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ladystylestores · 4 years

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#MeTooSTEM founder admits to creating Twitter persona who “died” of COVID-19

Enlarge / Twitter drama erupted over the weekend when a much-beloved online persona supposedly died of COVID-19 complications—only to be exposed as a fake account/catfishing scheme by controversial neuroscientist and #MeTooSTEM founder BethAnn McLaughlin.

A segment of science Twitter was rocked over the weekend by the discovery that a long-standing, pseudonymous online member had died of COVID-19-related complications. But grief quickly turned to shock, hurt, and anger when the deceased turned out to have never existed. Rather, it was a sock puppet account that we now know was created and maintained by BethAnn McLaughlin, a neuroscientist and founder of the #MeTooSTEM advocacy group whose Twitter handle is @McLNeuro.

“I take full responsibility for my involvement in creating the @Sciencing_Bi Twitter account,” McLaughlin said in a statement provided to The New York Times through her lawyer. “My actions are inexcusable. I apologize without reservation to all the people I hurt. As I’ve reflected on my actions the last few days, it’s become clear to me that I need mental health treatment, which I’m pursuing now. My failures are mine alone, so I’m stepping away from all activities with #MeTooSTEM to ensure that it isn’t unfairly criticized for my actions.”

This certainly isn’t the first time a fake persona has manifested on social media. Way back in 2003, controversial American Enterprise Institute scholar John R. Lott Jr.. was outed by The Washington Post for creating a sock-puppet online persona, “Mary Rosh,” purportedly a former student, and using it to mount spirited defenses of his work online. In 2017, there was the case of “Jenna Abrams,” who boasted 70,000 Twitter followers; the fake persona was so convincing that she managed to spread a viral rumor that CNN’s local Boston station had accidentally aired 30 minutes of pornography late one night in November 2016.

In 2019, we had the strange case of Eugene Gu, a former surgery resident at Vanderbilt University Medical Center who went viral on Twitter a few years ago after taking a knee in his hospital scrubs in solidarity with Colin Kaepernick. An investigation by The Verge revealed evidence that Gu operated several sock puppet Twitter accounts, most notably one under the name @MaryLauryMD (since deleted). And just last month, The Daily Beast exposed a network of fake op-ed writers who had been placing editorials on Middle East policy with conservative outlets, such as Newsmax and the Washington Examiner.

But the particular case of @Sciencing_Bi is unique because of its unusually long duration—the Twitter account was created in October 2016—and the absence of any obvious financial motive that is a common feature of catfishing scams.

“I’ve been acquainted with that account for years, and nothing seemed unusual about it,” Greg Gbur told Ars. He’s a physicist at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, and he interacted occasionally with @Sciencing_Bi on Twitter. He never noticed anything amiss. “She seemed like a nice person, passionate about STEM representation. No indication of a scam for money or anything like that. It’s all a bit mystifying.”

Tweets and sympathy

Screen cap of @Sciencing_Bi tweet detailing her struggles with COVID-19.

Greg Gbur

@Sciencing_Bi tweet: “Anyone want to guess my hospital bill for my in patient stay in the ICU for 15 days?”

Greg Gbur

@Sciencing_Bi tweet: “I need a solid comeback to people telling me how lucky I was to get COVID-19 early.”

Greg Gbur

@Sciencing_Bi tweet: “Still struggling hard with recovery”

Greg Gbur

@McLNeuro (BethAnn McLaughlin) tweet announcing death of @Sciencing_Bi.

Jennifer Ouellette

@McLNeuro tweet: “It just didn’t occur to me that she’d die.”

Jennifer Ouellette

@McLNeuro tweet: “She wanted me to get a tattoo that matched hers”

Jennifer Ouellette

@McLNeuro tweet: “She was forced by her university to teach in person until April.”

