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I was 23 at the time. I'm a 6'4" white guy, in decent shape. I've gotten myself into a few questionable situations over the years, My wife has an adopted sister, Melissa, or Mel.

They had kind of a rough upbringing together, but have grown closer as they've gotten older. My wife is of mixed race - her mom is black and her dad Mexican and white.

Melissa was also mixed. Her parents were black and Mexican. By the time I met my wife, Mel was already living out of state, with her husband and 2 kids.

His job required them to relocate. I met Melissa for the first time when she finally visited us, after we had been married for about a year and a half.

She wasn't even at our wedding. She visited us by herself. She and he husband were also having a rough time during those days. The plan was for her to visit for a week.

The first 3 days, Mel and Pam would go do things during the day, while I went to work. When I'd get home, we'd all just drink and bullshit with each other.

The next day, I had off from work. They did their thing, but I started drinking well before they got home.

They joined in soon after they got home. It was an especially fun night. We all talked and talked and talked. However, even at her best, Mel can be a bit rude and kind of a bitch.

I've always been very sexually attracted to my wife. I still am today. She's always caught my eye. But, that night, it was Mel who stole the show.

She was wearing this short jean skirt that had me trying to sneak a peek every time she'd look away while she was sitting down.

Her top was very flattering. She's got a nice body in general. Great legs and nice, round ass. Big enough tits to have enough cleavage to keep my eyes trying to catch a glimpse down her shirt.

She's maybe 5'6", so I tower over her. I honestly couldn't stop myself from staring at her, at times. As the night wound down, we continued to drink.

My wife called it a night, and went to bed. I'm pretty sure she crashed out the second she laid down. Melissa and I stayed up.

We told each other we'd just have one more drink and then call it a night. I stood on the other side of the counter that separated the living room from the kitchen in our apartment, as she stood in the kitchen and poured her drink, talking about some nonsense I wasn't really listening to.

As she stood there, her skirt had kind of slipped up, and her ass cheeks were exposed. I stared. She was wearing a black thong.

By the time I had realized she had stopped talking and was looking back at me, it was too late. She had caught me staring straight at her ass and legs.

She asked me "were you really just checking me out? You're married to my sister. Your skirt's kind of riding up there. And you look really good And, we're getting a divorce, anyway.

She acted offended, but she didn't fix her skirt. In fact, she turned and faced me, and sort of leaned back and seemed to be enjoying that I was checking her out.

We both stood in silence and sipped our drinks. I went and joined her in the kitchen. She was like "what are you doing? She told me "you can look, but you can't touch", as she lifted her skirt up higher and tugged her shirt down to show off her cleavage.

She was teasing me. I told her "you had better watch yourself. Or what? What are you going to do about it? Or I'm going to fuck you.

I undid my pants, and pulled my cock out over my boxers. She went "oh wow" again, but now she was staring at my cock. I've been told I'm big, so I didn't think letting her see it was going to hurt, lol.

For those who care, it's just shy of 8 inches erect and decent thickness. She was leaning back on the counter still, and she looked amazing.

I got a full erection pretty quickly. I moved closer to her, and she blurts out "you wouldn't dare. I'll tell Pamela" as she inched away.

I snapped. I grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her down to her knees. I told her "I don't care. I had my hand on her head and forced myself in deeper often.

As amazing as it felt, I don't think I've ever been less interested in getting a blowjob than I was at that moment. I probably wouldn't have let it go even that long, but she was doing an outstanding job.

I stood her up, and she breathed heavily while I took off her bra and groped her tits. I told her to take off her panties. She said "make me.

Her skirt was still up on her waist. I ripped her thong by the cheap piece of crap on the side, and it sagged over to the other leg. She was shaking in excitement.

I shoved my cock inside her very wet pussy and she let out a hell of a moan and an "oh god". I fucked her deep and slow at first, and we both talked some shit back and forth about who was enjoying it more, lol.

I moved on to fucking her hard and fast, and several minutes later I could feel myself getting close to cumming. I never said a word.

I just kept going, until I shot my load deep inside her and she moaned loudly. When I was done, I turned her around and we stayed close and kissed.

