I take a lot of ribbing because of my simple and pure desire to spend the majority of my time solving mysterious and violent murder cases from the comfort of my own laptop and basic cable. What of it? You know what, people? This shit pays off.
Allow me to count the ways:
1. If given the case files, I could've proved that Scott Peterson shit without doubt. I really feel like that investigation was botched, due in large part to my lack of involvement.
2. I know how to dispose of a body (unlike Scott), and without a body (or evidence like such a large amount of blood that the person obviously died), you can't get convicted of murder. Ever. So, you know, don't piss me off.
3. I could never be forced to sign a false confession, as happened with the Guildford Four, featured in In the Name of the Father, which I watched (again) last night. Now, I'm not blaming Gerry Conlon or Paul Hill for giving in to hours of physical and mental abuse, ultimately culminating in them signing confessions to a crime the never committed. I'm just saying, I wouldn't have signed. The scariest part of their interrogation, and it's admittedly scary, was the sticking of a gun in their mouths. Whenever I see this in movies, it totally freaks me the fuck out. But if I'm in some police interrogation room with a bunch of cocky douchebags who want to pin some bogus rap on me (that was fun to think much less type), then fine, shoot me. Explain that one to the judge. Like they're going to shoot me in the head. Please.
"Oh, she was trying to escape. So we had to restrain her, stick a gun in her mouth and shoot."
Yeah, that'll fly.
In this movie (and I guess in real life), Gerry's dad get's sucked into it too. Played by Mr. Kobayashi, Guisseppe Conlon gets thrown in the clink with his son where he then dies. And of course, he's like the sweetest, most loyal, powerless dad ever.
Now, since they'd never throw me and my dad in the same prison, I imagined what it'd be like if they threw the book at my mom too.
Um, I pity the fool that accuses Joanne of a crime she didn't commit. There'd be no passive wearing of uniforms, confusion at the process, wide-eyed protests of misunderstandings. Oh no. My mother, as I have learned repeatedly, does not fuck around. And she has never given in. Trust me. I've tested the boundaries extensively.
So now I kinda want my mom and me to get caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, just so we can prove our innocence, get a movie made about us and shine a national spotlight on an imperfect and corrupt 1970's British Judicial system...