Jennifer Ouellette

@Sciencing_Bi, identified on her profile only as “Alepo,” claimed to be a female bisexual Native American anthropologist at Arizona State University who was involved with combatting discrimination and sexual harassment in the scientific community. She had a modest follower count (about 2,400) and interacted frequently with several well-known scientists, science writers, and science communicators on Twitter. (Full disclosure: while I never interacted with the account myself, I know many of those on science Twitter who did.)

In April, she announced that she had contracted COVID-19 and subsequently documented a months-long struggle with the disease. She specifically blamed her employer, ASU, for her plight, and she claiming that she and other teachers, staff, and students had been forced to remain on campus well into April. She also asserted that the school had cut her salary by 15 percent while she was hospitalized. Then on Friday, July 31, McLaughlin tweeted that @Sciencing_Bi—purportedly a close friend—had died of complications from COVID-19, followed by a series of impassioned tweets eulogizing her late friend.

There was the usual online outpouring of condolences and grief alongside outrage at her plight and purported mistreatment by ASU. McLaughlin even set up a Zoom memorial service for @Sciencing_Bi; those attending included noted University of California, Berkeley, biologist Michael Eisen and Melissa Bates, a physiologist at the University of Iowa.

Huh.

That’s when things got weird. Both Eisen and Bates were surprised that only five people, including themselves and McLaughlin, attended the virtual memorial—no former students, no colleagues, no friends, and no family members. As Bates noted in a twitter thread, “This is a community. And if this person was part of the community, where was the community?” Bates’ suspicions were aroused in earnest when McLaughlin told her that Sciencing_Bi had mentioned her in her will. “You don’t leave sh*t to randos on the Internet when you’re first gen and you’ve got an undocumented family,” Bates tweeted. “You do everything for your familia.”

Additional details revealed during the service seemed didn’t seem to add up. Several photographs that @Sciencing_Bi tweeted turned out to be stock photos. And while @Sciencing_Bi had been well-known online to many in the sci-comm community, it turned out that nobody had actually met her in real life—except for McLaughlin.

Others found it odd that there was no outside confirmation of @Sciencing_Bi’s death from ASU or a local obituary. “We have been looking into this for the last 24 hours and cannot verify any connection with the university,” ASU spokesperson Katie Paquet told BuzzFeed News on Monday. “We have been in touch with several deans and faculty members and no one can identify the account or who might be behind it. We also have had no one, such as a family member or friend, report a death to anyone at the university.” ASU also denied that there had been any salary cuts and said that, like most other educational institutions, the university had shut down in March and switched to online classes. By Sunday, Eisen and many others publicly acknowledged that they’d been had: the person they had known as @Sciencing_Bi had never existed.

Attention next turned to identifying the person behind the fake account. For Twitter sleuths, McLaughlin was the most obvious suspect. McLaughlin is a polarizing figure within the community after having risen to prominence as an advocate for victims of sexual harassment in STEM. She shared MIT Media Lab’s Disobedience Award in 2018 with biologist Sherry Marts and #MeToo movement founder Tarana Burke. She also founded #MeTooSTEM.

Twitter sleuths on the case

Melissa Bates tweet: “The weirdest sh*t went down.”

Jennifer Ouellette

Rachel Leingang tweets image of her email exchange with BethAnn McLaughlin.

Jennifer Ouellette

Isabel Ott tweet: “I have seen no credible evidence that this was a real person.”

Jennifer Ouellette

Isabel Ott tweet offering evidence of stock photos tweeted by @Sciencing_Bi.

Jennifer Ouellette

Screenshot of tweeted group photo in which @Sciencing_Bi was tagged, but not shown.

Jennifer Ouellette

Isabel Ott tweets “more stock photo weirdness.”

Jennifer Ouellette

Amber Barnard tweets screenshot of Google doc invite from McLauglin on behalf of @Sciencing_Bi.

Jennifer Ouellette

Isabel Ott tweet: “There is still no evidence that an ASU lecturer died last week.”

Jennifer Ouellette

Jacquelyn Gill tweet: “I’m now convinced @Sciencing_Bi was a fake account.”

