Having just discovered Sam's pass at Bonnie, Annalise packs Sam's belongings and tries to kick him out of their house. A lengthy argument ensues: Annalise accuses Sam of killing Lila and provokes him to do the same to herself. In response, Sam calls Annalise a slut and affirms that he only used Annalise for sex. Outraged by this discovery, Annalise leaves.
On the road, Wes, Connor, and Laurel pursue Rebecca who they realize has been enlisted by Nate to steal phone information from Sam's laptop in an attempt to prove he killed Lila. Wes confesses to the others that he and Rebecca believe Sam killed Lila and had been hiding this knowledge from the group all along.
Wes and company arrive at Annalise's house just as Rebecca has finished transferring all the evidence onto Nate's flash drive. Rebecca returns Sam's laptop to him and claims having found nothing with which to incriminate him. Sam, knowing this to be a lie, tackles Rebecca and a scuffle for the flash drive ensues. Rebecca passes the drive to Laurel who then flees the room. Sam attempts to chase her but he is shoved by Michaela and accidentally thrown over the third floor balustrade. Sam falls down two stories face-first and is motionless; the students think he's been killed.
The group convenes in Annalise's living room and engages a heated argument on what to do to not get caught. Before the group can reach a consensus, Sam suddenly gets up and tackles Rebecca, strangling her. To stop him, Wes strikes Sam in the head with the trophy, killing him. Their responses are varied: Wes cleans Rebecca's blood-stained face, Michaela succumbs to a panic attack, Laurel comforts Michaela, and Connor has a nervous breakdown.
Therapy resistance and tumour relapse after drug therapy are commonly explained by Darwinian selection of pre-existing drug-resistant, often stem-like cancer cells resulting from random mutations. However, the ubiquitous non-genetic heterogeneity and plasticity of tumour cell phenotype raises the question: are mutations really necessary and sufficient to promote cell phenotype changes during tumour progression Cancer therapy inevitably spares some cancer cells, even in the absence of resistant mutants. Accumulating observations suggest that the non-killed, residual tumour cells actively acquire a new phenotype simply by exploiting their developmental potential. These surviving cells are stressed by the cytotoxic treatment, and owing to phenotype plasticity, exhibit a variety of responses. Some are pushed into nearby, latent attractor states of the gene regulatory network which resemble evolutionary ancient or early developmental gene expression programs that confer stemness and resilience. By entering such stem-like, stress-response states, the surviving cells strengthen their capacity to cope with future noxious agents. Considering non-genetic cell state dynamics and the relative ease with which surviving but stressed cells can be tipped into latent attractors provides a foundation for exploring new therapeutic approaches that seek not only to kill cancer cells but also to avoid promoting resistance and relapse that are inherently linked to the attempts to kill them.
In the second scenario, an external stimulation that affects signalling pathways can change the gene expression state, thus triggering a state transition between attractor states in a multistable system. In normal tissue development, attractor transitions correspond to cell differentiation and are induced by tightly regulated developmental signals that trigger transitions to lower attractor states. Of particular interest for tumour progression is the stress inflicted onto the (non-killed) cancer cells by treatment and the ensuing state transition. Given the commonalities between stress-response and stemness programmes (Zhou et al, 2001; Kim et al, 2002; Blanpain et al, 2011) and the inherent immaturity of cancer cells explained above, it is possible that cell stress imparted by cytotoxic agents actively induces a state transition specifically into a stem-like state, which actually is a stress-response state.
The immense non-genetic phenotypic heterogeneity of tumour cells, which entails, by statistical necessity, incompleteness of any tumouricidal treatment, and the phenotype plasticity, which allows perturbed surviving cells to aberrantly access hidden, pre-existing, pathological stem-like states, offers a new set of principles for future exploration of therapeutic options that will reach beyond the current emphasis on killing.
Táhirih accepted the teachings of the Báb in her twenties, to the consternation of her father and her husband, and became one his most fearless and brilliant advocates. She was a poet, renowned for her learning and her skill in argument. At a conference near the village of Badasht, in 1848, she shocked her fellow believers by appearing before the all-male gathering without a veil. One of them felt so scandalized that he slit his own throat.
The day before they killed her, the Sháh summoned her again. Again she rebuffed him. They strangled her with a scarf and threw her body down a well. The Times of London reported her death on October 13, 1852. She was thirty-six years old.
