The Farm

After defence lawyer Peter Ritchie picked apart the investigators' approach to Pickton's interrogation, I became extremely restless. It annoyed me, listening to what I considered was a waste of time. I felt as though Ritchie was trying to make the jury feel sorry for the accused. I thought the investigators had done a great job during the lengthy interview. Although it likely had been a tedious, exhausting, distasteful and delicate part of their investigation, it was necessary nonetheless.

Finding something to write this week hasn't been easy. What could I write that the rest of the media hasn't already addressed? So I decided to pay a visit to the Pickton farm to see if this might inspire me. Being of First Nations descent, I felt obligated to smudge (pray) for those whose lives were taken in vain and for the girls who didn't find their way out of the street life. It was a quiet time shared with fellow citizen reporter Trisha Baptie and my husband, who patiently observed and waited until we were finished.

It was my first visit to the farm. I found it hard to believe that the girls came all the way from Vancouver. It's come out that Pickton mentioned taking someone to the bus depot, but the bus depot wasn't very close to the farm. Certainly when I was working the streets, I wouldn't have gone that far out unless I was being driven. Surely the girls would have been too dope sick or strung out to take a public bus.

It is already shameful enough to be standing on the street corner, but the possibility that they'd be traveling by bus to be seen in public in a dope sick state seems unlikely.