Jennifer Ouellette

Shrew tweet: “A lack of credibility, consistency, and accountability, is a problem no matter who you are.”

Jennifer Ouellette

But allegations soon emerged that McLaughlin bullied and harassed others, especially people of color. She also faced accusations of a lack of transparency. The entire #MeTooSTEM board would eventually resign, leaving just McLaughlin herself and a single volunteer listed on the site.

Could McLaughlin actually have concocted the @Sciencing_Bi persona? There were strong hints this might be the case. For instance, a July 2018 tweet in which McLaughlin claimed to be with @Sciencing_Bi at Yosemite National Park was accompanied by a photograph, but the partially obscured person in the picture turned out to be McLaughlin’s daughter, not @Sciencing_Bi. (McLaughlin admitted as much to Gizmodo.)

@Sciencing_Bi was tagged in a group photo at a 2019 academic conference, along with several others, but she was not depicted in the photograph. Analytical chemist Amber Barnard tweeted about a 2019 exchange with @Sciencing_Bi when she volunteered to help with a campaign last year to get McLaughlin’s tenure restored at Vanderbilt University Medical Center. @Sciencing_Bi promised to send access to a Google doc, but when the invitation came, it was from McLaughlin’s account.

All of this is technically circumstantial evidence, of course. But most of those who were duped were soon convinced that McLaughlin was behind the account, even though she initially denied the allegations. Gizmodo’s Ed Cara spoke with McLaughlin on the telephone, reporting:

She stuck by her claim that @Sciencing_Bi had died from covid-19, as far as she knew. When I asked how she had learned of the death, she only would say that it was through a family contact. I then asked if she would be willing to reveal the identity of @Sciencing_Bi, and she said no. She also denied being the creator of the account. McLaughlin did admit, however, that she had access to the @Sciencing_Bi account, though she went on to state that it was not her who made the account private.

Her response to BuzzFeed was more succinct: “I’m not going to dox anyone. Thank you for your interest.” Now, of course, she has doxxed herself with her admission of guilt to The New York Times.

Both McLaughlin’s and Sciencing_Bi’s accounts were suspended late Sunday night by Twitter for violating the platform’s terms of use, and the Twitter account for MeTooSTEM has been slapped with a “suspicious activity” label. As BuzzFeed, Gizmodo, and Arizona Republic reporter Rachel Leingang all noted in their reporting, Twitter declined to elaborate further regarding the evidence on which its decision was based (e.g., whether there was any hard evidence linking the two accounts). McLaughlin has since been removed from the editorial board of the Journal of Neuroscience and no longer has access to the associated rogue joke account Twitter, according to editor in chief Marina Picciotto, a Yale neuroscientist.

The aftermath

Josh Fessel tweet: “No matter what the truth turns out to be, my heart is broken.”

Jennifer Ouellette

McLNeuro tweet: “I’m going to say something and be quiet.”

Jennifer Ouellette

McLNeuro tweet: “I’m in a position of privilege to be able to use my real name on a real account.”

Jennifer Ouellette

McLNeuro tweet: “It will likely get worse before it gets better.”

Jennifer Ouellette

Screenshot showing @Sciencing_Bi account suspension notice.

Jennifer Ouellette

Screenshot showing @McLNeuro account suspension notice.

Jennifer Ouellette

Screenshot showing #MeTooSTEM account temporarily restricted notice.

Jennifer Ouellette

Rachel Leingang reporting Twitter’s confirmation of the suspension.

Jennifer Ouellette

Marina Picciotto tweet: “BethAnn is no longer on the editorial board of the Journal of Neuroscience.”

Jennifer Ouellette

Michael Eisen’s screen cap of McLaughlin’s admission of guilt.

