I tell myself that this is not a political blog. I had one but let its domain lapse back to the interwebs after the hack. I follow politics and post about them on my social media but usually refrain from mentioning such events in my periodic posts here. I tell myself, a day might come when I feel moved to comment and in the meantime, I strive to recount the small circumstances of life as a middle-aged Midwestern ex-pat living in a lovely, isolated corner on the western side of the mountains.

Tonight my silence shatters.

For the last few days, I have followed the news with horrified gasps and anguished cries punctuated with steely mutters from pursed lips and gritted teeth. I’ve read legal opinions, watched freeze-frame segments, and stared transfixed at lying politicians who demand that we believe what they say over what we see. Renee Nicole Macklin Good, 37-year-old mother of three, wife, daughter, friend. Dead because she ventured onto her neighborhood street with her wife, her dog, and a warning whistle. Her last words: I’m not mad at you, dude, spoken with a smile after waving her soon-to-be killer past her car. He stormed around her vehicle, shot her, and cursed her all within the scantest minute.

Fucking bitch, he called her.

Then he violated protocol again and again. He left the scene. He abandoned his victim before medical help arrived. His gun and his cell phone vanished, from all reports likely marshalled by masked agents with other relevant evidence gathered from his residence. No doubt every scrap of the gathered material made its way to the dumpster within hours.

Has the world gone mad? If so, it pattered down that path on dainty feet clad in silk slippers, while we slept in blissful ignorance We let the world venture too close to the fire, where it now lingers with the back of its nightgown singed and smoking. We turned away while the mothers and the children and the workers struggled against the icy wind swiftly and relentlessly knifing through thin jackets and threadbare trousers. The world nervously rocked on its heels, whimpering between chattering teeth while we dozed in the porch swing oblivious to the growing insanity.

We awaken with a start and ask ourselves, How did the soup spill to the floor amid a pile of crockery, while the devil grins and his sentry bores into our eyes with its iron glare.

Renee Good ought to be alive. She committed no crime; and even if she had, Jonathan Ross had no right to assume the role of judge, jury, and executioner. Frame after frame exposes the lie of those who shrilly justify his steps around the car and the unholstering of his gun as he reached the safety of her left front fender. First shot: BAM, into the lowest corner of the driver’s-side windshield. Second shot BAM into the driver’s window. Third shot BAM directly behind the second, point blank, through the open space where her hand, moments before, had waved him by. All the while, Ross steadied his feet out of harm’s way and then, when he had murdered her, he named her: Fucking bitch.

But that’s not what this post is about. Rather, I write to say that here in my snug little house, I contemplate my own life. I ask myself, Have you done enough? Have you taken enough public stands? Does anyone doubt the tenor of your convictions? Did you use your law license for adequate good? Did your ink flow with sufficient surety across the page, announcing your allegiance to justice, fairness, equity, and honor?

Not yet, you say?

Then you must keep on living. You must endure until the charity you sow grows strong enough roots to choke the evil weed of men like Jonathan Ross and women like the political appointee who boldly and blatantly lied in his defense. Whatever else you do, you owe it to Renee Good to say her name. She had a right to live but she died because an employee of the federal government decided that her time had come. She could have been any of us, but she was not. She was Renee, wife of Rebecca, mother of three, daughter of two whose hearts now lie in jagged pieces on the floor of a Kansas City street. Her smile must be woven into the tapestry of our lives, a glittering thread bold enough for all to behold. We must not forget.

In a world gone mad, we must lift Renee Good’s spirit above the teeming insanity into the golden serenity of the heavens. There must be no more deaths; and so, in her honor, we must stop the madness.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®