Five years ago, Cedric called GJP. In jail for his umpteenth drug related case, he wanted legal help. His drug addiction had landed him in jail and prison more times than he could count. He was tired. There was a problem . . . and he didn’t have the answer.
The fall dew covered her face and arms making her think, when she woke up, that it had rained during the night. Her hands reached for the pain in her neck and throat—sore and burning from the rope. Her aching body informed her that she had been unsuccessful—she was still alive. She rose from the grass. It was 5:30 a.m. and still dark. The horror of the night before was not fiction. It was not a bad dream. She had fallen asleep on the grass three miles from her apartment. She had walked there. A quarter was all she had in her pocket.