Jennifer Ouellette

It might be surprising that so many smart people fell for what, in retrospect, seems to be a fairly obvious hoax. But the online science community has a long history of incorporating pseudonymous personas going back to the earliest days of science blogging, when many scientists—especially those without tenure—wanted to avoid being penalized by their departments for blogging. (I still occasionally think of science writer Bethany Brookshire by her early pseudonym, Scicurious.) So the inclination to give someone the benefit of the doubt for using a pseudonym was already established. All McLaughlin needed, according to Eisen, was plausibility, a connection, and a good hook to gain the community’s trust. The @Sciencing_Bi persona had all three elements.

“It’s not like we don’t know there are trolls and sock puppets, etc.,” Eisen told Ars. “But this account was good. It had a backstory. It had a reason for being a pseud that we all accepted easily because we understand how people who aren’t straight feel in a tenuous position with regard to employment, and a pseud is a natural for them. We also saw that people we know exist said they knew her. That was enough to pretty quickly elevate this person to reality. She just seemed like one of us.”

The account was so convincing that nobody who interacted with her on Twitter thought to verify her various claims, many of which were easily checked. For example, Eisen admitted that he naively took @Sciencing_Bi’s word for odd claims like the 15 percent paycut from ASU. “I was willing to excuse various idiosyncrasies of the account because I could chalk them up to her not being totally forthcoming in order to protect her identity,” he said. “Plenty of people either obscure or fake their institutional affiliations to maintain anonymity.”

But why?

McLaughlin’s motives for creating the sock puppet account are also puzzling to many. Here, one can only speculate. But attention on social media is a form of capital in its own right; we’ve all experienced the occasional rush of dopamine from a positive online interaction—or the shot of adrenaline when our sense of outrage is triggered. In McLaughlin’s case, it seems she sought to counter criticism for her alleged harassment of people of color by creating an indigenous sock puppet—a cool bisexual Hopi scientist—to defend her.

“‘I have POC friends’ is a line used across the racist spectrum, but inventing your POC friend is next level,” a researcher and organizer who frequently deals with misinformation, but asked not to be identified, told Ars.

McLaughlin also may have derived satisfaction from manufacturing a series of personal crises for @Sciencing_Bi in order to provoke an outpouring of sympathy without having to reveal her true self. The New York Times article quotes psychiatrist Dr. Marc Feldman, who specializes in what he has dubbed “Munchausen by internet.” This is the virtual version of Munchausen syndrome by proxy—and a behavior that he is seeing more of during the ongoing pandemic. “I think it happens online more than offline these days because it’s so easy to mislead people via social media,” Feldman told The New York Times. “Nobody wants to be near a Covid-19 sufferer so they say, ‘We can’t meet.’ There’s no way to arrange a face-to-face meeting.”

Ultimately, McLaughlin’s fatal mistake was the decision to kill off her @Sciencing_Bi persona and make false, easily disproven accusations against ASU. That drew the attention of actual ASU faculty members on Twitter, among others, who quickly weighed in to correct the record and sparked widespread suspicion. Twitter drama may be most effective when it’s relevant to the current sociopolitical discourse, but too much relevance risks real scrutiny—and the @Sciencing_Bi persona wasn’t created to withstand such scrutiny.

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newtothewaywardparty · 6 years

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The Ghost of an Idea 6

A/N-So, I’m still very new to writing fan fiction, and I’m not 100% on the formatting, etc. But the last thing I would want to do is inadvertently hurt someone. So some warnings. If you are familiar with the Dickens source text, you’ll know, this chapter is the worst because it has to be the bleakest vision of the future that inspires the character change. So I had to be really, really mean to our boys. I based the vision of Cas on Future!Cas but bleaker. So: implied drug abuse, multiple sexual partners, dubious consent, vampire/blood play, Dominant tones (not like consensual loving D/s dynamic but like Cas is an abusive asshole) I don’t like it but I had to make it so horrible Dean wouldn’t like it either!

Also this is the most explicit thing I’ve ever written and it’s a) horrible and b) not that explicit, but probably a Mature rating? Rated R? YMMV (do the youths on the interwebs still say that?)

