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Brian Head Welch Save Me From Myself Zip

When the anti-apartheid activist Nelson Mandela was released from prison after 27 years, eventually becoming his nation's first Black president, in 1994, Tutu was appointed to head the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, tasked with investigating the apartheid government's brutal history. At hearings in which torture and other atrocities were recounted, Tutu would openly weep.

brian head welch save me from myself zip

Holliday told Britain's Sun newspaper that he later encountered King at a gas station, failing to recognize him at first since he'd recovered from his beating: "He said, 'You don't know who I am, do you?' I said, 'No.' He said, 'Well, you saved my life.'"

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St. Dominic won the state Catholic High School Football League championship in 1975, in Tom Capozzoli's final season as head coach. His son Tony, a senior, was named first-team Parade All-American, and he committed to Penn State as a quarterback and a kicker. Todd Hodne, Dave Smith and John Poggioli had one more season together, and though Hodne and Smith once had a fistfight on the school stairs, Hodne and Poggioli were thought to be best friends. In truth, Poggioli said he remained in the friendship because he didn't know how to get out. He was drawn to Todd Hodne and he was afraid of Todd Hodne in equal measure, and Hodne made him pay every time Poggioli tried to emerge from under his sway. When Poggioli was a junior, he told Hodne that he might try out for the school play; Hodne responded by sneering, "You're no actor," and dumping a pail of water on his head. When Poggioli had a crush on a girl named Janet, he wouldn't dare ask her out because Hodne, though not her boyfriend, had claimed her. "In my four years at St. Dominic, nobody asked me out because they were so afraid of Todd," Janet Shalley remembers now. "I could only date boys from other schools. And back then, I had it going on."

The realization came when someone told Hodne, "No." At Hamilton Hall, they lived between the two "jock house" fraternities, Phi Delta Theta and Phi Gamma Delta, otherwise known as "Fiji House." One night early in freshman year, Hodne and his roommate headed for a party at Fiji House, only to be told at the door that freshmen weren't invited. They left, but on their way back to Hamilton, Hodne saw an opportunity. "At Fiji House, they kept the kegs of beer in the back, near the stairwell," the roommate remembers. "And Todd goes, 'We're going to take one.' And he picks up a keg and carries it to our dorm room. And then he goes downstairs and puts up a sign that says there's a party in our room. We have 25 people in there, and he's charging at the door for beer that he stole from Fiji House. And I'm like, 'I'm not going to make it through my freshman year.' After two weeks, I thought, 'Oh, I'm in the s---.'' I considered going to Joe [Paterno] and asking him for a room change. But Joe's going to ask me why. And what do I tell him? So I just decided to suck it up. But I spent my entire freshman year praying I wouldn't be arrested."

"It took a long, long time to feel safe again," Adrienne says. She was an arts education major. She was taking a weaving course, and when she returned to classes the next week, she found that's all she could do, all day long: weave. "The monotony of putting that shuttle back and forth in the loom, it was cathartic for me," she says. She remembers surviving the semester by "never going alone, ever, anywhere" from that point forward. She also was taking a course from Penn State's bowling coach, the esteemed Don Ferrell, who was the university's first Black head coach and a close friend of Joe Paterno. She had not shared the story of what had happened to her beyond telling the police, close friends and her weaving teacher. Ferrell has no memory of her. But in Adrienne's recollection, "When I went back to the class, the coach came over and he looked at me and he said, 'You don't have to come here one more time. You're done. You're passed. Now go try and take care of yourself.'"

Like Betsy Sailor, Susan (who asked to be identified only by her first name) had placed an ad in the paper looking for a roommate. She told one caller that she'd talk to him later, that she was going over to her friend's house to watch "Dallas." When she returned, she noticed some potted plants that had been on the windowsill were on the floor. She tried to turn on the bedroom light. It didn't go on. He was hiding in the closet. "When he confronted me, he threw one of my shirts, one of my favorite shirts, over my head, put me in a bathtub and shaved my pubic area. And then had his way. Put it that way," she says. "Oh, actually he had a knife to my neck. It was one of my kitchen knives. If I would've known it was that one, I would have said, 'Go ahead and slit my throat,'' kind of thing, because it was very dull." Susan, who sounds brash and fearless telling the story now, wanted to move on: "Suck it up, put your big girl panties on and just deal with it." But he kept calling, to gloat, to threaten a return. The calls pissed her off. She told her father. Her father worked for the phone company. He had the calls traced. They took the records to the police department. The calls were coming from 279 Hamilton Hall.

