The Feiring Line

The evolution of the wine world

If you're looking for the original post about groupie-ism in the wine world, I've removed it, or at least I did, and now it's back up again) 

The post geminated during my last visit to France. I was struck by how appealing the world of wine, and specifically, natural wine, had become. So much so that the purity I had adored, seemed to be getting tarnished  because of its new rock-star-like gleam. The fact that natural wine in Paris has become chi-chi cannot be denied. It's hip. It's current. It's fresh and it's sexy. That's okay. In a few years it will be totally mainstream, and the new whatever will take its place. But,  during this visit  I saw the emergence of groupie-like behavior which I had not seen before.

I'm not talking about enthusiasts who go out of their way to visit and taste and talk, but people who want to mostly hang out and claim connoisseurship.   

This, by the way, was a disturbingly popular post. In a matter of two hours I received 1000 visitors to my site, normally I get between 500-600 visits over 24 hours. Is it because it was sensational? Because it revved up, oh my god, did you see? Who is she talking about? Was it the gossip element in it? Was it because of the power of a New York Post like headline? Or that it was true. The possibility that the draw was for its possible sensational draw, was one of the reasons to take it down.

I also received many personal notes and even phone calls of people who knew what I was talking about. A few of them came from venerable folk in the wine world, "Spot on," was a term often used. Other messages came in from the food industries, who have witnessed this in their world for quite some time now.  It's universal in any field.

I can't always be in control of how my posts are being read, or what personal history the reader brings to my words. Not wanting to be a part of what was turning destructive, I have removed the original, though I hope the conversation is not silenced.

So, three months later? I've received so many requests to repost, here it is again. Thanks as always for reading. 

 

 

The incredible sexy wine profession, is this the beginning of the end?

All one has to do is read Levi Dalton's posts to understand that some people long to work the floor. This is not limited to men. Talk to  Linda Milagros Violago--sommelier to the world and presently at Geranium--who is devoted to three-star service, or the devotion to wine and hard work of Laura Maniec, or  Pascaline Lepeltier who studies wine with the obsessiveness of a heart surgeon. But all of these people got into the biz before it was sexy.  They got there out of pursuit of excellence in their chosen area of passion. For all of these folk, wine came first. The idea of getting into this business because of the glam or rubbing noses with vinous rockstars would have been ludicrous.

 

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 This is a post that is for sure going to get me into trouble.

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When in France right after the New Year I was struck by more drunkeness than I’m used to at the tastings. Natural wine has become so trendy that I found too many people there for alcohol, for the hang, for the flirt, and the scene. At times, if standing next to the wrong people, I could have been at the Wine Experience, only with facial hair and tattoos. For sure, this is still the minority that could give this world a sheen I'd rather scrub off, but this reminds me of the times I used to do a lot of contra dancing. Then dances were given ink as a great place to get a hook up. This was true, but when people came specifically to look to score, this was the end of an era and of purity. The dance is the dance. Wine is the wine. The fact that we love it or find love through it, a different story.

 In a similar gripe, let me announce that we have entered the age of the wine groupie. Wine has become so sexy a beast that more men and women want this piece of glam and fun but have no idea that the field requires study and discipline. Sharing in this equation is the wine director or enthusiast who claims best friends with cerain stars of this world.

"Frank Cornelissen is my great friend!"

"I taught Jancou all he knows!"

"Eric Texier loves me!" 

Or the woman who hung on to Puzelat's coattails, ended up being invited to places when no one knows who she is. Obviously, I can't name names and in some cases, I never found out their names. Even more obnoxious is the use of a corkscrew to get to the casting couch.

               

 

The feminist in me is crushed. Of course, there are more men who are winemakers, wine directors at top restaurants and generally in control. I mean, I just don't hear men sommeliers claiming Noella Morantin as their buddy, or tackling Fanny Sabre. Oh sure, everyone is in love with the gorgeous Elisabetta Foradori, sultry Arianna O ,and adorable Francesca Padovani, but I just don't see them being groupied in the same way.  

Until now, I don't remember seeing women notch their belts with winemakers. Chefs, yes. Winemakers and suited, manicured sommeliers? Not really. Is this what happens when the tastevin comes off? Here it is. Wine movers and shakers have finally acheived the sex appeal of star chefs.  

