Background
For those of you who have read the first draft, this chapter has very few changes from the original.
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Despite Mr. Hurley's offer to drive, we decided to walk. It was a beautiful, sunny day and we all felt the need for exercise and some fresh air. The courthouse was only five blocks from the hotel, giving me a few extra minutes to think about what I was going to say and Mom way too much time to panic.
When she saw the crowd of reporters and dozens of cameras, her knees buckled and Uncle Mark quickly grabbed her before she fell. Aunt Em rushed to Mom's side. "Are you sure you want to do this?"
Mom brushed her hair from her face, straightened her skirt and looking like a frightened child, feigned a smile, and nodded.
As soon as the reporters saw us, we were immediately surrounded by an out-of-control mob, pushing and shoving their microphones into Mom's face while screaming questions at her. Uncle Mark pushed them aside as he tried to guide us through the crowd. Suddenly a voice I recognized started shouting orders like an angry drill sergeant. It was Mac. "Back off! Give them some room! Get out of the way!"
With Mac on one side of Mom and Uncle Mark on the other, they pushed the throng of unruly reporters aside so we could get to the courthouse steps. I thanked Mac and asked him why he was there.
"Curiosity. I thought I'd come hear what you had to say." Mac winked and stepped to the side.
Mr. Hurley was waiting for us at the top of the steps, standing behind three microphones apparently placed there by the reporters. I took hold of Mom's hand and feeling her tremble, I whispered into her ear. "It's going to be fine. By the time you speak, I'll have them eating out of my hand."
Mom smiled, but this time it was a real one. Wiping a single tear from her eye, Mom kissed me on the cheek. "I want you to know how proud I am of you."
Mom stood beside me and Charlie stood behind her, between Aunt Em and Uncle Mark. Mac gave us plenty of space, but remained close enough if needed.
After the crowd finally settled down, Mr. Hurley stepped up to the center microphone. "I am Thomas Hurley, the attorney representing Mrs. Mathews and her children. Mrs. Mathews and her son, James, have a statement they would like to make. I ask that you not interrupt them while they are speaking, and I want to make it clear that when they finish they will not be taking any questions."
Mr. Hurley stepped back, looked at me, smiled, and pointed to the microphone.
I took a deep breath. Although I could hear cameras clicking, I was surprised to see the previously wild mob standing frozen, completely silent, and staring directly at me. I took advantage of the silence and looked out over the crowd. Then, one by one, I intentionally made eye contact with each reporter. After several long, tense minutes, I cleared my throat. At that moment, I finally knew what I was going to say.
"You are all reporters. It is your job to report the news. However, some of you have chosen instead to create the news. Few of you have done any real research and based your reports on speculation, assumption, and in the case of my sister, accepted lies as the truth from a source only interested in getting his fifteen-minutes of fame. Most of you have acted unprofessionally and should be ashamed of yourselves. The questions you have repeatedly asked only show your ignorance and preference for sensationalism rather than a sincere desire to find the truth."
I raised my hand and pointed at a young, attractive reporter I recognized from a local television station as one who had asked several stupid questions. "Miss, how would you feel if the police knocked on your door and told you your husband of ten years had just been arrested for the rape and murder of a young girl?"
I then pointed at the woman standing beside her. "How would you respond if someone told you your father just confessed to murdering three women?"
Both women remained silent. I turned back to the first woman and staring her in the eyes, said, "I'm waiting for an answer. Tell me, how would you feel?"
I knew she was not going to answer, but I paused long enough to make my point.
"What's the matter? Are you not answering because you refuse to believe your husband would do anything so horrible? Or, is it because in your heart you know your husband is incapable of doing something so terrible? What if you were shown all the evidence that proved without a doubt he was guilty? Tell me, how would you feel? What would you do?
"That is how my family felt when they first learned of our father's arrest; shock, disbelief, denial, and finally acceptance. Acceptance that the man we thought was a loving husband and father was nothing more than a lie. The heartbreaking realization that the man who was my father never existed.
"You and so many others insisted we had to know something. With no facts to base it on, you chose to present us as nothing more than accomplices who saw all the signs but turned a blind eye."
I glared at the group of reporters staring up at me. "My father was seen as a normal, well-respected, highly revered man in the community. Ask our neighbors, his co-workers, and his friends who knew him for years. They will all tell you the same thing; they suspected nothing. You want us to tell you who he was, but we cannot because everything about him was a lie. He conned his family, his friends, the neighbors, and his co-workers. None of us knew the real John Mathews. Sadly, only the victims and my father know who he really is. The victims are obviously unable to speak, so I suggest you talk to my father to get the answer to that question.
"My family has been through hell, yet you insist on portraying us as accomplices."
For the third time, I looked at the first reporter I spoke to. "Are you as strong as my family? Or, would your need to believe your husband was still the man you loved be so strong it would force you to turn a blind eye by convincing yourself you were just overreacting? Tell me, could you turn your father or husband in to the police, knowing he would probably spend the rest of his life in prison or worse, get the death penalty?"
I intentionally paused to allow my words to sink into their thick skulls.
"Your questions are ludicrous and insulting. Do I still love my father? What difference does it make? Would saying I still love him make for a better story? If I said I hate him, would that be more interesting to your readers and sell more newspapers, or get you more viewers and increase your ratings?
"You ask if I believe in the death penalty. My opinion is pointless. I have no say in what will or will not happen to my father. I leave that to the justice system. My family and I will accept whatever the system decides. We will not say or do anything to influence that decision.
"The only people who have the right to ask us any questions are the families of the victims. More than anyone, they deserve answers to why did my father do this and why did he choose their daughter? My family and I have asked ourselves those questions a hundred times, and we do not have the answer."
Feeling tears well up in my eyes, I paused for a second. "I want to tell the families of each precious young girl my father took from them, that if hating or blaming us gives you only the briefest moment of comfort, I eagerly and willingly accept your hate. The price you have paid has earned you the right to find peace whatever way you can."
I stepped back and took hold of Mom's hand. She was crying. She put her arm around me and hugged me.
Mom didn't have much to say other than my words expressed the feelings of the entire family. She also apologized to the families of the victims before tears and sobs prevented her from saying anything more. Aunt Em took Mom's arm and we all turned and walked away from the microphones.
To my surprise, when we walked down the steps, the crowd of reporters silently stepped back, giving us plenty of room to pass. Only a few chose to make eye contact with me. I glanced over to where Mac was standing. Although he tried to appear professional, I saw tears in his eyes.
Did my words reach even one of the reporters? I honestly don't know, nor did I care. I said what I needed to say and that was all that mattered.
Author Notes
James Mathews is not your typical eighteen-year-old boy. He has an IQ of 190 that not only makes him smarter than most adults he knows, it makes developing friends his own age next to impossible. His photographic memory has turned him into a walking, talking library. Waking one day to discover his father is the infamous Belltown Killer, turns James's life into a living hell. He reluctantly becomes friends with Mac, the lead Detective on the case. Together, they discover more unsolved murders and James is faced with the choice of continuing his search for the truth, or simply turning a blind eye.
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