Also, it’s like the chapter where Scrooge sees what happens when he dies so, like, major character death? But the good news is, it’s short and it’s temporary (’cause it’s like a dream/vision) and the happy stuff is coming up next! That said, I probably didn’t catch all possible warnings in this series. Proceed with caution. On with the story!

Read Stave One: Bobby’s Ghost, Part 1

Read Stave Two: Bobby’s Ghost, Part 2

Read Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits, Part 1

Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits, Part 2

Stave Three: The Second of the Three Spirits

Stave Four: The Last of the Spirits

Billie stalked across the field towards Dean, her face grim. Silent, she stopped an arm’s length from him. Dean swallowed nervously. “So...ghost of Christmas future?” he asked. Billie nodded once, tersely. Wordlessly, she turned and strode away.

Dean hustled to follow, finding himself strangely unnerved by Billie. He had been in her presence before, but their little ‘talk’ then had been more collegiate. Something about her manner during this rodeo had Dean’s legs trembling in her presence. She was clearly not Billie, here for a chat. This was Death, and don’t you dare forget it, mister.

“C’mon, Billie,” Dean attempted weakly. “I never expected the silent treatment from you, of all the women in my life.” The lame attempt at humor fell like a stone in the freezing air.

Billie halted so suddenly Dean found himself running into her black leather duster. She turned enough for him to see the whites of her eyes. She jerked her head once, urging him on.“Fine,” Dean muttered. “Let’s get this show on the fucking road” he said, and followed her without further question.

As they walked, the surrounding wheat field stubble grew and transformed until they walked through the interior of a dive bar. Dean looked at the row of barstools, occupied by plaid-and-boot-clad hunters. Some at the long wooden bar he recognized, others were strangers.

Billie stopped near a cluster of three men near the jukebox. A stained glass light above them shed a beam of light that made their features harsh and grotesque. Dean drew close to listen.

“No,” said a large man with numerous chins. “I don’t know much about it, either. I just know he’s dead.”

“When did he die” asked a young man with olive skin and a teenager’s scruff.

“Last night, I believe.”

“What got him?” asked a third, taking a long draw from the mug of beer in front of him. “I thought he’d never die.” The ginger hunter’s milky eyes were beady and deep-set, and shifted side to side as he spoke.

“Same,” said the first man, with a yawn.

“What happened to all his gear?” asked the young teen, greasy black hair obscuring his greedy eyes.

“I haven’t heard,” said chins, yawning again. “Left it to his brother, I guess. He didn’t leave it to us. That’s all I know.” The gathered hunters laughed weakly. “In any case,” the big man continued. “It’s gonna be a small wake.” He looked around at the gathered audience, flushed with the attention he was now receiving. “Who’d go to it? Unless the drinks are on the house? Amiright?”

“I don’t mind going if there’s food,” admitted beady eyes, who had a narrow jaw and a prominent blonde brow, “but I think their pet angel and its freak kid’ll be there.” Another laugh met this proclamation.

Dean balled his fists. What a bunch of assholes, talking about Cas and Jack like that. “Enough.” Dean firmly said. “I’ve seen the damn movie. It’s not a mystery who they’re talking about. You can skip the dramatic cemetery reveal. I just don’t see why I should care what these losers think, anyway.”

Billie fixed him with another mute stare and beckoned with a perfectly manicured nail on her hand not holding the scythe. Dean shuddered under her stare, then shuffled along behind her with trepidation.She led them down a sour-smelling damp hallway to the bar’s bathrooms, which transformed around him to the tiled hallways of the bunker. All the rooms’ doors were open, and strange voices echoed throughout the hallways. Anxious, Dean quickened his pace, but ground to a sudden halt when he entered the library.

