Okay, I wrote this last week, but I kept losing it when I tried to post it on the BLAHG, so let's just pretend today is October 5th:

Today is the one year anniversary of the infamous sniper shootings in
Northern Virginia and Maryland by Malvo and Muhammad, two of the most
despicable criminals "M's" since Manson. What I don't understand is why
they are getting a trial?

They have admitted what they did, heck, they BRAGGED about it.

So, why waste millions of dollars to move the trial down to Chesapeake Virginia, giving them years longer to live while their fate is deliberated by a group of decidedly more lenient minded people? They didn't give their victims
that consideration. I say we cut to the chase ... let's execute them today.

What could be more appropriate for the 1 year anniversary, to help with the healing process of the families of the victims? I know it would make me feel better to know
they are no longer breathing, if they had taken someone I loved.

Last year, on the night of the shooting of Linda Franklin, (the FBI Analyst
who was shot at the Home Depot in Falls Church) I found myself caught up in
the backlash of the nightmare drama:

There was a big project due at work, so I was putting in a late night,
alone, in the big, scary, empty building that was my home away from home
(aka, The Office.) My office was about a mile from the 7-Corners Home
Depot. As the shooting was taking place, I was innocently working away.
Next thing I know, my father calls and tells me that there has been another
shooting, and this time it was right near where I was.

I have to admit, I didn't take it seriously. The M.O. of this sniper
seemed to pretty much be "smash & grab" styles favored by all cowardly
types. After he shot at someone he would leave the area, making great
haste, it seems. I didn't think it could impact me at all. I reassured my
father and continued to work until about 12:00am. I was well-stocked with food, too, in case I had to stage a siege ... we had a lunch meeting and had ordered up a load of Chipoltes Burritos, and there were extras I had stashed in the fridge. With those in reserve I knew I could last for at least a week, if I had to. ;) Luckily, I didnt have to put that theory to the test because it was all quiet and normal looking out there so I was able to leave.

When I left the comfort of the building and began to walk to my car I couldn't get over how DARK it was; it's easy to forget, especially since it was so warm during the day and still felt like summer. I remember feeling very creeped out as I got in my car. I even did the "serpentine" duck walk move as I made my way over to my car (all of us were doing it ... especially at gas stations.) I passed several gas stations on the way home, several of them bearing tarps, which had become a common sight ... used as a line of sight barricade against potential sniping. The road was eerily empty of cars.

I drove down Rt.7, usually a busy road no matter the time of day, but that night I was the only one on the road. As I drove down Rt. 7, I could see police cars at almost every intersection, setting up blockades so that it looked like exotic yellow stick flowers were blooming everywhere. I began to think that maybe there was a reason no one was on the road, except for the police.

As I approached the intersection near the Culmore Shopping Center, I saw a police car with a barricade set up across the road, blocking traffic in all directions except one, forcing me to go 'that way' ... "Or Else" was sort of implied, so I went 'that way'. I drove through the dark neighborhoods next to and behind the 7-Corners shopping center, (some of them were pretty questionable too, especially at almost 1:00am.) I felt a little scared, but hey, fear can do that. Crossing over Rt. 50/Washington Blvd. helped because it suddenly seemed 7-Corners and all of the traffic problems caused by the blockades were behind me.

Unfortunately, I was a bit optimistic.

As I was driving I noticed police cars were pulling up behind me, sealing off the road that I was on, leaving me no choice but to continue heading the direction I was already going. Good thing this was towards home.

Just when I thought I had made it, I crested a hill and came upon a most horrific sight: orange cones and yellow barricades. Didn’t look so damn exotic anymore, either, especially pressed up against the nose of my truck, halting me in my forward progression. For a brief second I played with the idea of driving right on through, because why have an SUV if not to jump a curb once in awhile, or to muscle through a few cones and saw horses? (Ask OJ Simpson; he had a Bronco. He can tell you what it felt like.)

Unfortunately, I have been raised to respect authority (at least while there is someone around to observe you) so I put my car in park and shut it off. I decided I would approach one of the nice (and nice looking) policemen diligently guarding the intersection. I was sure they would let me through so I could get to bed at a decent hour sometime that night.

I got out of my car and picked a really cute policeman to talk to. Just in case, I kept my hands visible and out of my pockets (I don’t think I look like a felon, but I seem to get searched quite a bit, so maybe I don’t look quite like I think…) as I walked up.

“Officer, what are the chances of me getting you to move a few of those cones so I can get home?” I gave him my best smile.

“Not a chance, ma’am.” (Ma’am? Excuse me, I just gave you a great smile and you call me ‘Ma’am’ … young punk. He was probably gay.) This time I smiled at him pityingly, because being a man in uniform and in the closet has to be a terrible thing.

“How am I supposed to get home? Can’t you just check my license, search my car (strip search me) and then let me go on my way?”

“Sorry, ma’am.” (AGAIN with the ma’am. I didn’t think he was so darn cute anymore.) “This is a joint effort with police representing different jurisdictions. I don’t have the authority to let you through because I’m not in charge of this operation. We were told to block this intersection and let no one through. How did you get here, anyway? That street was supposed to be closed off.”

“It is ... behind me. Which means I can’t get back that way, either. What do you suggest?”

“I think you’re going to have to go back the way you came.”

Realizing I was getting nowhere with the good-looking (but obviously gay, since my smile didn’t work) policeman, I dragged myself back to my car. If I didn’t get home soon and get some beauty sleep I was going to turn quite haggish come morning. I started my car and yelled to the person in the car behind me that we needed to back up because they weren’t going to let us through. She nodded (yup, two women, out in a bad neighborhood at 1:00 in the morning, with only a gay cop to protect us) and put her car in reverse so she could backtrack.

She turned right at one of the first cross streets she came to, while I continued straight. I got to the next intersection and my heart sank at the sight of the now familiar yellow blockage and the merrily marching orange cones. The police officer at this intersection didn’t look very friendly (and he wasn’t very good looking) so I didn’t get out to ask him for advice. Instead, I turned up the service road and backtracked the way I had originally come.

Long story longer, I finally got home at around 2:30am. I had to go all the way back to work and ended up taking 395 and the beltway (guess they can’t close THAT as easily as everything else) in order to get home, but at least I finally got there. I called work and left them a message that I was not coming in to work at my normal time because the hag syndrome was well on its way, and in order to reverse that I would need a few extra hours of sleep. At least I got the chance to whimper and whine about how tired I was; the victims of the cowardly fools that called themselves “snipers” didn’t get that chance.

I say let the victims’ families have the deciding of punishment. Turn them over to the brothers, fathers, husbands, uncles and cousins of the victims, and then we’ll check to see if there’s anything left to prosecute after an hour. Cold-blooded and heartless of me? Perhaps. In some cases there is still a call for some good old-fashioned vigilant ‘Eye for an Eye’ justice, and this is one of them.