When the unthinkable happens

I watched a movie the other night that made me think of a childhood friend, Jennifer Weston. Jennifer, when last I saw her, was a gorgeous nineteen-year old who was headed to Texas to live with her cousin and pursue a country music career (she wanted to hit Texas before Nashville -- not sure why).

I still remember the Sunday morning I awoke to hear the news that Jennifer, along with her cousin Sandi, had been murdered in their apartment by a criminal on probation named Bobby Ray Hopkins.

Supposedly, Jen's cousin Sandi had thrown a party a couple weeks' previous, during which Hopkins had wandered in. Sandi's purse had been stolen, and she accused Hopkins. Whether revenge was a motive or not, Hopkins had climbed into their apartment through an open window sometime after 5 am on the morning of July 31, 1993. Jennifer was asleep in her room upstairs, but Sandi was on the couch. Sandi and Hopkins had a confrontation, during which Hopkin's claimed Sandi came at him with a knife. He took it away from her and stabbed her over 40 times (can you imagine claiming self-defense when you broke into someone's house, and then when they tried to get you out with a kitchen knife, you took it away and used it over 40 times?)

My friend Jennifer woke up and came out of her room. When Hopkins saw her, he chased and caught her, and stabbed her over 60 times with the dull knife. No single wound was life-threatening. She died slowly, from loss of blood.

During his struggles with the girls, Hopkins bled a little. Authorities were able to collect his blood samples to aid in their conviction. Also, Jennifer had scratched him hard enough to break off her nails, which contained tiny scraps of his skin, so the police were able to get his DNA from that.

Hopkins was swiftly convicted and given the death penalty, but it still took eleven years for that to happen. He was executed in February of last year, having never admitted wrongdoing or apologized. His last words were "I have no statement, sir."

It's hard to say what something like this does to the surviving family and friends. Jennifer and I were not very close -- we'd grown up in church together but lived in different towns and were separated by two years' difference in ages. We were always friends though, and had some good times together. She had a stunning alto voice -- I can still hear her demo of "She's In Love With The Boy" by Trisha Yearwood like it was recorded yesterday.

This incident taught me, in a way that I'd never known before, that evil exists in this world, that people do terrible things, and that no one is guaranteed tomorrow. It has probably made me overprotective, especially with female acquantances. I don't believe we should live in fear, or allow ourselves to grow paranoid. But it is always good to be cautious and alert, and to follow common-sense guidelines that the police give us -- pay attention when you're walking to your car, consider carrying mace in your purse ... that sort of thing.

Anyway, that wasn't really the point of this column -- I don't actually have a point. I just figured I'd share the story.