7:20 a.m. I was really hungry when I left my surveillance yesterday afternoon. So, with as much dignity as one can muster when wearing velvety red pajamas with little silver stars all over them, I walk into Panera to buy a bagel...or 12. "Those aren't all for me," I tell the cashier. Liar. "I'm having a party. A pajama party." Stop talking, Polly. Less is more.
I get home at about 5pm and change into shorts. I make myself a mug of tea and go out on the rocks by the lake. There are young couples sitting on the hoods of their cars watching the surf and holding hands. I hear Blink 182 drifting out of a window and blending with the sounds of waves crashing and little kids squealing on the beach below. "...don't waste your time on me, you're already the voice inside my head. Miss you. Miss you." Good song.
There is a second half to the story I told about my first cases. That was only one scene. But judging from the response, I feel like kind of a jerk bringing you all down again. So I will tell another story.
This case was actually documented by a French film maker for HBO in 2001 and won Best Feature Documentary in 2002. It was called, Murder on a Sunday Morning. It's about a young black man who was wrongly accused of a crime he didn't commit. It follows the whole story from the murder to the trial. I worked with the detectives involved in this case and was present at the autopsy of the homicide victim.
Gotta cut this short. More later. My Subject is finally active...