She still looked so damn good. I picked her up and put her over my shoulder, and carried her into the living room. I threw her onto the couch. In hindsight, we're probably lucky that no one got hurt during that stunt, as I was pretty drunk.

Anyway, I didn't waste any time. I got my pants all the way off. She spread her legs and laid back on the couch as I moved in between her legs. I fucked her again, hard and fast pretty much from the start.

There was less moaning this time. She was trying to be quiet. It was more like grunting. By the time I was ready to cum again, we had slid over to the end of the couch and her head was banging against the arm rest.

I came inside her again as she wrapped her legs around me and we stared into each other's eyes. Probably within 2 minutes of us being done, she went and got her clothes and put them away, and put on some clothes to sleep in.

She went to sleep on the couch and I went in to sleep with my wife. Well, I was sleeping on an air mattress next to the bed at that point.

When I got up the next morning, the 2 of them were already up and chatting away. I didn't know what to expect, but was fearing the worst.

Nothing happened. She never told anyone. The rest of her visit went the same. We acted like it never happened, until I took her to the airport.

She told me she had a really good time the other night, and gave me a blowjob in the car in the airport parking structure. Well, a year or so after all of that, against all odds, somehow my wife and I decided that we were going to try to stay married.

Julian was an athletic, hard-working boy, and it was innocent boyhood mischief that led to his accident. On May 11, , Julian and a friend were out exploring and came across a box of railroad torpedoes, small signaling devices effectively similar to dynamite.

His friend dared him to pick some up and rub them together. Julian was blown backward by a sudden explosion, and when he came to, he saw raw stumps where his hands had once been.

He was rushed to the hospital, and the remains of his hands were amputated just above the wrist. The doctors told young Julian he would need six months to heal before he could start using the apparatuses that would take the place of his hands.

He said that was unacceptable and that he wanted to start right away. The hooks operate like bike brakes, with tension applied to open and close them via a cable anchored to muscles in his arm.

Getting used to the hooks caused horrendous pain and he sometimes felt dismayed at the extreme clumsiness that came with his new appendages.

Slowly but surely he mastered the use of the hooks and became adept at writing, dialing phones, and doing other day-to-day activities.

He lettered in numerous sports in high school, trained in martial arts, and, when he decided to become a private eye, learned to fire many different kinds of guns, which were adapted for use with his hooks.

He opened The Investigators in and quickly worked to make a name for himself as Jay Julian Armes. He legally changed his name in He had two daughters with his first wife and then two sons and a daughter with his second wife, Linda Chew, whom he married in and is still married to.

As the prestige of The Investigators grew, Armes became known for his ostentatious displays of celebrity, cruising around low-key El Paso in his chauffeured, bulletproof limousine and keeping a menagerie of exotic animals on his substantial estate.

Having been born to a poor family and suffering a terrible injury as a child, it made sense that Armes would play up the success of his larger-than-life persona, and others were eager to help craft his legend.

Police had no leads in the case, and an anonymous individual contracted Armes to investigate the bombing. It eventually came to light that a lawyer for Ideal Toy Corp.

Armes action figure, had hired him to solve the real-life bombing in a way that would conveniently coincide with the release of the toy.

Being a private eye has given Armes a flair for deception, a tool he can use to his advantage, since his investigations are not constrained by the boundaries theoretically informing normal police work.

Armes is a religious man who at one point tithed 10 percent of his income to the El Paso church he attended, and he has said that any deception he undertakes has an ethical justification — in this case, bringing to justice a murderer and giving peace to the Singshinsuk family.

But over the years, Armes has blurred the lines between fact and fiction so significantly that, in addition to bending the truth in pursuit of criminals, it has become difficult to distinguish between the myths and realities of his own life.

Armes for real? Once the issue hit the newsstands, Armes arranged an interview with a reporter from the El Paso Post-Herald to refute the charges in the article.

He presented people who were quoted in the article but who said that Cartwright had taken their words out of context or made things up entirely.

Armes practically spits when he talks about the experience, claiming it was a hatchet job orchestrated by the opposition to undermine his run for sheriff.

