When the story went main stream, it was met with fear and outrage. Micaela Casey was only seventeen, and the picture of her that the media favored made her look almost as batshit insane as Charles Manson. Her hair was long and ratty, hanging in her face. One wide eye was exposed, her grin was wide enough to rival the Joker's, her shoulders were hunched, and she was wringing her hands like a mad scientist. The photo had been taken as she was led from her home, sandwiched between a police officer and her lawyer. Her dainty wrists were cuffed, and she had looked directly into the camera.

Micaela Casey had been arrested, tried, and found guilty of the murder of her own mother. The prosecutor had had his way, and she'd been tried as an adult. Any newspaper or program would tell you the story of Cheyenne Casey, loving mother killed in cold blood by her only daughter. No details of her death were released; the only words they would use to describe the scene were synonyms for words like "brutal" and "horrific."

No one told Micaela's story. No one wanted to.