State College PD sent the prints to the FBI. On Oct. 13, 1978, an officer at headquarters wrote the following: "On this date at 1335 hours, this officer returned [FBI] Agent [Larry] Harper's phone call to Washington D.C. Agent Harper told me that he had lifted one latent print from a knife blade, one from a light bulb, and one from a tube of cleansing cream. Harper told me that all three prints belonged to one Todd Steven Hodne."

That same day, March 3, 1979, Duane Musser returned from the courthouse in Bellefonte to police headquarters in State College and wrote the following report: "On this date, the defendant, Todd Hodne, was found guilty of Burglary, Rape and Involuntary Deviate Sexual Intercourse after completion of a jury trial before Judge [Richard] Sharp. He was found not guilty of Possessing Offensive Weapons. A pre-sentence investigation was ordered and the defendant remained free on $25,000 bail."

The story of a Penn State football player convicted of the rape of a Penn State student did not include the words "Penn State football player." "Believe me, it wasn't my choice," Musala says. "If we're covering this because he's a football player, why aren't we reminding people that he's a football player?" Musala's editor, who would later become mayor of State College, resisted the use of the language because he "was aware that this was sensitive because it was the Nittany Lions," she recalls. And when she and Bliss contacted Penn State's head of communications, Art Ciervo, for comment from Paterno on the conviction, Hodne was described to them as "inconsequential." The editor, William Welch, and Ciervo are now deceased. "We tried to beat the director [Ciervo] into saying something," Musala says. "'Look, have [Joe] say something. Can you have him say something?' 'Well, he's an inconsequential player and Joe really doesn't want to talk about it.'"

On April 21, 1979, not quite seven weeks after Todd Hodne had been convicted in State College, Anne Wright was returning late from a night out on Long Island. She had gone to Rumbottom's, a rock-and-roll club, and now she was returning to Wantagh. She had grown up there but had moved away with her family; she had come back to work as a nurse's aide and was staying with some old friends. She was 23. At about 4 a.m. she was walking west on Sandhill Road and started to cut across a small local park with a playground when she was hit twice on the head from behind with what she later figured was a pipe or a club or a tree branch. It knocked her senseless. She grabbed her can of Mace, but her assailant said, "I have a knife." He bound and then raped her at the edge of the woods, saying, "You love sex, don't you?" When he finally left, she tried to stand up but fell to the ground. "My head hurt and I was full of blood," she later told the police. Three girls driving by came upon her and began screaming: "My God."

The driver's name was Jeffrey Hirsch. He was young, in his early 30s, with reddish hair and a larky smile set in a long, deadpan face. Hirsch had been a successful salesman in Maryland and was about to start his own business when his mother contracted cancer and he came back home to Long Island to take care of her. He had a wife, Mary Beth, and four young children, ranging in age from six months to seven years. His father owned the cab. Hirsch was driving to make ends meet but also because he liked talking to people and hearing their stories. He answered the call at the White Castle, and Hodne gave him the address on a side street behind the Walt Whitman Mall. When Hirsch stopped on the dark street, Hodne threatened him with a knife. Hodne tried to rob him, but Hirsch struggled, and they fought, Hirsch in the front of the vehicle and Hodne in the back. Hirsch was tall and wiry, but Hodne overpowered him. Hodne dropped his knife and put Hirsch in a choke hold and broke the hyoid bone in his neck. Hodne opened the door and stepped outside with Hirsch slumped over in the front seat, his body facing one way and his head another. According to police reports, a man named Robert Gruber stood in front of Hodne on his lawn. He had seen the fight through the window of his home and stepped outside. "I think I might have killed him," Hodne said.


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