Look, I'm no prude here. I'm all for a roll in the hay, a mad passionate interlude without the blessing of marriage, the pipette in every port sort of thing. The groupieness of it all, and yes, on both sides of the Atlantic and let's throw in Pacific while we're at it,  made me want to scrub. Whether it's through sex or partying of another kind, what we're seeing more of is the poseur who has learned a few tricks and going for the prestige without doing their due diligence. Damn. True, the profession is fun and glamorous and the perks and parties can be alluring, but to enter this world for the stardust is the wrong intention.

As I look around at the few who have snuck under the ribbon, I realize that I was too old before I knew I could have used the heave of my breast  to get ahead. I'm not saying it is bad trick to know. All women should be schooled in the art of getting what they want and using all of the tools in their quiver. But, I missed that part of my education. 

While sleeping with the rock stars of the wine world can help get invitations, they can't put the details and the tastes and the terroir in your head. And so I’ll pass along this bit of advice to those who are choosing the easy route: My old editor at Interiors magazine once told me, "Alice, it's not how good you are, it is first who you know. And then, how good you are."

What do you think? Have I just been blind in the past? Has this been the way it always was and I was just too in love with the wine world to see the warts? Whether or not, a little advice to the new generation.  Sure, sleep around, do a line or two with your favorites, make your connections, but don't forget to hit the books. 

 

The Brangelina rosé, the whiter shade of pale

When  the news broke that Brad and Angie were soon to debut a Chateau Miraval rosé,  I was struck by the pale onion skin color, the blush of a virgin, the cuisse de nymphe. As I looked at the oversized, Hollywood-like bottle,  I remembered a story about when past Meilleur Sommelier du Monde's, Olivier Poussier was asked to offer a toast to rosé. Instead  he delivered an obituary. In front of his Provençal hosts he proclaimed that due to technology,  true Provençal rose was a travesty, it no longer existed. 

 

             

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                                                                       It turns out that this kind of pale pink color doesn't happen with a careful pressing of wines off of the skin (though it can) as the Provençal website would like you to believe, but most often with the help of certain additives, one of them of the clarifying agent, PPVP.

I contacted Marc Perrin, the Miraval winemaker, to find out how much the color was a concern for the product, I've not heard back. In the meantime, I approached enologue (wine consultant),  Pierre Sanchez for his personal perspective on the issue.

He wrote, "Provence grapes are harvested relatively ripe and at rather high temperatures. The juices are generally quite colorful in the press but with oxidation and bacteria sometimes colored juices can turn dark or orange. Provençal winemakers therefore use large doses of PVPP (polyvinylpyrrolidone) which removes some of the color, but also much of polyphenols (oxidized or not). This is a shock treatment because it is very powerful. PVPP also removes certain aromas flavoring compounds. PVPP "corrects" bitterness of the smoothing wines. So for the color, they sacrifice some of the wine.

But there's a problem. The clarifier is not allowed by the EU organic laws as they do present some health issues.  And so this sent those, wanting to keep organic certification scrambling for an alternative. 

Winemakers can still  use casein and decolorizing charcoal (as they did before the arrival of the PVPP) for color correction. Pierre continued to write, "They can also use proteins of vegetable origin (weight, lupine, wheat ...) that are part of the new inventions of firms producers eno. They were looking for alternatives to solutions for additives of animal origin (gelatin, albumin) for reasons of labeling (vegetarian) and allergy. "

Pierre summed up the cunundrum:  Then they created a problem which never existed before; how to get a  clear pink. Then the oenologist came up with an intervention, PVPP. That kind of pink became the norm. Then the Provencal AOC decided it was a pink they really needed. But then came organic. PVPP no longer allowed. "So we seek a replacement at any price (more or less effective and respectful of wine) because we do not know or do without it arises more questions. "

To the rescue is Martin Vialatte and a chemical derived from pea protein. 

Think of that the next time you reach for a Provençal rosé. Hopefully, for the spring issue of The Feiring Line, I'll focus on real rosés, in all shades and hues, not definined but a creative director's idea of the color but of a vigneron's work to make a  fresh wine no matter of its shade.

                                                                           

 

Domaine Les Roches--the Georgians in Chinon

After hanging out in Les Montils. Enduring a night of drinking with he Georgians and Thierry Puzelat (thank you for the super -bawdy joke)

was the segue for the next  morning's voyage to Angers. Somewhere around 10:30 we arrived in Chinon: Domaine Les Roches, and Jérôme Lenoir.

This is a property brought in to the United States by  Selection Massale , and known for the very obscure yet commendable and crazy (financially insane, but for drinkers sublime)  practice of releasing wines only when the wine is ready. As a result, they have a treasure trove of old vintages.   