Despite what Armes says is consistent interest in profiling him, he refuses to have anything to do with Texas Monthly to the present day.

In 25 years, when people are not satisfied with the way things come out, they want their money back, and when you know you have done something, why should you?

Even Cartwright conceded that Armes did have the chops of a real private eye and that his work on cases typically obtained successful results. Armes and The Investigators soldiered on through the criticism and were able to continue their detective work relatively unabated.

Armes ran as an outsider and promised to whip into shape a department that he characterized as lazy and ineffective.

He promised to end police corruption and implement physical fitness requirements for officers. One campaign flier had a picture of Armes alongside John F.

Kennedy, Robert F. Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr. Indeed, despite the indelicacies of his tenure, Armes did have a reputation for getting things done.

Just look at his hooks. All the while, of course, Armes was continuing his work as a private eye and actively getting to the bottom of cases all around the world.

Back in the restaurant the next morning, the standoff continued. The book had convinced Weber that they were private eyes, but this also meant they had no legal authority so far from home.

Armes suddenly pounded his hooks on the table. Plus, with his girlfriend having kicked him out, he was now basically homeless.

Thailand may not have had an extradition treaty with the U. On cue, Jay III said he was going to call the local police and got up and walked down a hallway to use the phone in the lobby.

Just remember, you brought this on yourself. Instead, he stood out of view and watched Weber squirm. He returned to the table 10 minutes later and said that the police would be there soon.

Weber looked like he might make a run for it, but instead said he needed to go to the bathroom and quickly walked away.

Jay III stood outside the stall as Weber audibly had diarrhea, a common response to extreme stress. This development was reported to Armes, who was elated — they had literally scared him shitless.

Ultimately, Weber realized that he had to hedge his bets and accept that The Investigators were who they said they were — bounty hunters who only needed the body for lawsuit purposes.

Armes took it a step further: If he told them about Lynda, they would help him renew his passport, advance him some of the expected proceeds from the wrongful death lawsuit, and leave him be in Thailand.

Weber nodded and sighed. The father and son resisted the urge to look at each other in amazement. Armes asked his son to call the police back and tell them they were no longer needed.

W eber said his path to homicidal action began when he strained his back doing manual labor. His mother had given him some painkillers, which he said had knocked him out.

He slept fitfully and thought obsessively about Lynda. When he woke up, he was convinced that he needed to kill her.

He got up and went out to eat with his parents, who were completely unaware what was brewing in his brain.

He was dressed in black and carried with him a backpack containing rope, tape and a pistol. He parked in the quiet lot in front of the dorm, feeling the heft of the gun.

Then he put the gun in the bag, walked into the building, and took the elevator nine floors up to her room.

Lynda was clad in pajamas and was surprised to see him. She tentatively invited him inside, thinking it was best to appease him and then get him to leave.

Weber stared at her. She stared back uncomfortably. He pulled out the pistol and shot her six times. The homemade silencer did little to quiet the shots, and the deafening gunfire was followed by an equally thunderous silence.

Weber strained his ears, expecting to hear the arrival of curious dormmates or the wail of a police siren, but an hour went by and nobody seemed to have noticed that anything had happened.

He had fully expected to be arrested after the deed and was considering killing himself as the police closed in, but now he had to rethink his plans.

He carried the hamper down a flight of stairs and got into the elevator with another student, who remarked on the late-night laundry duties. Weber contemplated killing her too, but the conversation ended without any suspicion toward the bundle, and Weber dragged the hamper out to his car.

From there, Weber drove back to Robinson and buried the hamper under some car parts in a local landfill. Then he went home, parked the car, and went to sleep.

He woke up and had breakfast with his family, and Lynda was reported missing the next day. Weber said that he got worried that the body could be easily discovered and decided to move it a little while later.

He followed a winding access road as far as he could take it and stopped at a remote clearing. Saying aloud for the first time everything that had transpired that grim April night, Weber looked deflated and sat back in his chair.

He noted the convoluted route to get there and handed the map over to Armes. The meeting drew to a close. The Investigators gave Weber some money for a place to stay and went back to the United States.