Dozens of hunters had invaded their bunker. Boxes were strewn about with writing in marker on them, writing which Dean recognized as Sam’s. Weapons covered the table, each with a tag attached. A pile of clothes sat in one corner, plaid shirts, jeans, and shoes all laid out in neat rows on a blanket. A large poster advertised Men of Letters artifacts and magical items, with photos and list prices, while the actual items remained locked safely away.

In the milling crowd disinterestedly handling his personal stuff, Dean spotted his gargantuan brother, face still as he walked through the crowd. As he moved among the other hunters, he occasionally stopped to answer a question, or accept a word of sympathy, a hand on the arm, or an exchange of cash. His eyes remained distant, never meeting anyone else’s directly. Dean could see Sam’s jaw muscle twitching intermittently from across the room.

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. His skin broke out in a thin sheen of cold sweat. “Sam?” he asked, hoarsely. “Why would you do this, Sam?” Dean grabbed Billie’s arm. “What the fuck, Billie?!” He tried to turn her to face him, but her face was as cold and still as stone. “Why is Sam selling my stuff?”

Billie actually opened her mouth to reply, but just then a terrible thought pierced Dean like an icicle through his heart. He sprinted, faster than he had ever humped it through the woods at night on a hunt, to the bunker’s garage.

He crashed through the door, his legs protesting and chest burning. There sat Baby, sleek and black. A silver-haired female hunter sat smugly in the driver’s seat, running her hand appreciatively across the dash. Outside the open door, a line of hunters were waiting for their chance to check her out. Dean approached, heartsick, until he was close enough to read the sign on her windshield. “$18,000 OBO” read the sign, again in Sam’s hand. Dean craned his neck, searching the garage. All the cars and motorcycles had similar signs. What. The. Fuck.

Dean shuffled back through the hall, heedless of the hunters and Billie. On autopilot, his feet carried him to the kitchen, where he had always found comfort. No strangers sullied this sanctum. Cas and Jack were there, though. They were huddled around a large table in the middle of the room where a body lay covered with a white sheet. Cas’ face was drawn and seemed paler than normal. Jack’s was open and caught between curiosity and confusion.

“But why is Sam leaving the bunker?” Jack was asking.

Cas pinched his nose between his long, beautiful fingers. “He’s grieving, Jack. The other times Dean…” Cas took a deep breath, then continued. “Sam wants out of the life. This is the end of the road for him.”

Jack cocked his head searchingly towards Cas. “And what about us?”

Cas’ shoulders slumped. He didn’t answer. Jack drew a breath to ask another question, but just then Cas slipped his trenchcoat off his shoulders. His mouth a grim line, he grasped the two tails and split it cleanly in two.

Jack’s face registered the same shock Dean felt. Cas did not relent. He used his angelic strength to rip the trench into long shreds. He then took the strips of fabric and bound the body on the table. He started with the feet and worked his way up. He didn’t pause in his work. When he reached the corpse’s head his hands hesitated, hovering over the sheet with tenderness. For a second Dean feared seeing his own dead body, but Cas pulled away at the last second. With resolve, he tied the head and torso with the last strips of his tattered tan garment.

Dean turned away from the scene, cheeks wet. He remembered doing the same for Cas, not so long ago. Billie materialized in the kitchen doorway. She crooked a single finger and Dean followed her, feet fumbling as his vision blurred with tears.

The bunker hallway dissolved into a darkened living room. Peeling floral wallpaper exposed moldy plaster. Piles of unidentifiable fabric lay in heaps on rough floorboards. A small camp stove sat, cold, in the middle of the room. Dean had never been here before, but he recognized it instantly. This was a nest.

Dean’s senses shifted into high alert, despite not really being here-here. He was in hunter mode, alert for danger. So he wasn’t startled when a figure shambled into the room. It was Cas, but not as Dean had ever known or seen him. The closest approximation Dean could think of was the future vision of 2014 Castiel he had seen at Camp Chitaqua. This Cas wasn’t all crystals and hemp-oil and linen, though. He was bearded, with long hair, and dressed in ratty jeans with a dirty t-shirt. He clutched a bottle of tequila in one hand and twirled a knife in the other. His eyes were unfocused, restless, and he looked around the room a bit as if searching for something before flopping into an orange corduroy recliner.

