The wires are bursting with the news of the acquittal of Casey Anthony, the woman we watched for weeks on Dateline partying it up while her toddler lay dead. Facebook is teeming with those who vow to "Leave their porch lights on" for little Cayley. Even more are sure that her mother with rot in Hell and face a wrathful God on Judgement Day, so sure they are of her evil deeds that had somehow persuaded a jury of twelve of her peers to reasonably doubt that she'd been the villainous murderer.
There had been a countdown - Thirty-two minutes until the verdict is read! Hands rubbed together in gleeful anticipation of a mother who will rightfully get hers. But then the rug was pulled unceremoniously from under their feet. Not guilty? WTF?
A mistake must have been made! The stupid prosecution! Those idiotic jurors. The entire justice system is a called into question. The OJ verdict is rehashed, by Marsha Clark, no less. The difference here is that the accused wasn't even a famous black sports icon! WTH?
The very idea of justice is philosophized upon. Does it exist? How can we best facilitate its prevalence? Would Casey suffer more in jail, where the taxpayers would provide her with three squares and cable, or in the personal Hell that the public will provide, snubbing her at restaurants and Walmart, until she learns the value of PeaPod, the supermarket delivery website that ensures that one doesn't ever have to leave the house again.
What doesn't fluctuate from opinion to opinion is the concrete fact that Casey is the killer and that no punishment will ever be enough. That was a cute little white kid, and someone is going to pay in psychic retribution.
The question that maybe she didn't duct tape the mouth of her child closed and offer up chloroform in the stead of oxygen is unnecessary. The picture of the tank top clad mom downing shots of liquor amongst tattoo covered men is all the proof we need. The fact that she didn't report it is the key that locks the case down. From what we can tell, all she wanted was to drink and party (an have sex probably) and that baby was just in the damn way, needing babysitters and juice boxes and such. It is impossible to even consider, for a moment, that she used alcohol and boys as a diversion from a tormented mind, that the fact that her daughter was missing and/or dead was so unfathomable that she buried it in the far reaches of her young mind, and tried to drown it in vodka.
To take this position - and I'm only considering that it could be a possibility - is dangerous. To say that I don't know what happened is wildly unpopular, because it seems there are so many who do, beyond a shadow of a doubt.
It's just the thirteen of us then.