The Criminal-Personal Narrative
Even though it was no later than late afternoon, the lack of windows to the outside made the place of jailment damp and cool. Torches had to be lit for human eyes to see in the dark places. The warm glow of orange light fell upon the cell mates as she tried to find the words appropriate for what she was trying to say. She wanted to...looking at the man again she realized he was the cause she was in the cell. She did not want to thank this man.
Boston Massacre was an incident that happened in Boston around the Customs House on March 5, 1770, between the Patriots and the Redcoats. It was started by Patriot throwing stuff to insult the Redcoats because they felt the law violated their rights. The Townshend Acts, a law that required the colonists to pay taxes when they buy tea, paper, glass. During the incident, a group of British soldiers killed five American colonists by opened fire. Three were shot to dead directly, others were wounded, and two died after wounded.
A month earlier, a woman had been raped and murdered in her home, and police suspected that a neighbor named Kirk Eaton had done it. When they saw Allen walking a few blocks away from the crime scene, they originally thought he was Eaton, so they brought him in. Even when Detective Herbert Riley realized that he had arrested the wrong man, he didn’t let Allen go, instead interrogating him anyway. Allen was mentally ill and during questioning he admitted to being drunk. No matter how many times Allen protested that he was innocent, the detective didn’t let him go.
Surprisingly enough I can actually relate to Gorilla Convict. This past summer my family traveled to colombia for vacation. We had a great time and created a lot of memories with each other, but it was on the way back to the states where it was the most memorable. My family is big on bringing souvenirs from places we 've been, so we decided to bring Colombian currency back home in a frame. We are in line for getting our bags checked and I see this black shadow handcuff my Dad who is 6’5 and brings him into a room.
He started reading, “Officer Simpson arrested Mr. Barnes last night after an accident where a man died. Mr. Barnes’s blood alcohol level was eight times the legal limit. After arresting him, the officer noticed the injuries and placed him in the medical ward. Later Mr. Barnes asked for and received a pencil and paper. Later, while making his rounds, the deputy discovered Mr. Barnes’ body hanging from the bars with strips of sheets around his neck and the deputy pronounced him dead.
Cop Detective My shoe has six inch heels and police lights around the top edge. These pumps have lights and a little car bumper on the front of the toes. The back heel also has "POLICE" flashing across it. Almost all of the shoe is black except for a little on the bottom and the sides.
Mock trial has been a journey for me, marking both my experiences and my growth, as well as helping me choose a path for myself. Becoming an accomplished public speaker allows me to feel confident in my ability to succeed, and in my ability to advocate for myself. Mock trial allowed me to push my boundaries and to strive for something that required significant effort, for the first time letting me experience both success and failure in a higher stakes environment outside of academics. I joined mock trial in my sophomore year. The first year created a sense of community and family, and also helped me become more extroverted.
It took them a whole month before i could go before a judge. I was sitting in my cell waiting for the correctional officer to come get me. I was ready to be outside these damn walls. Being here for over a month was killing me, I was missing out on my money and I haven't been getting no pussy. I mean there was some correctional officers that liked fucking inmates, but I didn’t feel right stepping out on Carmen
Frank Stevenson lay sprawled on the on the cold concrete floor of the stairwell, His neck in an unnatural position. It was a wet Thursday morning and the stench of garbage filled the air. Mrs. Nelson from the first floor was the first to arrive at the scene she did not rush to administer first aid for she recognized the face. Lights from surroundings windows glowed over the stairwell, in the early dawn. Mrs. Nelson, phone in hand began to describe the crime scene.
In the gritty green visitation room I sat across him for the first time in a month when a prison guard barked that I was not to hug my father. We all pretended nothing was wrong, until my father callously made a rude remark to my mother. I was resigned yet disappointed; I had really believed jail may have enlightened him to his boorish behavior. Perhaps it was in this moment that I separated my situation from his; I had been incarcerating myself. The next day I mustered all of the hope I could, revealing bloodshot eyes as I asked my teacher if I could retake my tests.
Interviewer: First question and I’m going to go off script a little bit, I always do; I think you get better information that way. So, first off, do you remember using it, do you remember using it all back in – Interviewee: You gave me two case numbers and I remember using one.
As the only other person except for my mother who works in our family, I have to support her. Everything I earn goes towards rent payments each month. If there are any leftovers, I try to cover my personal expenses, such as club dues. As a fan of debate and public speaking, I decided to join Mock Trial at the beginning of my junior year.
She is Marnelli Bautista, a good friend since 2007. She grew up in Saudi Arabia, the reason for having good command of the English language. Pair it up with random thoughts… That was how she came up with her songs. Which I think is pretty amazing.
It was a warm March day. The semester had just reached the halfway point and people were scrambling to get grades up, to finish projects, and meet deadlines. Through all the chaos of school nobody was able to see the new era that was about to be thrust upon them. It was speculated and rumored about, that the Principle, Wade Martin, was scheming something sinister, nothing the likes of Middle Creek have ever seen before. It was his mad power grab, The Tardy Policy.
I need to take a walk and clear, my head about this About why I can’t go out without changing my clothes, my shoes, my body posture, my gender identity, my age, my status as a woman. The point being that I can’t do what I want to do with my own body because I am... the wrong sex, the wrong age, the wrong skin, because I was wrong, wrong again to be me. And even tonight suppose it was not here in the city but down on the beach or far into the woods
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