Cas was still for so long, Dean was sure he had passed out or nodded off, at the very least. But when a figure slunk in the back door to the kitchen, Cas’ eyes opened instantly. Now alert and gripping his knife at the ready, he looked every inch of the warrior of heaven he had once been.

“That was a waste of time,” said a woman, shrugging out of a ankle-length down coat. She unwrapped the scarf covering her face and head and shook out her brown braids. She looked Cas up and down scathingly. “I see Vernon’s still not back.” Cas narrowed his eyes at her. She returned his glare and anted up an eyebrow raise of her own. “Heaven’s all abuzz,” she continued in a breathy tone that reminded Dean uncomfortably of Meg. “Seems Jack’s been busting heads among the grey suits, working his way up the ladder.”

Cas took a long draw of tequila, wincing at the burn before acknowledging her words. “Kid’s not my problem anymore.”

“Don’t I know it,” she said, pulling a mustard-yellow sweater off smoothly over her head and tossing it onto one of the piles on the floor. “But it seems he thinks your his.” She unbuttoned her jeans and pulled those off as well. Dean’s mouth feel open at her casual disrobing; their obvious intimacy. She stood in a black camisole and greying cotton underwear, hands on her hips as she regarded Cas. He studiously ignored her. “He’s getting closer. I’d hate for him to find out where you are.” she added, not at all sounding sorry about that prospect.

Cas finally looked into her eyes. “I’ll give you what you want, Mariah.” His voice was cold and harsh.

She nodded, looking eager now. She walked up to him and stood in the vee between his spread legs. He raised his hands and rested them on her thick thighs. “But my price remains the same.” Cas said simply, voice soft yet somehow threatening. Dean found himself recoiling at the veiled threat in the words.

Mariah’s mouth fell open. “I’m the one doing you a favor!” she protested. “You give me some grace, and our brothers and sisters, including your freak stepson, can’t sense you.” She popped out a hip, indignant.

Cas gave her a predatory smile. “And the fact that you, a graceless, fallen angel on the cusp of death, need my borrowed grace to survive…” he trailed off, raising both hands in a shrug. “That’s just a bonus?” He slumped back in the chair. “No. I don’t think so. Payment’s the same. If you want it, work for it.” His voice was hard, the syllables clipped.

Mariah’s eyes burned him, but she sank to her knees in front of him, hands on his jean-clad thighs. She mouthed at his fly and Cas’ eyes fluttered shut. He slugged more liquor as she inched his zipped down and began drawing his cock out into the frigid air of the abandoned house.

Dean stood frozen in place, unable to process the scene in front of him. Cas was so desperately broken. So cruel. At the same time, this was the first time Dean had seen Cas’ cock and it was distracting as hell. He was simultaneously aroused and heartbroken and scared. Whatever was going on here, Cas was clearly not okay. Dean wanted to help, but knew this was just a vision; what could he do?

The sounds of Mariah’s blow job became even more distracting when Cas’ moans of pleasure joined them in the silent night air. Dean actually closed his eyes and grit his teeth to prevent becoming more turned on than he already was. This was not the time or place. Luckily, the proceedings were soon interrupted by another party entering the little clubhouse of horror.

“Honey, I’m home!” called a cloying voice. A tall man with light brown hair entered the room, and looked entirely unfazed at the scene of Cas and Mariah in flagrante delicto. “I cannot believe you two started the Christmas party without me!” Cas’ eyes flew open and he gave the man a withering look. Mariah pulled off with a soft pop and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Don’t start, Vern. He’s in A Mood,” she pouted, sitting back on her heels. The intruder shrugged, flinging off his leather jacket.

