My 41-year old cousin Sylvia was murdered outside the tribal offices of the Blue Lake Rancheria. She was the chairperson of this tiny reservation of Wiyot Indians. The 27-year old man who killed her was my son.

Oh sure, as a kid, you were a devout Catholic. It was the incense, the Gregorian chants, the sad-eyed saints. They really had you. For a while there, you even performed extreme unction

My mother gave me a tiny brown kidskin baby shoe and said, "This was mine. I want you to keep it." Before I could ask what had happened to its mate, her crazyquilt mind jumped to another topic

Scuffed floor tile, peeling paint, crumbling cinderblock; every edge broken with time and abuse. County jail is depressing, as jails are meant to be.