questions at her even after the doors slammed shut and the car drove off. Holy shit, I said to myself, and I stood there as if glued to the carpet.

When the phone rang, I had to force myself to lift a foot up to walk toward the nightstand. "Hello?" "Are you ready? You sound asleep?" Lauren's voice sounded impatient. "I hope you didn't forget! We have a date to see my editor and go over your illustrations for my article." "No," I said, shaking off the shock of what I just saw. "I'm almost ready." "What's going on? Why do you sound so funny?" "It's nothing," I said, beginning to come back to life. "I was just watching something on television . . ." "What was it?" Lauren laughed. "Devil worshippers? S&M? People who were abducted by aliens, or women who fall in love with men on death row! Turn that thing off. It's just not safe!" I was laughing and it felt great. I glanced over at my desk to the illustrations I had finished the night before. They were good. I pulled the phone closer to the desk and blew some nonexistent dust off the top board before slipping it into its laminated cover for transport. "I'm ready," I said. "Come and get me." CH

Abortion and the Death Penalty are the two most controversial legal issues in the world... Why is that? Is it because the legal system is and has been flawed? Is it because of religion, civil liberties, or lack of juries willing to put somebody to death. There are no answers in this book. It is psychological fiction, perhaps one of the best I've read. Mainly because of how the ending was created...

Actually, I didn't recall that Friedman was the same writer of Hello Wife which centers on drugs. It is quite obvious that this author is ready and willing to attack today's hard questions! And we all know she may be one of the few who is actually doing so with the divided country we now inhabit... Personally, I preferred this, her first book. It is unbelievably written in such a way that it is truly fiction, but there is much non-fiction of this important issue that she purposely includes, including blackmail. Many kudos to the author. Her amazing characters presented each possible side of the issue, the Death Penalty, with a group of women... Frankly, this decision was the best possible group that could occur, in my opinion. Women care more about the "personal," yet are quite willing to deal with the facts, learning as much as is needed to make their own decisions.

It all began when a woman living in a fairly rich neighborhood and sees a new neighbor being moved in. Roxanne soon found her way over to welcome Anita to the community--and to her small group of women who met for friendship and a little food, of course...

You might recognize quickly that these two women are the two main characters. Roxanne was obviously a leader who enjoyed gathering a flock to share news and more...There was nothing that this group did not discuss. And, later, unfortunately, one of the husbands heard a rather troublesome topic...

Because, soon, a change in the discussions became geared around Anita's work... She counseled those who were going to die.  No, this wasn't hospice where you actually go to die... Anita's goal was to help each of her clients realize what was happening, how they felt about their past, the present, and the future... Frankly, learning that, I thought it was a great service for those who often didn't have family who were even willing to discuss their deaths...

I've purposely included an excerpt providing the "why" of what began to happen...Many of you will not be able to actually read this important book... Instead, I ask my readers. What would you do if you were dying and another Sandy Hook school murder of grade school children took place at that time. Would it affect you as it did me... Or have you and others become so accustomed of death, guns, and violence being around us daily? Personally? I think it would be on a case by case for me. But when the fanatics made videos of our citizens being beheaded? I would have no question about whether they should be put to death.  Just as I would disagree that shooting out boat loads of people in South American waters, without any type of documentation of who they were or a trial of their guilt? I'd say that, instead, the instigator of that total destruction should pay via death penalty.

It is a time when we must trust what we know is right or wrong within our legal system... Even if it is not being followed at this time. Each of these individuals began discussions with Anita about their need to leave this earth, having done all they cold to help improve the world... 

This book requires that you start thinking quickly... because I've already said, I would choose Jesus over Barabbas to live! It may have been planned that way, but, actually, those who chose a criminal that day is still choosing criminals in many ways for minor or major offenses. I call this as I see it. If we don't start using our minds to make our decisions, then what we do during our lifetime really doesn't matter if you're really just following the directions from anybody or everybody...

When we are facing decisions about Truth daily, I consider this book a must-read to help you start developing your own decision-making skills...

GABixlerReviews

Lance McMillian Presents The Murder of Sara Barton - A Stunning Legal Thriller!

