Lynette hadn’t said a word in weeks. Every morning, she arrived at her appointed time, sat down at her desk, and did nothing. This was hard for her as it was so very out of her character. She loved to talk. She had so much to say.
But lately, she would just think. About trees. Redwoods.
She’d stare out the window, imagining what it would be like at that very moment to be out from inside those four walls; to be laying on the mulchy floor of a forest, looking up at the sun smiling through the enormous boughs.
“How old and wise you are, tree,” she would imagine herself saying, “the things you could teach us if we’d only be still enough to listen.”
Usually these sylvan daydreams would calm her, but eventually her thoughts would always turn back to the only real love that she had ever known. Charles. And thoughts of Charles, although happy at first, would inevitably set off a chain-reaction in her mind. She would be reminded of his absence. How he was not being allowed to speak. Of the unjustness of the world. Her mood would sour incredibly.
On December 17th, 1975, when Duane Keys, U.S. District Attorney, was making his statement before the judge, Lynette was in such a sour mood.
“Your honor, because her heart is filled with such hate and violence, we beg the court for the most severe ...”
Before he finished his sentence, a Gala apple suddenly smashed upon the bridge of his nose, knocking the glasses from his face.
Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme, would-be presidential assassin, devotee of Charles Manson, was ushered from the courtroom.
For many years after, right before Christmas, Duane would find on his office desk a thoughtful present from his coworkers – a box of apples.