In my junior year of high school, I met a girl. No, this isn't a love story; I never really had any sort of feelings for her, but we became fast friends and talked about all manner of things, from life to the future to how much of an asshole her boyfriend was. Just so you know, this also isn't a bitchfest about the 'nice guy' role I played in my adolescence. This is an explanation of why I'll punch Nancy Grace in her poodle-like face if I ever meet her.
We'll call this girl Lissa. Her real name can be easily found, especially if you watched Nancy Grace or lived in Central Florida around August of 2006 and were anywhere near a TV playing CNN or local news. Lissa was a troubled girl when I knew her. Best I can recall from our long and meandering conversations, she was in the Army Reserves, she was adopted, her boyfriend was an insensitive asshole and she had a history of being abused by those close to her.
She had a hard life, and I was a sympathetic ear.
So fast forward a few months from meeting her. She calls me up one evening, as I was filling out college application forms and eating burritos. She sounded like something was wrong. Before I thought to ask her what was up, she blurted it out: "I'm pregnant."
Nine months later, she delivered the child, a son, whom I'll call Dale. By then, I was long long gone. We drifted apart, and never spoke to one another again, though I kept up on her through mutual friends. I never played much of a role in her life, except perhaps as an occasional sounding board. I'm not going to pretend that I could have done anything to change what's about to go down.
Anyways, fast forward to my sophomore year of college. I was watching TV and goofing around before work, when I saw her boyfriend's face on the news. It took me a few seconds, but I realized: I went to elementary school with this guy. Intrigued, I kept watching. Then I found out: their son was missing under suspicious circumstances.
I call up a friend still in the area and try to find out anything more, but no one picks up, so I call another, and he tells me he knows about as much as the news does. Fuck!
A few days later, a distraught and exhausted Lissa appears on Nancy Grace, who proceeds to rip her a new one, live on national television before an audience of hundreds of thousands. Grace accuses Lissa of being complicit in the disappearance of her son, and Lissa breaks down and cries on the air, as would be expected of most mothers when their son is missing and someone is accusing you on live television of selling your kid, as though it's Iron Chef and tonight's competitor is Franz Kafka, and the secret ingredient is congee.
A few days later, Lissa was found in a shed with a shotgun lying next to her body, her head blown off in a suicide. Whether or not Lissa was indeed complicit in the disappearance of her son --- who, by the way, is still missing! --- is irrelevant. This is a matter for the police and the FBI, not Nancy Grace. In memory of Lissa and her son (who may yet be alive), I'll spare no effort in forcefully translocating my outstretched manus in an arc that intersects the plane of Nancy Grace's yapping poodle-like face. If there's one media figure that deserves it, it's her.