“He was such a nice boy,” Mom observes. Was he? Am I? Is anyone? Maybe once upon a time, but the detours of life divert a person in a direction he never intends to go. Sam is dead, and Lara apparently wants me to kill Barton. I should get in my car and head west. Americans have always gone west to pursue a new world. I should drive west and forever forget this sordid business. The world is dirty, and I cannot make it clean. But the current of fate is too strong. I drive north to Atlanta, back to the city that is now my home. The fatalist in me needs to see the story through. I have no attic in the city in which to slip away—no place to call all my own.

Staring out my office window at the fading afternoon sun, a wave of loneliness sinks my mood. The sad reality is that I have nothing to do and no place to go. I’m ready for the trial. The work I could manufacture requires conferencing with Ella, and that’s a non-starter. The condo means the tempest of Lara. The thought of home fares no better. I live in a museum filled with ghosts, and I feel like a stranger to its history. I consider a hotel. Instead I just sit. A wandering mind has no peace, and mine is no different. Trying not to think about anything leads to a torrent of random, unsequenced thoughts more fitting in a dream. I think of Otis Redding—another Georgia boy from the country. My father did legal work for him long before I was born. The possibility

of leaving my home in Georgia to sit on a dock of a bay 2,000 miles from here is tempting. Otis died in a plane crash three days after recording that song. He was 26. I try to recapture all the lyrics, but lose the thread somewhere before thinking about the next thing—the Battle of Antietam. Over twenty-two thousand Yankee and Rebel casualties of war in a single day. For what? The world is mad. The mind eventually settles on Erin Riggs—the first girl I ever kissed. Friday night. The football game. Underneath the bleachers. A cool fall night. Awkward. Clumsy. Amazing. She moved away the following spring, and I moped around town for a full two weeks. Never saw her again. I swivel toward my computer and search her out for a good thirty minutes, happy to have something to do. The hunt grows cold. She probably got married, changed her name. Would I even recognize her? Maybe she was on one of my juries along the way. Whatever she looks like now, the vision of her that night materializes before me as if she were in the room right now. Erin Riggs. Then I think of Sydney. I pick up the phone and call Chad Dallas. We go to the same church, except I don’t go anymore. As soon as he answers, regret at my impulsive action descends like a paratrooper. What am I doing? “Haven’t seen you in awhile,” he says. Chad is one of the most rock-solid Christians I know, and this comment is his gentle way of chiding me for abandoning church. “I know. Been busy.” “Uh-huh.” “I’m sorry to bother you at home, but I was wondering if I could see Sydney.” “Right now?” “If that works for you.” “I don’t see why not.” I look at the phone accusingly as if it tricked me into making the call. The mind’s leap from Otis Redding to Erin Riggs to Sydney to reaching out to Chad happened with astounding swiftness. I head to my car questioning my every action. Work has been my crutch for so long that in its absence I’ve become unreliable in how I fill the void. Maybe that’s how Lara ended up in my lap. Having reached the limits of my physical endurance by working non-stop, I longed for another distraction. Now I’ve had my fill of her. Tonight it’s Sydney’s turn to aid and abet my war against emptiness. The drive over changes the feeling of uncertainty into one of anticipation. I haven’t seen Sydney in over two years. Will she even recognize me? As I park on the street, the thought that she might not remember freezes me in place. Experiencing that rejection would hurt. I get out of the car, put on a mask of happiness, and head to the house with slow steps. Chad greets me at the door, offers a hug, and says, “How are you, brother? We miss you at church.” “Been busy. Murder never sleeps.” “They’ll still be dead Monday morning, you know.” Chad’s gift is an ability to say seemingly innocuous things that nevertheless convey hard truths. The dead will still be dead no matter what I do, and using my job to avoid every other part of my life is a poor excuse for living. Chad’s wife, Olivia, joins us in the entryway. More small talk follows, and I fake friendly patience. At last, Chad calls out for Sydney. On cue, the sound of footsteps coming from the basement answers in obedience. Sydney enters the room and stops for a second before bounding toward me with unleashed enthusiasm. She remembers. Her meaty paws jump up at me, and I bend down to let her lick my face. When I kneel to get more on her level, she knocks me down in her excitement. Amber and I adopted Sydney as a rescue border collie and boxer mix shortly after we got married. We had just returned from our two-week honeymoon in Australia and named her after our new favorite city in the world. The trip was incredible—experiencing New Year’s Eve at the Opera House with a million other people, climbing to the top of Sydney Harbour Bridge, the revealing bikini Amber wore on Bondi Beach. On the flight back to the States, I looked at my sleeping wife and knew that God had given me a woman I did not deserve. Then we got a puppy. Sydney’s excitement at seeing me has yet to abate. I can’t help smiling in effortless joy at the spastic display of her devotion. I’ve watched touching videos of soldiers returning from war to reunite with their ever-loyal canine friends. Now I’m living out my own heart-tugging moment. The pureness of Sydney’s love humbles me. I gave her away after the murders because the pain was too much. She invoked too many memories—memories that I was too mentally weak to handle. Every time I looked at Sydney, I saw Amber and Cale. So I turned the page and found Sydney a happy home, convinced that I was doing the right thing. Chad, Olivia, and I make some obligatory small talk as required by the customs of the South. Chad brings up the trial next week, and I respond, “I pray that justice is done.” Olivia asks if I’ve met Lara Landrum. Et tu, Brutus? I never took her for the starstruck type. Yes, Olivia, I’ve met Lara Landrum, and I could tell you some things that would burn your ears off. I leave that last part out. Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I say my good-byes and give my ex-dog a parting hug. Chad encourages me not to be a stranger and even means it. But I am a stranger to everyone, most of all myself. The joy I felt moments ago gives way to deep sadness, and the night air judges me as I walk to the car. Reaching my door, I turn back toward the house and see Sydney staring at me through the window. I wave farewell to her and slump down in the driver’s seat. Giving away that dog is the single worst thing I’ve ever done in my life. I worried coming over here that she wouldn’t remember me. But her unbridled happiness at seeing me again hurts much more. Sydney doesn’t care that I gave her away. She doesn’t care that I haven’t visited her in two years. She doesn’t care about any of my faults. She loves me just as I am. And during the one time I needed unconditional love more than at any other moment of my existence, I gave it away. The buoyant man who held Amber under the December summer sky of Australia would never have exiled Sydney from his life. I hate myself. I turn again to the house, hoping to see Sydney still manning her post. But she is gone, and I am alone. The tears burst forth like a pent-up tsunami, sending me into convulsive heaves. I never cried when Amber and Cale died. I got the shakes and the chills. I vomited. I suffered in silent anguish. But I never cried. I couldn’t. The tears just wouldn’t come. Now I sit in a car on a street bawling over a dog. The release doesn’t make me feel better, only worse. I still hate myself.

~~~

Perhaps it's because I'm so disturbed by the lack of Law and Order at this time, that I've purposely sought out legal thrillers. I enjoy reading about or seeing court cases--which goes way back to when Perry Mason was a great television show... I still watch his shows if they are not reruns...  In fact, Della Street might have been one of the reasons I chose to start working as a secretary...LOL

Chance Meridian, as the Deputy District Attorney for all murders was a busy man. But the position had soured for me when his wife and son were murdered and the case became cold. Worse, he blamed himself and his position, as the possible reason of their deaths. There was no way that a normal mourning period would suffice, even though he ultimately did go back to his job... But his Faith had been badly affected.

And the next call to come to the scene of another faced him again... But he wasn't expecting to recognize the woman who was killed. In fact, Chance asked if that was her... Lara Landrum was a major movie star... her twin Sara Barton was the woman who was on her back on the floor with a bullet in her chest, blood all over her body and her face so like Lara that it was impossible not to wonder whether this was the real Sara Barton... She was married to Bernard Barton, another lawyer. Interestingly she had been found by her divorce lawyer...

Before Scott and I even say another word, Sam launches into defense mode. “I know it looks bad. What lawyer visits a client’s house this late? But Sara wanted to file her divorce papers tomorrow morning, and she had to sign the verification to the complaint before we could file. She didn’t like meeting at the office, so she told me to come over at ten. I wouldn’t normally do that for a client, but there is a lot of money to be made on this case. Or there was. Now she’s dead. I can’t believe it.” Scott and I look at each other then turn back to Sam. He leaks nervousness. I tell myself that if I were innocent and in his spot, then maybe I would be filled with anxiety, too. But something about him still smells off. Sam gives me a peculiar look, and alarm bells clamor. A memory stored in an unused warehouse of my brain stirs from the distant past. Something significant just happened, but I have no idea what. Sam launches into another monologue. “I knew I shouldn’t have come over here. I should’ve insisted that she drop by my office. I didn’t want to come. I told her. I asked about her husband. She said he had to work and would not be back until after midnight, if at all. She was persistent like that, and I came over against my better judgment. The client is always right and all that. I rang the doorbell. No answer. I knocked. No answer. I tried the door. It was unlocked. I walked in, said hello, anybody here. Everything’s quiet. I went to the kitchen and there she was. Lying on the floor. It was awful. I cannot believe this is happening to me.” He pauses before adding, “I didn’t kill her.” Scott gives Sam a disbelieving look, and Sam wilts in the glare. Giving up on Scott, he turns toward me on the verge of tears. “You gotta believe me. I didn’t kill her.” Sam is embarrassing himself at this point. A lawyer should never ramble. Scott and I have yet to ask him a single question, and still he cannot shut up. Our silent treatment is by design. Most witnesses become uncomfortable with the quiet and rush to fill the void. Talking takes the place of the silence that judges them. Sam complains, “Are you guys going to say anything? I’m in the hot seat here.” Scott and I continue our quiet vigil. Sam pivots to Scott and then back my way, his anxious eyes begging me to speak... 

“Sam, I want to help you, but I cannot help someone who refuses to help himself. You can’t lie to the police without repercussions. You’re part of a murder investigation. There’s a dead body in the kitchen. The good news is that Scott and I are close friends. I can fix what has happened in this room up to this point. You can start over fresh. Clean slate. But the truth needs to start coming out of your mouth. Now.” Without even looking at me, he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Becky Johnson.” The name confuses him for a moment. Then our eyes register mutual understanding, and he accepts my accusation without challenge. But I still need to hear the truth from his own lips. I emphasize, “I swear to God that if you lie to me now, I will prosecute you for obstruction of justice myself.” Sam straightens up and nods. Fear gives way to resignation. He asks, “Does Liesa have to know?”