Jérôme @ work in the cave.

I used to bring these back from France, curious why no one ever imported them. Yes, sometimes the wines were eccentric, bretty, hard. But just as often they are beautiful and priced well enough to take the chance. 

This was an extremely soggy winter. The rivers, from the Seine to the Cher, were swollen, and so was the soil. I stepped into a pile of mud and then walked down the tuffeau rock into the cellar, furry,  weepy and ancient.

This was an emotional cellar with much history. Gaioz Sopromadze, who just a few days before was having a hard time not pinching the asses of comely women in Paris (they are just so beautiful, he explained)  was overcome with sentiment, “My grandfather had 3h of vines. During the ten years after the 1917 revolution everything was taken. They divided our homes, the farmers were stripped of land and given to people who had no idea how to work the land. I hate communism.”

The revolution and the loss was that palpabale. And Jerome, to show solidarity, showed them some wine he had made in little ceramic pots that looked more like bombs than qvevri.  

And then we settled in to taste.  the 2012 chinon that had just finished its malo. To look for when released, the 2011, but you’ll have to wait for a while.
Their  current release is 2005, which is showing beautifully. It was bottled in 2011 in two separate bottlings. About $23. Very supple, lifely and silk.

 When Jerome opened up a 1989, the Georgians immediately had a reference, Perestroika, they chanted.

Takeaway: the nerve to hold on to wines until they are ready needs to be celebrated. And what's more this domaine known for their cabernet franc, makes brilliant chenin.

An early dive bouteille

 A lot has changed  since the  2005 Dive Bouteille. But that year, it was still chilly,  packed and super fun and a good reminder of a fabulous world that made history.  I still love watching this piece of the past. To keep up with the future, subscribe to The Feiring Line. 

La Dive Bouteille 6° édition by okasion 

 

Georgian wine captures Paris

Two weeks ago, I landed in Paris full of snot and groggy from the Ambien and made my way over to my friends in the old lady 7^th Arr, just under the Tour Eiffel. I blew my nose, dropped my bag and when in my right mind, hopped on line 8, traveled to chef Inaki Aizpitarte’s Chateaubriand in the Oberkampf to a special tasting that winemaker (and local distributor of his friend's wines) Thierry Puzelat was putting on.  

Outside of the restaurant, in the mist, Tuscan winemaker, Francesca Padovani was among those  taking a smoke. Parting my way though the fog, I pushed into the crowd. And there was a crowd. Among the wine bar owners, sommeliers and cavistes were also Eric Texier & Marie Lapierre, Francois Morel (of Rouge et Blanc) Bert Celce. They came to see if  the five Georgians (and one lovely Italian, Francesco) showing off their stuff, and to see if the wines were talking frogs or just merely beautiful salamanders. 

 Not only had they landed but they conquered.  

 

the scene inside Chateaubriand

                                       

                                
The enthusiasm was so wild and fervent, that in the end, TP sold 1200 bottles of red, white and orange wine made in qvevri. He was more surprised than anyone, and said to me, "This could have never happened five years ago." This is one gate that the natural wine movement has crashed, the one of French chauvinism in wine. On conventional wine lists, there would be international wines but mostly as a nod. As long as the philosophy is the same, in the natural wine world there is not only curiosity but a big fat embrace. So now, it's not uncommon to see Italians, Croatians, Austrians or even the one or two Chileans in a bar a vins, but how did the vine route open to Georgia?  

Last year I urged Pheasant’s Tears of Georgia to present at the Dive Bouteille (read about it in the next issue of the newsletter) . This is the Vin Expo of natural wines held every year in the Loire, and of recent memory  in the chilly limestone caves of Chateau Breze. That year, I ferried John and his wine partner (winemaker) Gela in Paris to their destination, stopping at visits along the way. I arranged for visit number one was Puzelat. We tasted from barrel and bottle. And over lunch, at L’Herbe Rouge, John poured a Kisi, and Thierry, shocked with the wines profile, proclaimed himself their importer. Finished.   

 TP, making his decision about the Georgians at L'Herbe Rouge, 1/2012            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                         At that same lunch, Gela, Pheasant's winemaker                   contemplating the wisdom of his choice of Andouillette

 

But it goes even deeper.

Ever since Fruilian winemaker, Josko Gravner  first to use these fermenting vessels in Italy, others have followed. There is an international curiosity in making wine in buried (or unburied) clay amphora or qvevri. But because of this new intense relationship with Georgia, we are presently witnessing qvevri mania in France. And it all started when TPuzelat and friends visited Georgia in September 2012. 

