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June 14, 2010
My name is Cherie Halapthorpe nee Martinson (a pseudonym), and I am sitting in the bleary headquarters of the NYC District Attorney’s office (even Crime-TV couldn’t have dreamed up the cinematically-appropriate blandness of this place) in the decrepit neighborhood of lower Manhattan.
I’ve led until recently a reasonably unexciting life. Sharing in the success radiated by my likeable stockbroker husband I was considered respectable and well-intentioned, if not entirely satisfied with my subordinate position. I have not, to my knowledge, ever been considered desperate, nor in any sense a victim. Now, I visit a distorted reality as I peer into the looking glass version of my once relatively happy self.
To explain what happened I’ll have to start at the beginning.
