And there's no justice even for the all-powerful, rich white man when idiot cops are on the scene to fuck everything up, as they did in the beginning of the JonBenet case. It took two women to bring justice to the Ramseys.
From today's New York Daily News:
A grand jury probe of JonBenet's death concluded with no indictments against anyone. But in 2003, U.S. District Judge Julie Carnes, who reviewed some evidence in the case in connection with a libel suit filed against the Ramseys, said she believed the clues suggested an intruder killed the child.
Boulder County District Attorney Mary Lacy, who took over the Ramsey murder probe from her predecessor, Alex Hunter, in late 2002, said she agreed with Carnes' hunch and started a fresh investigation.
I used to drive by the Ramsey's home on West Paces Ferry Road here in Atlanta every day after work. (I think they've since relocated to another part of town.) When they moved into the West Paces house from Boulder, the Ramseys began extensive renovation work on the grounds, which opened out onto West Paces with a broad expanse of showy lawn.
The house and the property were so exposed, so vulnerable. Why did they not choose to live on a more secluded side street? Then again, this was a "pageant family," I'd shrug to myself. Everything is up for display, right? As I'd pass by, I inevitably turned to look at the opulent mess, and was inevitably returned with a wave of extreme pity and sadness as I drove on down the beautiful, excessively manicured, winding road back on over to my side of town.
Like most people, I struggled to keep an open mind about the guilt, or not, of the family of JonBenet, keeping up dutifully with the case through The National Enquirer in the checkout line. When the Enquirer ran purloined pictures of crime scene evidence that included the garrote used to kill the little girl, I bought that copy, took it home and stared long and hard at the rope.
The noose was the work of a pro. It was perfectly and carefully crafted by someone who wanted to savor their sadistic handiwork. The rope seemed brand new.
I bought that particular "evidence" copy of the Enquirer because when I was a child, one of my brothers once garroted my favorite baby doll, Lisa. I came home from school one random day, I still played with dolls in fifth grade, and found Lisa swinging from a noose on our back porch. She had been stripped naked before being hung, a peace sign scrawled across her pink cloth chest with black marker.
I remember the shock of discovering the "crime scene," the maniacal laughter from my twisted brother, but mostly I remember the utter indifference of my mother to his sicko behavior. He should have been taken out behind the woodshed and caned within an inch of his wicked little life. Instead, I was likely yelled at to shut-up and stop crying, while he was allowed to relish and revel in every treasured moment of his ghoulish, freakish action to his twisted heart's content.
Lisa was gone forever. I never played with dolls again.
Reading list for this entry: We Need To Talk About Kevin
tags: JonBenet, Atlanta, Justice, Ramsey, Lin Wood, Lionel Shriver