~~~

And, of course, soon her sister arrives in town and all around, news reps began to be more and more involved as the investigation continues, and on into the trial... Hersister wanted to see the police so that she could tell them that her husband, Bernard, had killed her sister! She went on to say that Sara planned to divorce him--he was so controlling that she could not deal with it anymore...

Before we leave, Lara texts each of us the picture of her sister’s blackened back after Barton hit her. The photo speaks for itself. Barton didn’t hold back. I hate him already.

Sara screams into the phone, “My husband is trying to kill me!” I hear loud banging on a door as Barton tries to get into the room. Sara pleads, “He has already hit me. Please hurry.” The final sounds on the call tell the story without words—more thunderous banging on the door, yelling, a woman crying. The line goes dead. The call is chilling but evidentiary gold. I ask why Barton wasn’t arrested. The story is familiar. By the time the officer arrived, things had settled down. Both Barton and Sara were calm, and Sara did not want to press charges. No outward signs of physical abuse were present, which makes sense since Sara’s bruises were on her back. The officer departed, filled out his incident report, and left Barton and Sara alone to resume their dysfunctional lives. Scott announces, “Bernard Barton speaks to my policeman’s gut.” “The current does seem to be pushing that way.”

~~~ 

As the book moves forward, I began to see hints of the dialogue for which Robert B. Parker was known for in his Spenser series... It was a pleasure to read another writer with the skill to present tense, fast-paced words; but at the same time, writing about being in a courtroom... 

But many times, having lots of evidence doesn't mean that the correct individuals are being charged. Readers will be kept guessing as more evidence begins moving the case from one way to another, and sometimes back again, until everything can be documented and proven... That's why I love legal fiction... Everything is always clear and quickly addressed to gain a prosecutorial judgment they are correct! 

Doncha wish legal matters even were allowed to be addressed these days???

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