 Why in the fall? Well,  2012 was a terrible vintage around Les Montils there were hardly any grapes to harvest. With an agriculturally enforced vacation, TP & Co. took off to visit Georgia. Rumor has it that the French drank the Georgians under the qvevri, and that is not an easy task to pull off.  Upon return, Thierry noted that the visit had made him wonder if  he, a minimalist by anyone’s ruler, was doing too much vinification.  After all, what you usually do with the qvevri is throw the grapes on or off the skin in the pot, close it up after fermentation, open it up 6-8 months later and there's your wine.

Being so charmed, in 2012, Sylvie Augereau (who organizes the Dive) made a first chenin in amphora from Foradori. And, winemakers, including T. Puzelat, Jean Foillard, Hervé Villemade, Nicolas Reau, Philippe Tessier and Thierry Germaine have all put in their orders and will be making their first qveri wines--the first Georgian issue real things-- this 2013, that is if nature gives these guys and grapes this year. 

That night I followed the boys to Verre Vole. Inaki sat next to me, and he was enthusiastic about the wines. Yes, they will be on his list. I took the opportunity to ask him when was that restaurant of his opening in NYC? For those waiting for it, forget it. He decided against it. He wants to do what he does in Paris and do it well, "Other's can do New York better than I can," he said. And then we tanked up on some 1997 chenin and similarly aged romo and we drank to the Georgian victory.

   Iago and Ramaze at Verre Volé                                

Giving thanks for Abe Schoener

Tonight I dragged myself out of a sick bed, dived into the Arctic temperature, heading to a  loft on Essex street to listen to lecture #1 of the Metaphysical Lecture Series, given by ex-philosophy -prof-turned-winemaker, Abe Schoener. 

There was a packed room, many of them collect his eccentric and wide ranging wines. Others pour them.  Others presumably attended because their interest was piqued. But what struck me is that no one in the room, all 40 of them,  were the kind of folk who cringe about the intellecutualizion of wine. They embrace it.

 I am weary  of the market-driven, rampant need to simplify wine, to make it accessible (drink it. Isn't that easy enough?). Why must it be reduced it to the LCD?  Like the rest of the world which pushes the extremes, the image of wine is either super pretentious or day time TV. Few venture onto the other ground, to view and imbibe it as the magical substance it is; a vehicle of pleasure and thought.

Wine is a complex and wiry metaphor.  Abe is one of the few, fresh minds who explore it from a different dimension. In fact, at times I think he might not actually be human, or at least a visitor from another time wrinkle. Some of my best friends might fall in to that category.

Think of it.  A room full of those not afraid of him or of thought. Abe is determined to find like-minded folk as he  takes this show on the road.

Praised be Aristotle.        

I'm home. I'm feverish. I'm headed to France in hours so I don't have the time to go over the lecture and give this the thought and review it warrants and deserves, and anyway, my nose is stuffed and I have a fever. Too much information. Yes, I know.

 So, quickly; the structure was a lecture in five parts, entitled Wine and Loss. Why is wine by nature tragic, Abe asks. Why do we take wine so seriously, and then he goes on to do just that. There was nothing sentimental about this, of course, he is based in unsentimental philosophy. One of the best lines was, "Aristotle was like the Eisenhower of these (Plato..etc) philosophers."  

 Abe served wines throughout, making us swallow every last drop, the bastard, to illustrate headers like heartbreak.

I knew the second wine served had to be an Abe wine, it was imprinted with his initials. But which one and how? Its taste was very cinsault-like, it seemed true but it seemed to have his thought imprinted on it, which is great, because Abe is part of his terroir, wherever his terroir is. Turns out it was the 2009 Rhododactylos, old cinsault vine from Lodi.  Track down a bottle, you won't be disappointed, unless you are. But that bring me to an unphilsopophical thought.

As he talked about the heartbreak of wine, which like the heartbreak of love--is because it is over at some point. Whether wrenching in life or wrenching in death. And wine too, at some point dies. He brought up the tragic loss of Soldera's vintages  --the acclaimed and unquestionably profound wines of  Montalcino. In December, a disgruntled employee snuck into the winer on a sunday night and opened the valves on six vintages, what would have been 84,000 bottles of sleeping wine, including the infant, 2012. 

Why, Abe asks, wasn't there a lock on those casks. It is simple, no? Yes. Simple. 

He came back to this tragedy twice in his lecture, and closed with it--before we concluded with the Coulon champagne, "Because if he had, he would have made a very different wine.'