S oon after they got back to the United States, The Investigators went to the location deep in the Arizona forest that Weber had indicated and were surprised at how accurate the map was.

However, the task that awaited them revealed the unglamorous side of being a private investigator. As it turned out, a railroad had once gone through the area and digging hole after hole yielded only a large pile of railroad spikes.

It would be very difficult to find a metal belt buckle among all the scraps of iron. Armes said that they would not only buy him a ticket back to the U.

Of course, this was complete nonsense, as they had no intention of letting Weber go free after they found where Lynda was buried.

They would all get what they wanted, and nobody would have to know. O n January 26, , The Investigators drove down a barely navigable path through the Coconino National Forest with Weber in the back seat.

He looked out the window nervously, trying to spot anyone who might be hidden among the trees. It was a surreal experience, like stepping firsthand into an old memory.

Getting to this point had come together exactly as planned. From there, the group took the private jet to Flagstaff and drove to the national forest.

Alongside Armes and Weber were some men documenting the dig with video cameras, ostensibly for insurance purposes. Eventually, the vehicle came to the spot in the clearing where Weber said Lynda was buried.

Weber got out of the car and was mildly relieved to see that the snow was undisturbed, a good indication that nobody was there waiting for them.

Still, Weber was more on edge than ever, and he looked around nervously as he walked them to the grim location.

Even to seasoned private eyes who had seen a lot, it was still gasp-inducing to see a foot protruding from the dirt. They gingerly uncovered more of the body, and saw that she was wearing shorts with a metal belt buckle, just as Weber had said.

Even the spaces between the trees seemed to be watching him. What the fuck was he doing there? The group got back in the car and retraced their route away from the burial site.

Weber watched the clearing recede and sat low in his seat. About yards down the road, the trees around the car came alive. A few agents ran up to the passenger side, pulled one of the cameramen out through the window, and threw him on the ground.

When they realized they had the wrong person, they went back to the car and yanked Weber out, then handcuffed him as he lay facedown in the dirt and snow.

Armes had initially received a noncommittal response about putting some agents on the ground, but the FBI eventually confirmed that they would be watching for his private plane when it arrived in the area.

When word came that Armes had Weber in tow and would actually be bringing him to the burial site, the agents moved out and got into position.

A funeral ceremony was held for Lynda at a Buddhist temple in Chicago in early February , and a scholarship was established in her name at Northwestern University.

I knew that. But he was someone who wanted to set the agenda. Weber shook his head once in response to something Armes said but otherwise stayed quiet.

But Weber also argued that he was coerced into confessing by The Investigators and a group of four hired Thai agents who loomed nearby during their conversation, and that someone in the group had had a gun trained on him for much of the interrogation.

Given the abundance of evidence against Weber — including his confession and hand-drawn map — prosecutors would almost certainly be seeking the death penalty.

The Singshinsuk family ultimately decided to accept a guilty plea in exchange for a life sentence in order to avoid a lengthy trial. Armes claimed some credit for convincing the family that this way Weber actually had it worse.

Weber was ultimately sentenced to 75 years in prison — 70 years for the murder and five more for concealing a homicidal death.

Weber, who declined to share his side of the story for this article, is currently incarcerated at the Graham Correctional Center in south-central Illinois and will be eligible for parole in when he is O n November 18, , a U.

Border Patrol agent named Rogelio Martinez radioed that he was going to investigate an unknown disturbance near a culvert in the rural expanse of Culberson County, miles east of El Paso.

Martinez eventually died of his injuries, and although the FBI conducted dozens of interviews and an extensive investigation, the agency concluded that the cause of death could not be determined.

Some people close to the agent were unimpressed with this conclusion and suspected that foul play was involved, and they hired Armes to see what he could find out about that night.

As he nears his 10th decade of life, Armes often asks his wife why the Lord still has him here. Every time he expects that the resolution of a case will satisfy the itch to investigate, he finds he is still compelled to take on more cases.

I like to solve those cases. Armes has also run for office a few times since his tenure as a city councilor in the early s.

