a pillow. What seemed like furniture being thrown against the wall jarred the
floor under my feet. It felt like a small earthquake.
then without a word focused back on the work we were doing at her dining room
table in the condo next door.
met eyes again, “This happens over there all the time,” she said.
“Does anyone ever call the police?” “Shouldn’t we do something?”
started to knock on the fighting neighbors’ door. I stopped. Suddenly I began
assessing possible danger to me — this wasn’t my space — I didn’t know who or
what was behind that door.
before shied away from getting involved when lives were at stake. But this one
confused me terribly. I felt I should be doing something to intervene but
decided not to based on my friend’s assessment that they were always fighting
next door. Ninety minutes of ferocious battle had finally quieted. I went
home.
her to death, dragged her bloody, broken body up stairs to the bathroom, washed
her in the tub, re-dressed her in clean clothes, then shoved her body back down
the staircase where it landed in a heap on the living room floor.
her life!
for the prosecution.
straight in the eyes of the murderer during my entire testimony. He was found
guilty.
important, except for the victim. She had a name. It was Catherine.
Cheryl A. Schwartz, aka aeropolowoman, is a former print and broadcast
journalist from Los Angeles. She is now a blogging journalist from Clearwater,
Florida. Contact her at: http:/twitter.com/direct_message/create/aeropolowoman, or cheryl.schwartz@alumni.uc.edu