Born in a backwoods settlement in the Carolinas in 1767, he received sporadic education. But in his late teens he read law for about two years, and he became an outstanding young lawyer in Tennessee. Fiercely jealous of his honor, he engaged in brawls, and in a duel killed a man who cast an unjustified slur on his wife Rachel.
Clay and Webster, who had acted as attorneys for the Bank, led the fight for its recharter in Congress. \"The bank,\" Jackson told Martin Van Buren, \"is trying to kill me, but I will kill it!\" Jackson, in vetoing the recharter bill, charged the Bank with undue economic privilege.
And on Oct. 9, as she and her friends were singing on the way home, playing the sides of her school bus like a drum, she never imagined that the young man who boarded the bus and asked \\\"Who is Malala\\\" was an assassin sent by the Taliban to kill her.
WHY DID YOU KILL ME focuses on events one night in 2006 in California, when Crystal Theobald was 24, a lovely, decent young woman who stepped into her brother's SUV, drove a few blocks from the family home, and was shot in the head for no apparent reason. Her mother, Belinda, knew in her bones it was gang-related, but as a former meth addict who went to prison for possession, she had little use for the police investigating the case. Her sons also had records, and one was in a gang. This sordid family past muddied the investigation for the police but sent Belinda and her determined young niece Jaimie to track down the gang members they believed were responsible by posing as a beautiful girl named Angel on MySpace. Jaimie decided to make at least one member who she believed was on the scene the night Crystal was killed fall in love with her alter-ego, represented online with a demure picture of the beautiful Crystal herself. The ruse takes an emotional toll on the sympathetic Jaimie but it gets startling results, identifying persons of interest and leading the police to hunt down and interrogate gang members who were at the scene of the crime and could describe the night's horrific and senseless events. When Jaimie quits the Angel impersonation to preserve her mental health, Belinda takes over, with her rage, sorrow, and desire for revenge motivating factors. Belinda admits to the camera that she felt responsible for her daughter's death to some degree, a moment the film handles beautifully. When the killer is apprehended and Belinda takes responsibility for her role, she asks the state to take the death penalty off the table in a moment of compassion. The film also interviews gang members, who, without excusing the bad acts they committed, try to explain how they became gang members. Family members weigh in with another side of the story of economic deprivation and lack of education and opportunity, which makes it clear that gang members are also victims of social and financial circumstances.
True-crime fans will find a lot to discuss and ponder. Why Did You Kill Me takes a complex set of facts -- a random murder; California gangs and the socio-economic hardships that create them; a blameless victim from a family with its own history of felons and drug abusers -- and demonstrates the ingenuity of relatives who track down the killer when the trail goes cold for the police. Given all the tangents, director Frederick Munk wrangles this unwieldy story into a cogent and dramatically absorbing narrative. Lay \"detectives\" using the internet and social media to perform their own productive crime investigations have been chronicled in other movies, but this one shows that dogged determination can take highly motivated people to places the police might not go. Without being preachy, the documentary raises reasonable questions about the inevitability of gang violence where society provides few alternative, law-abiding paths to struggling young people.
Belinda believed that no one, not even the police, cared as much as she did about finding her daughter's killer. Do you think her zeal and efforts demonstrated that caring can sometimes out-sleuth professional police work Why or why not
Danny Fields: When I wasn't getting laid elsewhere l went to Max's Kansas City every night. It was a bar and restaurant two blocks away from where I lived and you could sit there all night and bring yourself coffee. It was free. And you always signed the check and never paid the bill. I felt so guilty, I had an unpaid bill of about two or three thousand dollars. I guess that was a lot in the sixties. I had friends that would sign the check \"Donald Duck\" and \"Fatty Arbuckle.\" It was just so wonderful and all the waitresses were beautiful ... and all the busboys ... You could have sex with all the busboys. I mean, not right there, but later. And anybody who walked into the room, you could luck, because they all wanted to be in the back room. And you would say, \"You'll have to luck me and I'll let you sit at a good table.\" So it was wide open, but it wasn't gay, thank god. We hated gay bars. Gay bars Oh please, who wanted to go to gay bars At Max's you could fuck anyone in the room, and that was what was sweet about it. Leee Childers: Danny was the company freak at Elektra Records. His job was to keep the stupid record company executives somehow in touch with the street. That was an actual job title then: \"company freak.