Read Online B00NRQWAJI by Nichole Christoff - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Nichole Christoff
Ads: Link
announced Pamela Wentz, age fourteen, had been found hanging by the neck in a barn behind her family’s farmhouse shortly after dawn. The coroner ruled her death a suicide—and cited her April 9 rape as a possible motivator.
This unleashed a maelstrom of stories chronicling the community’s shock and outrage. Weepy high school girls, who couldn’t profess to being actual friends with Pamela before her death, recounted sweet remembrances of the freshman. Upright citizens ranted about kids’ coursing hormones, heavy underage drinking, overprivileged teen athletes, and inattentive parents. And someone in the Sheriff’s Office was credited with leaking a list of boys who’d been brought in for questioning about Pamela’s assault.
The paper printed them all.
And I saw Barrett’s name in black and white.
The paper’s secret source wasn’t afraid to say why he’d made the list. DNA testing was still in the early stages of development back then, but according to the reporter’s informant, a saliva sample had been lifted from Pamela’s mouth. It had matched Barrett’s DNA perfectly.
And that revelation twisted me into knots.
Then, in the April 15 edition, there was this little gem, published as an anonymous letter to the Examiner’s editor:
Dear Editor:
When are the people of this town going to wise up? What will it take before we see justice done? Does another Fallowfield girl have to get hurt? Adam Barrett may be the grandson of two so-called pillars of this community, but he wasn’t born here, he wasn’t raised here, and everyone knows things like this didn’t happen before he came here. The sheriff keeps pulling him in for questioning. It’s time we the people demand Sheriff Bowker step up to the plate and lock this boy away.
But Barrett was never arrested. And in a news conference on April 21, the sheriff cautioned citizens against jumping to conclusions. That didn’t stop the good people of Fallowfield from taking matters into their own hands, however.
On May Day, the paper reported, an angry mob marched on the Barretts’ place after dark. Some carried flashlights. Others carried torches. Those folks touched off a blaze in a corncrib. And set fire to the house itself.
The family lived to tell about it, but Neville Barrett—who I took to be Barrett’s grandfather—had been treated for smoke inhalation. Elise and Miranda were treated for shock. The fire chief was quoted as saying the property damage was relatively minor—but I figured that was a matter of perspective.
In any case, I found I couldn’t stomach reading any more after that.
I packed the papers away and, upstairs, searched out Calvin Mead at his post behind the circulation desk. He was repairing the spine of a book that had seen better days. Keeping my voice low so as not to disturb a pair of little of old ladies fingering an encyclopedia at a reading table, I thanked him for his help.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked.
“Some of it,” I said, “but not all of it.”
He nodded, plucked a business card from an ornate brass holder alongside a stack of books.
“These are our hours.” He offered the card to me. “And you know where we are if you need more assistance.”
I muttered more thanks, shoved the card in my pocket, and left.
By the time I turned into Miranda Barrett’s driveway, the sun had dipped behind the cheery scarecrow standing in the midst of his straw bales. But if the cars parked outside the combination greenhouse/gift shop were anything to go by, Barrett’s grandmother was still doing a brisk business even this late in the day. And after all I’d read about the townspeople storming her home like angry villagers in some sick American Gothic / Frankenstein mash-up over twenty years ago, I was glad to see some of them made no bones about contributing to her livelihood now.
Steering clear of the congestion in front of the barn, I parked by the garage on a patch of bare earth. But I
This unleashed a maelstrom of stories chronicling the community’s shock and outrage. Weepy high school girls, who couldn’t profess to being actual friends with Pamela before her death, recounted sweet remembrances of the freshman. Upright citizens ranted about kids’ coursing hormones, heavy underage drinking, overprivileged teen athletes, and inattentive parents. And someone in the Sheriff’s Office was credited with leaking a list of boys who’d been brought in for questioning about Pamela’s assault.
The paper printed them all.
And I saw Barrett’s name in black and white.
The paper’s secret source wasn’t afraid to say why he’d made the list. DNA testing was still in the early stages of development back then, but according to the reporter’s informant, a saliva sample had been lifted from Pamela’s mouth. It had matched Barrett’s DNA perfectly.
And that revelation twisted me into knots.
Then, in the April 15 edition, there was this little gem, published as an anonymous letter to the Examiner’s editor:
Dear Editor:
When are the people of this town going to wise up? What will it take before we see justice done? Does another Fallowfield girl have to get hurt? Adam Barrett may be the grandson of two so-called pillars of this community, but he wasn’t born here, he wasn’t raised here, and everyone knows things like this didn’t happen before he came here. The sheriff keeps pulling him in for questioning. It’s time we the people demand Sheriff Bowker step up to the plate and lock this boy away.
But Barrett was never arrested. And in a news conference on April 21, the sheriff cautioned citizens against jumping to conclusions. That didn’t stop the good people of Fallowfield from taking matters into their own hands, however.
On May Day, the paper reported, an angry mob marched on the Barretts’ place after dark. Some carried flashlights. Others carried torches. Those folks touched off a blaze in a corncrib. And set fire to the house itself.
The family lived to tell about it, but Neville Barrett—who I took to be Barrett’s grandfather—had been treated for smoke inhalation. Elise and Miranda were treated for shock. The fire chief was quoted as saying the property damage was relatively minor—but I figured that was a matter of perspective.
In any case, I found I couldn’t stomach reading any more after that.
I packed the papers away and, upstairs, searched out Calvin Mead at his post behind the circulation desk. He was repairing the spine of a book that had seen better days. Keeping my voice low so as not to disturb a pair of little of old ladies fingering an encyclopedia at a reading table, I thanked him for his help.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asked.
“Some of it,” I said, “but not all of it.”
He nodded, plucked a business card from an ornate brass holder alongside a stack of books.
“These are our hours.” He offered the card to me. “And you know where we are if you need more assistance.”
I muttered more thanks, shoved the card in my pocket, and left.
By the time I turned into Miranda Barrett’s driveway, the sun had dipped behind the cheery scarecrow standing in the midst of his straw bales. But if the cars parked outside the combination greenhouse/gift shop were anything to go by, Barrett’s grandmother was still doing a brisk business even this late in the day. And after all I’d read about the townspeople storming her home like angry villagers in some sick American Gothic / Frankenstein mash-up over twenty years ago, I was glad to see some of them made no bones about contributing to her livelihood now.
Steering clear of the congestion in front of the barn, I parked by the garage on a patch of bare earth. But I
Similar Books