His bid for a city council seat in ended with a lawsuit and countersuit between him, the winning candidate and a judge over alleged intimidation at a polling place.

Two years later, a fight broke out among supporters of Armes and another candidate during yet another council bid.

After that, Armes put his political ambitions behind him and focused only on the thing he loves most: private investigating. The elder Armes is at the same time boastful and modest when reflecting on the Weber caper.

But there was satisfaction in providing the forlorn family with a definitive answer — and an affirmation of the legend he has built for himself and The Investigators.

After more than six decades in the business, Armes maintains a single-minded dedication to his work. The more I draw on myself, the more I find I have left.

O n October 3, , a year-old man went to sleep on a green tarp, under plaid and camouflage blankets, in downtown Eugene, Oregon. A bus camera captured his prostrate form next to a wall on Pearl Street at p.

Within minutes, their paths connected, calamitously. By the time police arrived, five minutes after a p. Strewn about were his tooth, a blood-soaked ushanka fur hat with ear flaps, a Swiss Army knife, black boots, a watch, Yogi tea packets, matches and a tobacco pouch.

It was a tree-shrouded location on a dark night with no witnesses. Two miles across town, at p. She reached for her notepad. At the crime scene, Sergeant Tim Haywood paused while processing the evidence.

The tragic tale demonstrates how our society often fails the most vulnerable among us, be they homeless, mentally ill, or neglected and abused young people.

It illuminates tough questions about the limits of justice, redemption and forgiveness. The pair arrived on the scene at p. Video at p.

The attack occurred seconds later. He was hit in the head with the rock nine or 10 times, the medical examiner testified. He said he might have hurt someone really bad or might have killed them.

He seemed like he was going to cry. Eugene police discovered that the teenagers had passed near the downtown bus terminal, and they worked with security to collect video of them.

During the week after the murder and before their arrest, the star-crossed lovers celebrated their first anniversary in the apartment where they shared a bedroom.

A life lived decades ago in half a dozen states and reviewed through the lens of grief can be hard to fathom. But those who knew Ovid Neal recall a man full of verve and adventure.

None foresaw the horrors to come. Named after a Roman poet, Ovid — whom virtually everyone, including Detective Curry, seems to have called by his first name — was born in Inglewood, California, on March 22, His father, Ovid Neal Jr.

He fearlessly fished a Texas pond, his friend Javed Akhund recalls, even after venomous water moccasin snakes surfaced. An old photo shows him tanned and in shape, with a small moustache and full head of curly brown hair.

Albeit a bit more ridiculous. Senn and Ovid used to laugh until their sides hurt. It was literally the theater of the absurd. I think he was partly joking, but … that was when I started feeling this need to protect him.

The family was financially well-off, but they struggled in other ways. The s and early s was a quicksilver period for them. Roth recalls that they moved to New York as a family in , then their dad moved back to Texas and the kids stayed with their mom.

Then all three kids moved to Texas, then returned to New York. Eventually, the two boys returned to Texas around or Ovid overdosed on six horse tranquilizer pills in Dallas at around age 13 or As things turned out, Ovid even counseled his mother.

Ruth Gordon recalls that it was Ovid who helped her stop drinking for good. Ovid spoke to her for a long time, and they prayed together.

Sober and sharp, Ovid turned heads when he arrived at Hampshire College, a private liberal arts college in Massachusetts, in in a shiny red Volkswagen Beetle.

His desk was neat. He had these little rituals, and he loved coffee. I had this desire to feel anchored, like, I need an Ovid fix. Ovid went to Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and Bible studies and was a triathlete and basketball player.

Ovid and he discussed the euphoria that comes from exercise. Much less is known about Jessica Simmons, for whom Oregon officials declined to release records.

Born in Las Vegas in , Kirkpatrick was exposed to methamphetamine in utero but born healthy. He grew up amidst drugs, gangs and brutal violence in Porterville, California, and Anchorage, Alaska.

Kirkpatrick had people who loved and cared for him, court testimony reveals, but his parents struggled with addictions and domestic violence.