\"He told them what was good and what wasn't, but mostly what was cool. The record companies were wise to actually admit that they weren't cool. In the sixties, they had to admit they didn't have a clue. So they hired people whose job it was to be cool. It was a wonderful idea. Danny Fields: They hired someone at a low level who wore bell-bottoms and smoked dope and took LSD in the office-me. And I really would take LSD in the office. I would sit around and just lick it. My hands would be all orange. Steve Harris: I was working for Elektra Records and was in California with Jac Holzman, the president of Elektra, when he went to see the Doors at the Whiskey for the first time. He came back and said, \"I saw a really interesting group and I think I'm gonna sign them.\" And he did. Then they came to New York to do a show at Ondine's, on Fifty-eighth Street, under the bridge. Danny Fields: I remember Morrison did \"Light My Fire\" that night, because it was the only good song that he did. Tom Baker: I sat with Andy Warhol and his entourage at a long table near the stage. Pam Courson, Morrison's girlfriend, sat alongside me and was very excited. She said to me, \"Jim's really up for tonight's show. Forget that shit at Gazzari's, now you're going to see the real Jim Morrison.\" When I saw them at Gazzari's, the club on Sunset Strip, Jim was high on LSD and staggering drunk. His performance was unspectacular, except for one moment-while stumbling through a song early in the set, he suddenly let out with a deep-throated, bloodcurdling scream. Pam was furious with him and kept telling me I wasn't seeing him at his best. I told her he was a good guy, but he should keep his day job. But when he finished the show at Ondine's, I sat there stunned. I looked over at Pamela. She leaned toward me and said, \"I told you so.\" Afterwards, the Doors gave a party in a club to celebrate their success. When it was over, Jim and I stood talking at the bottom of the stairs that led up to Forty-sixth Street. It was late, and the area was full of various cops and creeps. Suddenly, Morrison started throwing empty glasses up the stairs. I grabbed him by the arm and yelled, \"What the fuck are you doing, for Christ's sake\" He ignored me and threw another glass up the stairs, simultaneously letting out one of his bloodcurdling screams. I expected a small army of cops to come charging down. After one final glass and one final scream, Jim turned and was gone. I was frustrated because I wanted to tell him that finally I had met someone who was truly possessed. Danny Fields: The next day I had to go to the record company, so I told them there was this song about fire, and, \"If you're putting out a Doors single, put that one out.\" They said, \"Uh uh, it's too long.\" Then other people started to tell them to do that. At first they thought it was impossible, but after deejays reported back to them that they had a potential hit here, without that pretentious nonsense in the middle, they started to listen. It was a catchy tune. So they sent Paul Rothchild into the studio and said, \"Paul, cut it.\" And Paul did. You can hear the separation in the middle. And it worked. It went to number one. Steve Harris: I think Danny had problems with Jim Morrison because Danny thought he could lead Jim around. They had a falling out at the Castle in California, when Jim was fooling around with Nico. They were hanging around in the Castle and Jim was very drunk, and very high, and Danny was afraid that he would die if he drove. So Danny took the keys to Jim's car. And Jim got really pissed at Danny for that. Danny Fields: I was in L.A. staying at the Castle with Edie Sedgwick and Nico, who were in Hollywood for some reason that I can't remember. The Castle was this two-story house, owned by some old Hollywood queen who rented it out to rock bands. Everyone had stayed there-Dylan, the Jefferson Airplane, the Velvets. The owner would rent it out to rock & roll bands because it was in such a state of ruin that it didn't really matter what happened to it. Just before I arrived in L.A., I was in San Francisco to see the Doors play at the Winterland. After the show I'd gone backstage and Morrison was surrounded by very slovenly and ugly groupies. I thought that was bad for his image. So I decided to fix Morrison up with Nico. It was a shiddach, which is Yiddish for a fix-up. I wanted him to meet Nico so that he would fall in love with her and see what kind of girl he should hang out with. I mean, it was a lot of nerve on my part. It was really none of my business to meddle in, but ... I've never had any respect for Oliver Stone, but after seeing his version of the Morrison/Nico meeting in the Doors movie-\"Hello, I am Nico, would you like to go to bed with me\"-the reality of it couldn't have been more different. What really happened was that I met Morrison at the Elektra office in Los Angeles and he followed me back to the Castle in his rented car. Morrison walked into the kitchen and Nico was there and they stood and