This past Wednesday was the preliminary hearing for Eunice Bates, the woman who killed Bob. The hearing was ... awful. One of the many times his mother started crying was when they were talking about the autopsy showing heroin in his blood and urine. And then his father, ever stoic, outside, telling me that they never hear from any of his friends anymore. Eunice Bates thought she hit a deer. When she killed Bob, she thought she had hit a deer. The pool of blood was 131 feet from the point of impact ... his bicycle was 67 feet away. And this woman ... as they read new charge after new charge ... homicide by vehicle, involuntary manslaughter, speeding, careless driving, following too closely ... the judge thought she was going to faint -- I thought she was going to faint. I feel just awful for every single person involved, every last one of us. There's no way this will ever turn out well for anyone.
131 feet. I sat at Quiet Storm this afternoon trying to picture just how far 131 feet was. 131 feet from the point of impact to the pool of blood where his body landed. How fast must she have been going to send him flying that far?
So I'll leave you all with my feminist angst:
I got a call today to work on Ambush Makeover. I can't in good conscience take this job, can I? Or do I take the job and find some way to sabotage them? Or does the need for a paycheck trump all the rest?