If only for that thought, it was worth the journey. To lock up a wine, to lock up its preciousness, would have prevented Gianfranco's wines from greatness. The wines strike this magical balance of greatness and sidestepping bravado. For all of their expense, they have always been, at least the times I've been lucky enough to sip, almost humbling. And for that we need another Abe lecture to take it to the next level.

Abe has more lectures coming up across the country. Go. Sit next to your fellow drinker who loves to think about wine and how it connects to life, love and loss. 

 

Julien Sunier & Jean Louis Dutraive

Back in October I debuted my first newsletter. The next one will be shipped tomorrow or Thursday. Every month I angst, is it going to be good enough? I have no way to tell. But for those of you who are curious what kinds of material I plunk in, or even what it looks like, here's a piece included in that debut issue,  about two folk in the Beaujo who's stars are currently rising. Julien Sunier and Jean-Louis Dutraive. 

 

 

Henri Jayer Echézeaux

"Which one?" the gentleman asked me.

"Jayer," I said. Quite frankly I didn't even note the producer or the year on the Meursault alternative. There was no choice. 

No matter what you think of my life, this curtain or the box scenario doesn't happen that often. Becky and Russell spoil me and I've drunk beautifully there, enriched and educated. But at this dinner, with a gentleman I barely knew though like immensely, I was embarrased at my reaction.

I acted like a country girl who saw Paris for the first time, or the first time a knew someone I was taken with was also taken with me. Or the nights that I wished dawn would never come. It's inexplicable and giddy and all the while trying not to be gauche and to act as, well, I drink Jayer all the time.

I don't.

I have scavenged Jayers after La Paulées, draining what I could from the clunky dregs at the bottom of the bottle from table #1. I've wondered if they were fakes and wondered why I wasn't moved. But the opportunity to sit with a bottle from the legendary producer at dinner and contemplate it and perhaps understand.

I wasn't taking notes so I can't tell you a think about the way it smelled or tasted. Does it make a difference? I could write something like this note, but I found nothing like this gentleman's perceptions in the wine, nor would it make me want to drink it. It is in a wine like this that an experience makes a difference, a tasting note doesnt. 

Some was poured. I couldn't wait to put my nose in it. "So much for a lousy year," I exclaimed. 

In 1994 I was back in New York City. I had been seeing RB for just over a year and that fall was a huge torential mess, not just in Burgundy at harvest but in my life. Torment. Drama. I weighed 92 pounds and terribly confused, just making my way into the world of wine in a more serious way. I had yet to make my first visit to Burgundy. I wouldn't reach those limestoned hilled until 2001. But over there, in Burgundy it was a vintage that Michael Broadbent said he didn't know what to make of.

Their summer was going splendidly, a warm year and a healthy crop, until the pre-harvest rains started. And started. And rained. By harvest it had dried out, but the damage was done. And Henri, went to work in his part of the Grand Cru Echézeaux vineyard in the southern end, in the climat of Les Cruots ou Vignes Blanches. 

The press was unfavorable. Back in those days before I spent time with winemakers and walking the vines, I believed what I read. A bad vintage meant avoid. Now, I know better. Things can go wrong but all a bad vintage means is yields and how much work it was to get a beauty into the bottle.

When I chose my bottle, I was prepared for curiosity, not to fall in love. I was prepared for a flirt. Not to fall into the glass and be deboned. Because, I love stems in wine and Jayer used them not. I'm suspicious of 100% new oak and cold soaks. But the rest? Good viticulture, low sulfur natural fermentations. 

It goes back to the importance of no dogma. The wine maker chooses their way of interpreting nature and in that bottle I was moved. It was bricking for sure, it was time to drink, for sure, but it did not disappear, it continued to deepen, take on weight, express. The genies came out of the bottle. The smell was deep and profound. The edges and tannins and been rounded and smoothed but the texture and tannin and structure was there in its brickishness. The aftertaste drove through the stoplight and all of the sudden there was an MG racing along side.

In the miracle of nature, it was perfect with Floyd Cardoz's celery root and cauliflower, sweetening the winter salad. But who needed food. 

With great gratitude, thank you. 

Michel Bettane and the scourge of natural wine

What happens when you, like Parker, base your life's work on one kind of wine, ignoring a whole subculture that has found a huge audience? What you do, especially if you're incapable of saying something like, "I didn't know that," you go on attack, because you perceive danger. 

Vini naturali.

 

While racism cannot be likened to the treatment of natural wine by its critics, the thought that keeps on coming to mind. 