circled each other. Then they stared at the floor and didn't say a word to each other. They were both too poetic to say anything. It was a very boring, poetic, silent thing that was going on between them. They formed a mystical bond immediately-I think Morrison pulled Nico's hair and then he proceeded to get extremely drunk and I fed him whatever was left of my drugs that Edie Sedgwick hadn't stolen. In those days, I never traveled without my little supply of everything. My father was a doctor, so I had access to reds, yellows, blacks, Tuinals-everything. But since I had lived with Edie in New York, I knew she was a kleptomaniac of extraordinary skill, especially when it came to drugs. Edie just had a bloodhound's nose for prescription drugs. So the minute I got to the Castle, when I knew Edie's back was turned-she was kissing Dino Valenti good-bye in the driveway-I'd snuck upstairs and hid my drugs carefully in what I thought was a safe place, under a double mattress in a back bedroom. When I went back to them later, sure enough, they were decimated. Edie had found them. So I took what was left, some acid, and gave it to Morrison, and he got so stoned and so horrendously drunk that he wanted to drive away. So I took the keys out of his ignition and hid them under the mat of his car. I was afraid he would drive drunk and you know, go off a cliff and kill himself, and I'd be fired from Elektra. I was there on Elektra's money and it wouldn't be seemly to lose the lead singer on account of the publicist getting him so stoned, so I kidnapped him. There was no phone in the Castle. He couldn't get outta there. Morrison knew that I had taken the keys, but he was so stoned ... finally I went to bed. While I was sleeping, Nico came into my room, crying, \"Oh, he's going to kill me! Oh, he's going to kill me!\" I said, \"Oh, leave me alone, Nico! I'm trying to sleep!\" She was. sobbing, \"Whoo hoo hoo.\" She went back outside, and then I heard her screaming. I looked through the window into the courtyard, and Morrison was just pulling her hair, so I went back to bed. Then David Numan, who was also staying at the Castle, came running into my room and said, \"You'd better check this out.\" So I got up again and Nico was out in the driveway, still sobbing, while Morrison was naked in the moonlight, climbing around the rooftop. He was jumping from one turret to the other, while Nico sobbed. I went back to sleep, and that was the affair-he pulled her hair, he walked naked, she screamed, and I kept his car keys hidden for a day or two until he straightened up. And of course he hated me from that moment on for kidnapping him. Nico: I argued with Jim. He asked if I would walk along the edge of the Castle. I said to him, \"Why\" and he couldn't answer. It was not a positive act, and not a destructive act; it didn't change anything. So why should I do something that is so vain, just to follow him It was not spiritual or philosophical. It was a drunk man displaying himself. Ronnie Cutrone: I loved Jim Morrison dearly, but Jim was not fun to go out with. I hung out with him every night for just about a year, and Jim would go out, lean up against the bar, order eight screwdrivers, put down six Tuinals on the bar, drink two or three screwdrivers, take two Tuinals, then he'd have to pee, but he couldn't leave the other five screwdrivers, so he'd take his dick out and pee, and some girl would come up and blow his dick, and then he'd finish the other five screwdrivers and then he'd finish up the other four Tuinals, and then he'd pee in his pants, and then Eric Emerson and I would take him home. That was a typical night out with Jim. But when he was on acid, then Jim was really fun and great. But most of the time he was just a lush pill head. Ray Manzarek: Jim was a shaman. Danny Fields: Jim Morrison was a callous asshole, an abusive, mean person. I took Morrison to Max's and he was a monster, a prick. And his poetry sucked. He demeaned rock & roll as literature. Sophomoric bullshit babble. Maybe one or two good images Patti Smith was a poet. I think she elevated rock & roll to literature. Bob Dylan elevated it. Morrison's wasn't poetry. It was garbage disguised as teenybopper. It was good rock & roll for thirteen-year-olds. Or eleven-year-olds. As a person, I think Morrison's magic and power went beyond the quality of his versifying. He was bigger than that. He was sexier than his poetry-more mysterious, more problematic, more difficult, more charismatic as a performer. There has got to be a reason why women like Nico and Gloria Stavers, the editor of 16 magazine, fell so deeply in love with him, because he was essentially an abusive man to women. But it sure wasn't his poetry. I've got to tell you, it wasn't his poetry. He had a big dick. That was probably it. Gerard Malanga: I was walking down Eighth Street and I heard these two girls behind me say, \"Isn't that Jim Morrison\" Ha ha ha. I felt like saying, \"No, my jaw is a bit more angular.