A summary of his childhood written by Judge Suzanne Chanti in her Opinion and Order in the case — a page document recently unsealed by The Oregonian — includes information from child protective services CPS records from California and Oregon.

In , his father was sentenced to a year in jail, where his son visited him. Soon after, the father moved to Oregon.

By , Judge Chanti writes, after foreclosure and eviction, Jonny, his mother and siblings continued to live in a house with no electricity.

Jonathan Kirkpatrick and three sisters were placed in foster care. Social services called their father, Raymond Kirkpatrick, in Eugene.

Two days after his 14th birthday, Jonny and his three sisters moved in with his father, who shared a two-bedroom apartment with two other people.

At one point, Jonny ended up in a runaway shelter, effectively homeless on the streets of Eugene at the same time as Ovid Neal.

At some point, the teen moved back in with his father. During one argument he stabbed himself in front of [Simmons]. Steal Your Bitch. In the hours before the pair killed Neal, they had been drinking Oregon Springs vodka and arguing.

A youth worker testified that Kirkpatrick head-butted a glass window before running off. Simmons brought her cat to live there, Chanti writes.

When police served a search warrant at the home, two miles from the scene of the murder, they seized a brass pipe that was stolen from Ovid Neal as he lay dying.

O n February 4, Jonathan Kirkpatrick sat silently next to his bespectacled public defender, Katherine Berger, inside the wood-paneled Lane County Courthouse.

Kirkpatrick had turned 18 and moved from a juvenile facility to the adult jail. His close-cropped haircut recalled s gangster John Dillinger.

A half-dozen people took notes with pen and paper. Like many states, Oregon passed rules in the s that favored a tougher approach to justice for juvenile offenders: Measure 11 automatically tried teenagers 15 and older as adults for murder, attempted murder, robbery, assault and sex crimes.

During the trial, three psychological experts shared conclusions drawn from thousands of questions and their knowledge of the field.

Or was he yet a child, with a developing brain impacted by his upbringing? Berger, the recipient of a statewide legal award, had testified before the state legislature in support of SB before its passage.

Berger did not respond to several interview requests. At stake in the case was not only the question of how juvenile offenders are tried in Oregon.

For Kirkpatrick, a waiver into adult court would mean a far longer sentence. Either way, it is significantly less than Kirkpatrick would face if tried as an adult.

He adds that the state would have been at a disadvantage had he recused himself, given his experience prosecuting many local homicides.

The state and Simmons had already agreed to a plea deal that kept her case there as well. It was across the tracks, literally, from Cambridge, with a back view of an old Italian social club.

It had one door — to the bathroom. Ovid hit the books and busked in Harvard Square, playing music on the streets with harmonica, guitar, amplifier and drums.

A contemporary photo shows a lean, intense Ovid with longish hair, holding a cigarette next to an open window, at a small table replete with a book, papers, fruit, flowers and what looks like pill bottles.

The path seemed natural for Ovid. It was not to be. Gordon flew to Boston and her son had lost 30 pounds. In their last phone call, a week before his death, Ovid surprised his sister by thanking her for things she did for him decades earlier, including throwing a party at the Somerville apartment.

He loved the blues, so she had cooked him a big Cajun dinner and baked a Cajun-style strawberry cake.

Thirty people had packed the tiny apartment. D espite his history counseling and healing others, Ovid never pursued work in the ministry.

His family and friends say his goal was to understand the nature of God, or to write — he started writing poetry as young as age 7, his mother recalls.

His intent was to understand God. Had he not been afflicted with mental illness, he would have written.

Ovid also worked at an East Village diner called Around the Clock, while living with Harwell, who also struggled with mental health.

Harwell recalls Ovid would work, play music and hang with friends. By the mids, friends and family say, Ovid had moved to Seattle and married a woman he knew from his teenage years.

The pair rode there in a horse-drawn carriage. There was a sky-blue house with a white picket fence.

She worked at Microsoft, he at Half-Price Books. After the divorce, his sister, Amanda Roth, recalls, Ovid withdrew from his family, spent time in a group home, and eventually reached out to his brother and mother.