If you can't get hold of the Gambero Rosso where Michel Bettane goes on a rant about the horrors of natural wines (mothers! hide your daughters!)  follow this link to intravino. This is the speech Bettane gave warning that the danger of natural wine is nipping at the Italian toes. (Where has he been? It's been going on for a decade.) 

Pauvre Michel Bettane. His very core beliefs  are so shaken that he needs to witness against those terrible people who dare to make wine without or with little sulfur. A few years back at VinExpo I attended a tasting of his best wines. Nothing there was drinkable to me. I too was scratching my head about those wines. Really? Chateau Pavie? Really? That overipe crap? I don't get it. Those wines are as undrinkable to me as those with 'natural wine stink' are to him. I understand if he wants to rant about how bad they are but to witness about the dangers seems a little excessive.

I do wish though, being a man of the press, being a journalist and a public figure he could be a little more responsible.  He could try to undestand. He could meet the people who work in that way. Talk to the men and women who work in a natural way, find out why they do what they do. Watch the way the wines evolve and understand them. They talk a new language. He might not get fluent in the language and he might never like them, but at least he will understand and reject them out of knowledge. 

Don't worry, M. Bettane. There will be plenty of Ornellaia and the rest  for you, undrinkable to me, but vive la différence: n'est ce pas? 

Sentencing in Part 61 for R. Alcala

I felt compelled to attend Rodney Alcala's sentencing today. I got on my bike and rode down to 100 Center Street. I had been so surprised that he plead guilty to the two murders. Everyone was.

 I parked my bike on a fence right near by some of the TV vans. And in front of me on the security line the camera men filed in. Men with equiptment were lined up outside of the courtroom as well. I went in. The room was almost packed, but I found a seat, on the aisle. Many of New York's finest were there, many badges as well as mourners wearing little stickie buttons of Alcala's 1971 victim, Cornelia Criley.

Crilley, a  23 year old flight attendant was murdered just two years after I had my encounter with him on St. Marks Place.

I tucked my helmet under the bench in front of me. The air was heavy. It's not every day New York sentences a serial killer. I overheard the Asst. DA Spiro say to a family member, "As he's already confessed to the murders, there won't be any shenanigans." Alcala has been known to do such things. But we know he's eager to get back to California where he has a computer and library priveliges, so he can work on his case to reverse his position on death row. I'm still trying to understand how a murder can plead guilty just so he can go back to his more cushy jail in St. Quentin. I'm not sure I can manage that rationalization. If they would have given him those rights on the east coast, then he would have defended himself? This does seem to be a circus of injustice. 

The public defender, with her steel wool gray hair and handsome face, straight off of a Roman coin was a wee thing who was much taller and formidable in her three inch heels. She walked towards the holding room, each step taken as if she were stamping out a fire. She was called in. She emerged. The judge looked very solemn. Rodney Alcala, his long grey hair, flowing in freshly washed waves, his feet unfettered, unlike the last time I saw him in court. His hands secured behind him, walked lightly into the room not making eye contact. 

Speeches: They started, Alcala had his back to them all, of course. And so they spoke to the judge and to the DOC on his orange jumpsuit. Crilley's sister spoke, a simple woman. There was no anger just despair. Trying in a an almost innocent way to make Alcala, a man with an inability for empathy (as we know it) to understand that he just didn't destroy a life, but he broke a family and many lives. Then the assistant DA read the words of Ellen Hover's sister. Ellen was murdered in 1977. The letter was articulate, historical, and made the case for broken lives as well as well for  maximum sentence for a man already on death row. No family member showed up the reason given was that they didn't want to bring more attention to Alcala, who does seem to like his share. 

Spiro was up next to present the summation he didn't get to. I had this feeling that people needed to have their say, which they were cheated out of when Alcala plead guitly. There was an element of primitivism about it. Spiro gave an overview of Alcala's intense killing history and the brutality of his crimes from presumably his first in 1968 until he was incarcerated in 1977. There was another woman, besides me, who got away. But the other young woman, a fifteen year old, was not as lucky. He brutalized her and raped her before somehow she convinced him not to kill her. When I think how I escaped his apartment, yes, I got lucky. 

 Justice Bonnie Wittner addressed the now fragile 69 year old. She said she had never had a case such as this in her 30 years on the bench and she hoped she never would again. She choked down tears, failed and tried to gain composure. She sentenced him to the maximum of 25-years per victim. Then it was all over. 

Riding home was a shaky affair.