\" I felt a little eclipsed but I didn't give a shit, really. Danny Fields: The ultimate rock star is a child. How can you not be spoiled by everything that's going to come along For most rock stars, what's in store for them, realistically, is a lot of spoilage, denting and banging around, exploitation, being used up, and ruination. And what happens if you get fat like Jim Morrison You don't look cute in those clothes anymore. Jim Morrison really had it on his first trip here, which was the winter of 1966. Even when the first album was released in 1967, he looked wonderful. That's when he was at his best. He became a teen idol about a year later and then started putting on weight. His genes had an unfortunate tendency to send all the weight to his cheeks, so his eyes, which were never his best feature, disappeared. Then he grew a beard and became fat and drunk and sloppy. So my thinking was, Bring me another one. Bring me that one's head on a plate. Bring me a new one. Chapter Two The World's Forgotten Boys Ron Asheton: My younger brother, Scotty, and our neighbor Dave Alexander were stone punks. I was just the weird guy. In school, I was either the complete oddball, the herd, or the freak, and then they always called me \"the Fat Beatle\" when I used to wear Beatle suits on dress-up day. I didn't have a lot of friends. I was mostly into Nazi stuff. I took German class and did Hitler speeches. I'd wear SS pins to school, draw swastikas all over my books, draw Hitler mustaches on everyone's pictures, and draw little SS bolts on my arm. So I wasn't so much a stone-punk-kinda-hoodlum-guy as Scotty and Dave. We just didn't fit in. I remember one year we all tried to go back to high school on the first day. I made bets with Scotty and Dave about how long they were gonna last. I said, \"Dave, you'll probably make it three hours, and Scotty, you'll probably make it half the day, and I'll probably make a whole day.\" Dave turned to me, he had a sixty-ounce-a big can of Colt 45 in his hand. He already had drank two of them, it was like nine in the morning, and he said, \"You lost. I'm leaving now.\" Scotty wanted to get thrown out, so he went up to some kid at his locker, grabbed him by the back of the arms, and squeezed and twisted him with a pair of needle-nose pliers. So the kid runs down to the office, and we heard over the PA, \"Scott Asheton come to the office!\" He went down and got thrown out. Iggy Pop: These guys were the laziest, delinquent sort of pig slobs ever born. Really spoiled rotten and babied by their mothers. Scotty Asheton-he was the juvenile delinquent. His dad had died, his and Ron's, so they didn't have much discipline at home ... I mean, Dave Alexander and Ron Asheton had skipped school and gone to Liverpool, to be near the Beatles. Ron Asheton: Me and Dave Alexander were supergeeked on bands. We were always sitting around listening to records and talking about the Beatles or the Stones. We even had a band-well, sort of a band. We were called the Dirty Shames. We would play along to records and say, \"We're great!\" Then we'd take the record off and say, \"Whaaa Hey, maybe this isn't sounding too good.\" We built up the reputation that we were a great band, because we never played. We were actually called down to Discount Records one time, to meet this guy who was promoting the first Rolling Stones show at the Olympia Stadium in Detroit. He wanted the Dirty Shames to open for the Stones. We were all excited, until we realized, Wow, we can't even play! So we told the guy, \"I think we're going to be auditioning out in L.A.\" A little while after that Dave tells me, \"Hey, I'm going to England, you wanna go\" So I sold my motorcycle. I had a Honda 305 that I got instead of getting a car, when I got my driver's license. So we sold the bike and flew to England. We went to see the Who at the Cavern. It was wall to fucking wall of people. We muscled through to about ten feet from the stage, and Townshend started smashing his twelve-string Rickenbacker. It was my first experience of total pandemonium. It was like a dog pile of people, just trying to grab pieces of Townshend's guitar, and people were scrambling to dive up onstage and he'd swing the guitar at their heads. The audience weren't cheering; it was more like animal noises, howling. The whole room turned really primitive-like a pack of starving animals that hadn't eaten in a week and somebody throws out a piece of meat. I was afraid. For me it wasn't fun, but it was mesmerizing. It was like, \"The plane's burning, the ship's sinking, so let's crush each other.\" Never had I seen people driven so nuts-that music could drive people to such dangerous extremes. That's when I realized, This is definitely what I wanna do. When Dave and I got home we got kicked out of school because we had superlong hair. I'd also grown the giant sideburns. I had knee-high Beatle boots-the big leather kind with the big Cuban heels-a leather vest, and a turtleneck. The counselor completely freaked and said, \"This won't do!\" So I said, \"Fuck it,\" and started hanging out in front of Discount Records, where Iggy worked inside. (Continues...) Excerpted from Please Kill Me by Legs McNeil Gillian McCain Copyright 1996 by Legs McNeil and Gillian McCain. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. 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