Take Me To Post Comment Form two years seems to have gone by so quickly. it was a day much like today — sunny and mild. a perfect california morning. i remember spending the morning on sierra highway, milling about outside the border of yellow caution tape, as invesigators examined the scene. i knew what was in the bed of the truck. i spent the afternoon outside ramon castro's house, chatting with a fellow journalist as we milled about, in the street, kept back by the same yellow border, as crime scene investigators and sheriff's deputies went to and fro. i had a general idea of what they found inside the house. blood in the bedroom and through the house. blood in the bed of ramon's truck, left like a discareded tv under a freeway overpass. a man; a husband; a father; some woman's son — dumped like trash on the side of the road. a woman; a wife; a mother; a daughter — behind bars and facing serious charges. kids without parents. two years later, esperanza castro is on trial for the murder of her husband, and all those things come back to me. and then i get to thinking about eddie politelli, la wana clary, gevorg gasparyan, hermilio talamante, becky friedli, joshua pipho — all of them, their ghostly faces staring back at us. i think about the family members left with a gaping hole where once was a loved one. i think about the men and women tasked with investigating and prosecuting. i think about us, this lot of jaded wordsmiths who can write tales of murder as dispassionately as stories about second-grade plays, unless we let humanity pierce our hearts. we all hope justice is done. but there's no real happy ending in all of this.