Something wicked happened on this day 38 years ago. Something awful. Something horrendous. Something I will remember for as long as I live.

38 years ago I awoke to Jane, my friend and roommate screaming hysterically. Her cries were that like none I had heard before. I raced to her room to find her panicked, ashen, sobbing. Unable to really get the words out, she finally told me “my brother is dead.” She kept saying “I know that bitch did it.” She was hysterical so I really didn’t put it together.

Despite better judgment, she raced to her parents home that was only a few miles away. I was left to try and make sense of what just happened.

Her brother had recently married. She actually had worn black to the wedding. And the most gorgeous black shoes. They were Halston. I still remember those shoes. She wasn’t in favor of the wedding. She wasn’t a fan of the bride. There was history yes, but it was more than that. She had a deep abiding feeling of dread quite honestly. I remember the wedding day and seeing her off. She sincerely was attending only because she loved her brother. But, she truly didn’t approve of the marriage. She would attend as a good sister. Letting her stunning, black ensemble speak for her.

Now, with those words “I know that bitch did it” in my head, I began to wonder. Was she right? Had she known something that wasn’t evident? We soon found out.

It turned out, she was right. Her brother had been shot in the back of the head while sleeping. By his new wife. She had initially attempted on the 911 call, to claim he committed suicide. Then, when the police arrived, she claimed there had been a fight. A struggle ensued and the gun “went off.” Then she went back to the suicide claim. The problem was, he had been lying under undisturbed covers on the bed. On his dominant side.

Oddly, she was not taken into custody at the scene. He was rushed to a hospital as he actually was still breathing but, sadly expired upon arrival.

Shortly thereafter, his murderer checked herself into a mental health facility. This made it impossible for the police to arrest her or even question her. She also retained counsel.

Meanwhile, his sister, Jane, was shattered. Her premonition if you will, had come to pass. Her only brother was dead. Murdered by his wife. Her parents were shaken to their core. Their despair was palpable. How do you move on from this? Murder is so different from other loss as I came to learn. There are so many other emotions tied to it. So many unanswered questions. And it’s so immediate. One minute you’re sleeping and the next minute you get a phone call telling you your brother has been murdered. It’s complicated. And that’s on top of the devastation.

Finally, his murderer was arrested and a trial ensued. It’s the only murder trial I’ve ever been a part of, and hopefully, it will remain that way. Because that’s the other issue with murder. It’s not over the day of the funeral. There’s a trial to go through. Pictures. Horrific pictures. Testimony. Painful testimony. All delaying your ability to grieve. Forcing you to revisit the horrendous loss you’ve suffered. The loss thrust upon you.

In a bizarre twist of fate, it turned out I had access to information about a defense she was putting forth. She initially was claiming she was mentally unstable. I actually worked for the mental health agency that her employer contracted with for services. I quickly passed what information I could to the prosecutor.

Somewhere along the line, that defense fell apart. As did her others. She had hired and fired more than one attorney, making accusations of sexual misconduct which were untrue.

We went to court and I sat with Jane as she had to listen to the most heinous lies put forth by this woman. It was torture. Absolute torture. I carefully took notes. I answered questions for Jane and her parents when needed. I did what I could to support them. I just wanted them to get through it.

Then came the threats. She actually threatened the family. Both verbally and in writing. This was more than Jane could take. What is also so complex about murder is the number of victims. Jimmy was dead. He was her first victim. But, Jane was also a victim. As were her parents. The stress, grief, anxiety and sheer horror of the situation took a tremendous toll on each of them. And would forever. But now, threats? Actual threats? This was too much.

I awoke one night to find Jane missing. She was not in the house, her car still in the driveway, but she was gone. I panicked. Had Rita made good on her threats? The phone rang. It was Jane’s mother. Could I run down to the gas station and get her? Apparently, she had wandered down the street in a fog. I quickly got in my car and went to find her. She was not in good shape. She was in her pajamas, definitely not functioning well and absolutely frightened. I brought her home and got her to bed. But I worried. How was she ever going to recover from this? I sat up and watched her. Ensuring she didn’t wander off again.

Finally, the trial ended and a conviction was delivered. The judge took only 2 hours to render a decision. Guilty of first degree murder. I honestly don’t remember the sentence but I believe it was life. They had proven it was murder. There was some relief but there was no joy. Jimmy was not coming back. A brother gone. Taken away by a woman who simply was unhinged. A son lost to a murderer. It was somber walking out of court that day.

Life went on. I watched as they tried to assemble the shattered pieces. My heart breaking at the little reminders of that awful day.

And then one day the family was notified that Rita had escaped from prison. It was as if we were right back there, that morning. She had continued to make threats. So, now what? What exactly do you do when a murderer has escaped and you and your family are a target? You have extreme anxiety. And that’s exactly what happened. Any progress that had been made, vanished in that moment.

Thankfully, she was caught fairly quickly. Everyone could relax again. Somewhat. But, it certainly left everyone wondering what if? What if it happens again?

Eventually, Jane moved home with her parents. I think she felt safe there. And I certainly couldn’t blame her. After living through the experience with her, I understood her grief, her pain and her anxiety.

Finally, Rita died in prison. But, it was after many years. Many years of anxiety for Jane and her parents. Finally, Jane could at least feel safe. The problem however, is as a victim herself, Jane will never really feel “safe.” And the grief, the loss, the pain? That will never leave. The trauma of this day? That too will never leave her. It will live on. A painful reminder of the trauma she endured.

I awake every October 1st and think of that morning 38 years ago. Every year. It’s the first thought I have. Like a movie that plays in your head. And I think, if it’s like this for me, I can’t imagine what it’s like for her.

So for her, for her brother, this story is being told for the first time. We will never forget him. We will never forget you Jimmy.❤️