as a suspect. No one. Until that day in the trial, I doubted his innocence. Then I heard his testimony. Richie wasn’t an actor. He couldn’t lie his way out of an affair when he as busted. His testimony was not a lie.
But was it really all true?
Richie took something to his grave about that day; we’ll never know what that was. I feel that because that son, that child born of a madwoman, believes her innocence.
All those years he spent with his father , and not once did Richie tarnish her memory. Not once did he tell Justin that his mother was a maniac and killed his siblings.
Why?
The events of that fateful day had c hanged and disturbed me so much that I buried all reason about it with the verdict.
Standing outside that apartment, I realized that I was just as guilty as anyone else because I dismissed, ignored , and even covered up events that had occurred. Not just Marion Blake, but a lot of other things that could have been signs and warnings leading up to that tragic birthday.
Too self - absorbed to care back then, I vowed not to make the same mistake.
Because it dawned on me right there and then as I looked at the televisions in Vito’s store that there was another child’s life at stake.
But did I really care enough, or want to emerge from my protective shadows and intervene?
Chapter Sixteen – Pam
In my day, in my time, before I was locked away, when you needed to find something out or do some research, you went to the library.
It still held true in a sense, only in a new way ; in 2004 , research was done a heck of a lot different ly .
Dr. Andrews was set to meet Justin to see if the boy’s intentions were true , and if so , he’d arrange a meeting with us.
I liked Dr. Andrews; there was a connection between the two of us that I couldn’t put my finger on it. As if we knew each other before that first office visit or we had some sort of kinship connection. Although I highly doubt he was diagnose d with some sort of mental illness , you never know. I hear d the least sane are those who help the insane.
I spoke to him on our last visit, telling him that I wanted to start my investigation. He suggested that before I go into Willow Brook, I do some research , p erhaps starting with the murders that prompted my sister to seek the help of Freedom Project .
Personally, I don’t see how murders in the late 1990 s could remotely be connected to me. But I’d look. In fact, I’d try to look into all unsolved murders in the Willow Brook, Colville, Jamestown , Hartford , and New Haven areas.
I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Research never was.
Perhaps there was a book or something. I envisioned myself at the campus library, going through hours and hours of microfilm of news papers looking at stories, because I don’t know exactly when these murders took place.
I headed to the campus library; I thought the ir re s our c es would be bigger than the local one . They asked for my driver’s license. I was reluctant to comply because of my name. But the young man, whom I’ll assume w as a volunteer , didn’t notice. He filled in the information and immediately made me a library card.
I looked in awe at the thing that resembled a credit card.
I even chuckled because it was nothing like the paper cards we had years earlier.
But even I knew that the best resource was the librarian . T hey were typically historians as well. Surely, she would help me. More than likely, she’d instruct me to go to the local libraries of each community. If I had to , I would.
But I thought I'd asked first.
“Can I speak to your librarian?” I asked the young man.
“She’s in her office. Is there a problem?”
“I wanted to ask her some question about some research I need to do. It’s been so long since I’ve been to a library; last I recall the librarians were pretty good at that.”
“I’m good at it.”
“Really?” I said. “You’re so young.”
“They train us well.”
I thought
But was it really all true?
Richie took something to his grave about that day; we’ll never know what that was. I feel that because that son, that child born of a madwoman, believes her innocence.
All those years he spent with his father , and not once did Richie tarnish her memory. Not once did he tell Justin that his mother was a maniac and killed his siblings.
Why?
The events of that fateful day had c hanged and disturbed me so much that I buried all reason about it with the verdict.
Standing outside that apartment, I realized that I was just as guilty as anyone else because I dismissed, ignored , and even covered up events that had occurred. Not just Marion Blake, but a lot of other things that could have been signs and warnings leading up to that tragic birthday.
Too self - absorbed to care back then, I vowed not to make the same mistake.
Because it dawned on me right there and then as I looked at the televisions in Vito’s store that there was another child’s life at stake.
But did I really care enough, or want to emerge from my protective shadows and intervene?
Chapter Sixteen – Pam
In my day, in my time, before I was locked away, when you needed to find something out or do some research, you went to the library.
It still held true in a sense, only in a new way ; in 2004 , research was done a heck of a lot different ly .
Dr. Andrews was set to meet Justin to see if the boy’s intentions were true , and if so , he’d arrange a meeting with us.
I liked Dr. Andrews; there was a connection between the two of us that I couldn’t put my finger on it. As if we knew each other before that first office visit or we had some sort of kinship connection. Although I highly doubt he was diagnose d with some sort of mental illness , you never know. I hear d the least sane are those who help the insane.
I spoke to him on our last visit, telling him that I wanted to start my investigation. He suggested that before I go into Willow Brook, I do some research , p erhaps starting with the murders that prompted my sister to seek the help of Freedom Project .
Personally, I don’t see how murders in the late 1990 s could remotely be connected to me. But I’d look. In fact, I’d try to look into all unsolved murders in the Willow Brook, Colville, Jamestown , Hartford , and New Haven areas.
I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Research never was.
Perhaps there was a book or something. I envisioned myself at the campus library, going through hours and hours of microfilm of news papers looking at stories, because I don’t know exactly when these murders took place.
I headed to the campus library; I thought the ir re s our c es would be bigger than the local one . They asked for my driver’s license. I was reluctant to comply because of my name. But the young man, whom I’ll assume w as a volunteer , didn’t notice. He filled in the information and immediately made me a library card.
I looked in awe at the thing that resembled a credit card.
I even chuckled because it was nothing like the paper cards we had years earlier.
But even I knew that the best resource was the librarian . T hey were typically historians as well. Surely, she would help me. More than likely, she’d instruct me to go to the local libraries of each community. If I had to , I would.
But I thought I'd asked first.
“Can I speak to your librarian?” I asked the young man.
“She’s in her office. Is there a problem?”
“I wanted to ask her some question about some research I need to do. It’s been so long since I’ve been to a library; last I recall the librarians were pretty good at that.”
“I’m good at it.”
“Really?” I said. “You’re so young.”
“They train us well.”
I thought
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