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theremightbecupcakes
Chopped stars off my rating after reading [b:Chaos: Charles Manson, the CIA, and the Secret History of the Sixties|43015073|Chaos Charles Manson, the CIA, and the Secret History of the Sixties|Tom O'Neill|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1543561687l/43015073._SY75_.jpg|66837472]. Bugliosi was not only a stalker and a woman beater, but he committed so many deliberate legal errors in the Manson trails that the defendants deserve new trials, and he should have been disbarred. What I read in [a:Tom O'Neill|623923|Tom O'Neill|https://s.gr-assets.com/assets/nophoto/user/u_50x66-632230dc9882b4352d753eedf9396530.png]'s book about his suppressed evidence and created motives, findings verified by attorney Stephen Kay, horrified me. No matter what the Manson defendants did--and what they did was horrible--they deserved fair trials. And they didn't receive them by half, thanks to Bugliosi. There are proven lies in Helter Skelter.
Verily, I am shooketh. And disgusted.
Verily, I am shooketh. And disgusted.
In the Name of the Children: An FBI Agent's Relentless Pursuit of the Nation's Worst Predators
Marilee Strong, Jeffrey L. Rinek
If you are interested in a true crime book, this is probably not for you. This is an autobiography—a strange one. Even when the author is talking about someone’s murder, there are so many I-statements...So. Many. I. Statements.
Plus so many inappropriate actions. As a former therapist, I cringed many times. Befriending victims. Bringing victims and victims’ families into his family. Giving victims’ family members information about the crime that he did not have permission to do so, in his family’s hotel’s room.
Then, after all this: the final chapter is a recap of the entire book from a more intense version of his viewpoint: more ME and I. I was so stressed, I solved these crimes, I have a lot of pets...I read this book because I wanted to learn about, with respect, crimes that have occurred, how they had been solved (or not), and to honor how the victims had suffered. As I type this, I am listening to the last chapter and the author is describing in detail about how he had knee surgery. It is taking all of my willpower to finish this last chapter—sheer stubbornness.
As a therapist who worked with children and adolescents in dire situations, who understands compassion fatigue and secondary traumatization, I am still deeply put off—disgusted—by this author’s navel gazing, by his making others’ suffering about him. Example: he claims that nurses say that everything he comes out of anesthesia, they tell him he screamed a certain murder victim’s name, all these years later. Poor FBI agent. That child died friendless and alone, terrified, sexually violated by the only people he spent time with. But by all means, it’s about you.
Never mind, I am not finishing this last chapter. I can’t.
Plus so many inappropriate actions. As a former therapist, I cringed many times. Befriending victims. Bringing victims and victims’ families into his family. Giving victims’ family members information about the crime that he did not have permission to do so, in his family’s hotel’s room.
Then, after all this: the final chapter is a recap of the entire book from a more intense version of his viewpoint: more ME and I. I was so stressed, I solved these crimes, I have a lot of pets...I read this book because I wanted to learn about, with respect, crimes that have occurred, how they had been solved (or not), and to honor how the victims had suffered. As I type this, I am listening to the last chapter and the author is describing in detail about how he had knee surgery. It is taking all of my willpower to finish this last chapter—sheer stubbornness.
As a therapist who worked with children and adolescents in dire situations, who understands compassion fatigue and secondary traumatization, I am still deeply put off—disgusted—by this author’s navel gazing, by his making others’ suffering about him. Example: he claims that nurses say that everything he comes out of anesthesia, they tell him he screamed a certain murder victim’s name, all these years later. Poor FBI agent. That child died friendless and alone, terrified, sexually violated by the only people he spent time with. But by all means, it’s about you.
Never mind, I am not finishing this last chapter. I can’t.
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