Casey Anthony’s Independence Day

Casey Anthony began as a character in nothing more than another whack job Florida Story. There are loads of them. Kids beat each other to death in suburban enclaves. Toddlers disappear from trailers. Children are melted with acid on I-95. Local news sites willingly carried her story because there were lots of nasty pictures attached. Who’s not going to click? There’s that chick in a halter. There’s that chick drunk and making out with another chick. There’s that chick surrounded by blurry faces making a tongue for the photo audience. You see her always tramped out, dirty looking, cheap and oh yeah, her little kid is missing. The skankier the pictures swiped from social sites and other virtualia, the higher up the links got, and eventually there was such an information overload that PDFs of police reports were available online to browse through for those so inclined. The hard of sleeping. The mystery buffs. The neighbors.

Though written in copspeak- cut and dry- the stories unfolding in those PDFs was riveting. They included long descriptions of  how officers visited the various locales Casey claimed events had occurred.  Story after story after story, when checked out, was horribly, miserably, astonishingly, a total and complete lie. Over and over and over again.

She didn’t work at the building she led investigators to as her “place of employment.” She also didn’t work at the second building that she led them to. There would be more twists and turns of senseless walking through corporate offices before Anthony finally admitted she actually didn’t work anywhere.

She led officers to Zanny the nanny’s apartment where she allegedly last saw her daughter alive. When detectives tried to corroborate her story with building management they were told the apartment in question had been vacant for almost half a year.

Did Casey give up at this point?

Incredibly, no. She led them to yet another address where the nanny supposedly had a family member living. Of course, this too was a wild waste of time. And I think the officers knew she was obviously pathological but they waited her out, going down these futile, ridiculous leads. They were expecting her to break any minute. But the most fascinating of all pathological liars are those that seem to have no limit to their delusions of invincibility.   They staunchly believe they can outsmart the system and daresay, she did in fact outsmart the system. Spectators had been waiting for their retributive comeuppance since the shocking story began. All of Casey’s bravado and lying, here on the sidelines we all smugly nodded. Your day is coming you wretched girl. But that day never came.

Tabloid and online updates about her case have been plentiful in the past two years. Nancy Grace aired to overdose Casey’s bizarre prison visitation videos. Usually grainy video in split screen, her parents on one side, her affected, nasally face on the other. She spoke mysteriously about her missing daughter. Saying completely useless things like  “feeling her close” and “knowing she was alive” yet no emotion anywhere on any of the face, no grief or ache and certainly no data that could help find the little girl. In PDFs of her letters to a fellow jail mate her madness becomes even more infuriating. Nowhere in the pages of her missives do we read anything remotely like pain. Or the insurmountable grief of losing a child. Instead, Casey writes pages of simplistic and cold dispatches about how God knows the truth blah blah blah. In fact, in all her writing she portrays herself as the victim.

Casey includes many references to Christianity in her letters. Here’s the beauty of this type of madness. Never mind that God prolly doesn’t think highly of mothers killing innocents, Casey still manages to find refuge in that wholly made-up brand of Florida Christianity also known as crap. Usage of words like “Jesus” by people who don’t know how to read much less critically read. Much less do some socio-historico-cultural research on Jesus to begin with. In this mutated Christianity she can conveniently live in the lie that her daughter is “with Jesus” or “an angel back with God.” What a great way to cope. If I convince myself that my kid actually went to a giant Chuck E Cheese Water Park McNugget in the sky run by Jesus then it’s not even a bad thing but a great thing that I killed my 2-year old.

Here’s a theory: her parents sucked. There was definitely some weird possibly sexually abusive goings-on in the Anthony home. Her father George is a creepy. Shady from the word go. Same goes for mom. Yes, Casey was born in a cesshole. And this is what we can surmise from the scant information that can be confirmed. What about the stuff the public will never know? Kids survive and rise all the days though, from worse situations than hers. Unfortunately, Casey reinforced the filth by sinking herself into a low-budget world of gross. A world where the boys (and girls) obviously loved her because they liked to touch her boobies. It was a nice drunkity drunk place she wished she could live in forever.

She loved her kid but let’s not kid ourselves, kids, especially the little ones, are a pain in the ass. So here and there if she couldn’t find child care, couldnt drop her with the grandparents, it’s possible she sedated her daughter and let her sleep in the car while she stuck her tongue out for skank pictures. In theory anyway.

Theoretically speaking say, sadly one night that plan doesn’t go so well and the poor little girl ends up dying. Maybe she woke up in a dark trunk and died of fear for all we’ll ever know. Isn’t Zanny like Xanny? Maybe Caylee died of a Xanax overdose. At any rate, Casey at this point believed that if she just went on with life as if nothing then it indeed would end up being nothing.

She drove around with a rotting body, no the rotting body of her own daughter in the trunk. She even probably put decaying trash in the back seats so any rancid smell could be explained. In her tiny little mind she thought it would be easier to pretend someone had taken her daughter then to deal with her being dead on account of, partying. In fact, she’d even be able to incur sympathy, play the role of a grieving mother. And no one would ever need to know, not her parents or boyfriends or friends would ever know the horrible truth. But time was running out and ideas were slim. She had to get stone cold pathological now and think like the “kidnapper” of her stories. The kidnapper of her world would wrap the body like a dead pet and toss it in the mud.

Just a theory of course.

Whatever the unknown story her guilt was undeniable. No mother no mother no mother ever ever ever goes 30 days with a missing kid and never says a word. Unless the mother is dead. That’s one case of two where I see a mother not reporting her kid is missing. The other case is murderer mothers. Dead mothers and murderer mothers.  Those are the only two. And as we know, Casey is bright and alive in her hot pink decolletage.

And now she’s out, absolved forever from the crime of killing her kid. What? The hell. Happened.

The game of law happened. And much like chess ain’t checkers, law is an art that comes naturally only to some. You can be taught, but only a few really know how to rein it in, only a few understand the mechanics enough to drive it like a chariot. This case was leading with a wily mustang and attorney Jose Baez knew exactly how to ride it. His style was casual, home-grown and unstrained. Nothing fancy here. Just simple and easy, slow and calm.

And then the final stroke, the final thrust, the final win with a closing argument that elegantly pointed out that guilt wasn’t at issue here in this morbid case. What was at issue was that the prosecution had only proved that Casey lied to cops. That the prosecution had only proven that Casey was a slut.  But the prosecution had not proven that she was murderer. And if the other team says she’s a murderer, you, jurors, have to ask, where’s the proof?

Over and over, he used simple terms, he showed nice blocked graphics and by the end of the argument,  he had the jury, and many others, that per the sophisticated idea of reasonable doubt, Casey Anthony could not be convicted.  And so today she is free.

What’s the moral of the story? The best way to deal with cops is lie? Lie repeatedly? Is it a bitch slap to prosecutors everywhere to stop being smug and political and start doing your homework? Stop relying on Nancy Grace to do your work. Get back to crafting a compelling story that supports the truth: Casey Anthony killed her child. Period. On the one hand attorneys aim for a jury that knows little to nothing about the crime. And then the prosecution proceeded to handle the trial as if everyone on the jury already knew everything they needed to about the crime.

In the end, neither verdict brings back the little girl who’s most heartbreaking image is one in which she hugs a scary, skeleton of a grandpa that most little kids would be totally weary of but not this little one. She gave the sad old guy some real love and respect. A real hug. Probably the best day of that old man’s life all year.

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