by Helen Blackmore

Created on: February 22, 2009

"Murder" is a word that has entered my daily life far too often. A neighbor of mine for twenty years, whose sons were my son's buddies since they were in diapers, was suddenly taken away in the middle of the night, and charged as a murderer. The victim had disappeared five years earlier, and another neighbor who he had confided in turned him in after all that time, because his conscience bothered him.

The details were horrific, the body had been buried, then, he had a dream that it was found, so years later, he dug it up, hacked it up, and reburied it. This just could not be my neighbor. Not the man who had neighborhood barbeque's, New Year's parties, who I depended on and trusted with my son when he had sleepovers with his boys.

I vowed to stand behind him, and take his mother to court, and to visits at the jail. It was my way of coping with unbelievable circumstances. Keeping busy taking care of his mother kept me from losing my grip, I had to keep a brave face on for her, a woman I genuinely liked. I wanted so much for him to be innocent, because I could not wrap my mind around the possibility of his guilt. Eventually, he confessed, but claims it was initially an accident, he meant to only beat him up for causing harm to his father and robbing him, but, he wore a gun, and it fell to the ground. They both dove for it. He got it first, and fired. As he stood all alone in the woods with the lifeless body in front of him, he wondered if anyone would believe his story. That is when he decided to cover it up, because he felt sure he would be judged wrongly.

Where does that leave me?
Do I cut him out of my life because he is a murderer? Does my community view me as a nut case because I supported him? I inadvertently wound up on the local news while waiting for the elevator with his mother at the courthouse. I prayed no one saw me.

I was afraid if someone saw me, I would be judged for my support.

His mother is a wonderful lady, but her health is precarious.
I continue to drive her to the prison each month; there is no one else to do it. I continue to write to her son, but it is very hard to reconcile my feelings. Ghandi once said "Hate the sin, love the sinner". That might be easy for God to do, after all, He is perfect, and I am not.
I try. There are days I wish I had never known him. I am only human, and know it is not my place to judge.
The anguish I see in his mother's face hurts me, despite the brave front she shows to the world. His wife and children live in another

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