He moved in with them in Las Vegas. In , in Las Vegas, Ovid stopped taking the drugs suddenly. It was perhaps the only time in his life when Ovid was violent with others.

Ovid refused to take his pills or go see his psychiatrist. His brother was in Seattle, working, and his mother was vulnerable. The family saw no way to prove to a judge that Ovid was a threat to himself or others, despite his behaviors.

Ovid ended up in a residential hotel near downtown Las Vegas, his sister recalls. So that Christmas, Nick and I went from shelter to shelter looking for him … but could not find him.

So he went off, and he became a vagabond. I think he was toying with me. The former triathlete smoked tobacco and marijuana while walking 10 miles a day, Amanda Roth says.

F or years, Oregon has had the highest prevalence of mental illness , including addiction, in the country. Housing instability is another big problem.

In homeless populations, mental illness often coexists with drug use. A man played with a yo-yo; a woman sat crying on a curb. Outside of the White Bird Clinic where Ovid got his mail and services, a group of people sat on the sidewalk.

People appeared intoxicated, or in withdrawal. Some ate push-pop ice cream or hot dogs, drank Red Bull; others appeared in the throes of active addiction.

A Lane County Legal Aid study found that 80 percent of trespass and open container citations went to unhoused people.

Ovid received three citations in , for trespassing, jaywalking and an open container. Yet Ovid feared the police.

If police were to be avoided, so were other unhoused people. God is good. In , a homeless woman named Annette Montero was run over and killed by a garbage truck outside of First Christian Church Eugene, a place that had helped Ovid out with his tarp, coat and food.

The National Coalition for the Homeless estimates that about 13, people die on our streets each year in the United States.

A small number, 37 in and 11 in , were homicide victims. And the scene, to me, just looked like somebody who was sleeping on the sidewalk, and incredibly vulnerable.

And they were murdered brutally, and just left on the sidewalk to die alone. In between, they stored it in a grate under a tree.

The parallels between the two assaults raise troubling questions. Fruichantie, 60, presented at an emergency room at a. October 3 with a one-inch scalp laceration requiring five stitches.

Whether Fruichantie received benefits is not known. Police say they investigated but found no pattern. Sometimes there were thefts, she says; sometimes not.

Disabilities including mental illness comprise only 2 percent of hate crimes, according to FBI data. There is no federal legal protection for homeless victims of bias crimes, says Eric Tars, legal director of the National Law Center for Homelessness and Poverty.

Oregon and Eugene are among 46 states and the vast majority of cities that lack such protections, Tars says.

The Civil Rights Division of the U. Calls and messages to his spokespeople went unanswered. Kirkpatrick was found responsible for second-degree murder and second-degree assault; Simmons, for second-degree murder.

Inside the nearly empty courtroom, Zachary Neal and Amanda Roth joined via streaming video from Las Vegas and Hollywood, anger and dismay clouding their faces.

Other participants included Kirkpatrick, Berger, Hasselman, other attorneys and juvenile justice staff. I wish it were me instead.

Three weeks later, Simmons spoke in a similar video-based adjudication from Oak Creek Youth Correctional Facility in Albany, wiping her eyes with a tissue, her hair in a bun, white cotton knit shirt buttoned to the top, voice trembling.

All I can hope is someday I can save lives. They could be released sooner. Or did two kids whose childhoods became social studies get a much-deserved chance at redemption?

In the last decade, a sea change has reshaped our understanding of adolescent brains, favoring a heavier weighting of adverse childhood experiences, adolescent brain science and trauma.

In this case, Kirkpatrick, a month shy of 17, was adjudicated as a child. Many other states have similarly rolled back the tough love approach of the s.

Tragically, we are facing possible rapid growth in our unhoused and mentally ill populations — and, experts say, growing numbers of attacks on them.

The family plans to scatter them at Sequoia National Park, after an Episcopal service. Healing may take longer.

On a Facebook remembrance group, one man mentions the irony that Ovid, a former teen addiction counselor, was killed by teens battling addiction.

What do a crew of talented musicians do when forced to serve at the pleasure of a notoriously cruel dictator? They play like their lives depend on it.

He began to pray. He did not have the keys, he told them. Is it really you? Suddenly, he was warmly patting the older man on the back. Its international claim to fame is the dire poverty of its citizens and its terrifying, bloody, seemingly never-ending wars.

Hundreds of thousands of citizens ran from their homes. Those who did not manage to escape were slaughtered, their bodies thrown in the river or stuffed down water wells.

Aid workers watched helplessly as armed thugs took over the towns and villages, stringing human intestines across the roads as barriers — a gruesome warning to others to proceed no further.

His fame probably saved his life. The prospect was exciting — but also terrifying. The anecdotes from his time abound with absurdities, stretching from the beginning to the end of his reign.

But it was a long time before he heard from the great leader again. That means that you are a nationalist at heart. As a teenager, Bokassa was educated in missionary schools and had initially planned to study for the priesthood, before joining the French Army when World War II erupted.

Though Bokassa saw music as a diplomatic tool, he also loved it with an all-consuming passion that was obvious to all.

Upon landing, some of the musicians were so shaken by the experience that they ran away and hid, refusing to perform that night.

I will sing with you. But it was far from all fun and games. We turned around and there were armed security guards standing behind us, gun barrels pointing.

It was very difficult. Though the pope, along with a multitude of other state leaders, declined the invitation, preparations for the coronation progressed full steam.

It was decorated with pearls, diamonds and rubies. I turned it over and over in my head. And afterward, it simply came to me, just like that.

The dignitaries thought only of hiding themselves in their Mercedeses. Several years later, in , Bokassa returned to the Central African Republic, hoping to be forgiven and welcomed back.

The displaced have since been forced to leave the airport and return to rebuild their destroyed homes. Life expectancy is just 52 years — the shortest anywhere on the planet, according to the World Bank.

In recent years, Russian soldiers and mercenaries have descended on the former royal palace, setting up training camps for soldiers inside the grounds, according to a CNN report.

And Tropical Fiesta is playing once again. One night, I went to a show. The venue was in a garden next to a ditch, off the main road in Bangui. Lit up sparsely by a few functioning street lamps, it was guarded by a half-broken gate.

A balafon player began striking a few notes. Clutching large bottles of beer, the older men looked up at the stage with a faraway gleam in their eyes.

The women, wearing figure-hugging dresses made out of colorful cloth, shook their hips languidly. Before long it became a party — families, friends sitting around plastic tables, chatting and waving away mosquitoes, while others invited friends and lovers to dance.

Zokoko, who now heads Tropical Fiesta, was there, getting ready to sing, surrounded by friends and fans. The violence in and around Bangui had died down, and the usual rhythm of life had slowly begun to resume.

Yet the songs played on, people sang along, their eyes half-closed, smiling as if trying to spirit themselves back to a different era, before the country was riven by war and armed gangs.

Alongside the music, a certain nostalgia for the era of Bokassa had emerged. In his time, we were the best in Central Africa, now we are the worst.

Those rulers who came after brought a lot more suffering since. Sometimes those requests are impossible to turn down.

We are not politicians, we are musicians, but we want to give this ambi e nce of social cohesion, so that it comes back to us.

God knows, the solidarity between us will return. In , as part of a general amnesty, he was set free, having served just six years in prison.

He found Bokassa both paternal and petrifying. T he Deke Duncan show on Radio 77 had it all — the latest hits, bouncy jingles, and a DJ who was born to be on the airwaves.

In a new podcast episode from Snap Judgement and Narratively, Duncan, now 75, reveals how he made up the news, the weather, and even the commercials — and kept Radio 77 alive for over forty years.

C heck out an original Radio 77 show, recorded in He was joined by friends Richard St. His friends moved on, and his wife left him.

The only constant in his life was his make-believe radio show, where he could slip on his headphones and enjoy his imaginary world. Somehow, he kept the station running, on and off, for forty years.

Our story starts around the 3-minutesecond mark of this episode. After my parents got divorced, Dad began a slow slide into isolation. Eventually he found consolation in the darkest corners of the web.

Can I help him get back out?

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