“I told you not to mention that stupid pagan rip-off fake commercial holiday to me,” Cas said haughtily. His words were harsh but there was no fire behind them. In fact, he seemed to regard Vernon with something approaching affection, taking in his long, bowed legs and lightly freckled cheeks in a weighty stare. Cas didn’t seem embarrassed at his erect cock sticking out of his jeans.

“Whatever” scoffed Vernon. He pitched his voice conspiratorially to Mariah. “He gets like this every year. It’s because of Dean.” This last word stretched into a few singsong syllables. Mariah looked interested.

“Was that his name?” She reached a hand forward to touch Cas’ thigh again, almost tender, but he shoved her away, pretty harshly, in fact, which surprised Dean. Cas was staring at Vernon. Dean gulped. He expected Cas’ eyes to burn blue, for this Vern to get smote into the next county, but no angelic light burned bright. Instead Cas growled, “I told you I never wanted to hear that name come out of your fucking mouth ever again.”

Vern gave Cas a cocky smile. “Guess you’d better shut me up, then,” he said, his suggestive intent crystal clear. Faster than Dean’s eyes could track, Cas rose from the chair without warning and crossed the distance to Vern in a couple of quick strides, shoving him back on a mattress littering the floor. Dean’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of Cas just absolutely wrecking Vern, hands and mouth all over him. It would be hot as hell if it weren’t disturbing and wrong and sad. After a few moments, Mariah walked over to join them on the mattress, the three of their bodies entwining in a routine that was clearly well-practiced. Dean couldn’t stand this. He pressed his eyes shut and breathed deeply, trying to block out the sounds of wet skin slapping together, the moans and grunts from the dirty pallet on the floor. He felt cold metal at his jaw and opened his eyes. Billie’s scythe rest along his face. She did not look absent of compassion as she used the blade to nudge his face back toward the scene in front of him. Why did she want him to watch this? What kind of sick fuck did she take him for?

Just then, Vern opened his mouth, which was was pressed against Cas’ neck, and Dean understood what he was still meant to see. Dean caught a flash of two rows of sharply pointed teeth just before Vernon clamped down on Cas’ neck, drawing blood. Dean darted forward on impulse, fists balling instinctively to beat the vamp off his angel. The flat of Billie’s blade rest against his chest as she yanked him back with it, freezing his body in place with her power. Seconds later, Cas climaxed with a guttural groan and a blue flash of grace shifted from him to both Vern and Mariah, and they followed suit.

As the three lovers sunk, limp, away from one another into the mattress, Dean turned away once again, sickened. Dean had his answer now. He had always protected his own heart. He knew how to survive loss and grief. He never thought about how Cas would respond; how he would cope with a broken heart.

Dean’s eyes found Billie’s and he whispered, “undo this.” He took her black leather lapels in his hands, dug his fingers in and begged. “I don’t care about my own life, but you can not do this to Cas.”

Billie shook her head slowly. “I didn’t do this to him, Dean. You did.”

Dean sank to his knees in front of Death, still clutching her coat reflexively. “I promise. I’ll do right by him, Billie. I won’t hide anymore.” Dean realized he was shouting desperately. “I’ll try. I’ll be brave. I’m not afraid anymore.” Dimly, he realized he was sobbing rather than speaking. He leaned his head forward to rest it on Billie’s feet, but his head hit the ground, and her jacket was empty in his hands. Dean lifted it to his face, repeating “I’m not afraid anymore,” over and over again, until he realized the material wasn’t worn leather but the scratchy faded blue acrylic of the motel bed’s blanket.

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Scion of wealthy NYC family, Morgenthau was DA for decades

NEW YORK (AP) — He seemed almost like he was out of Central Casting — tall and patrician, with a cultivated above-the-fray presence. And in fact, former Manhattan District Attorney Robert M. Morgenthau inspired some television casting of his own, as the model for the avuncular character of prosecutor Adam Schiff, played by actor Steven Hill on the long-running television series, “Law and Order.”

“Law & Order” creator Dick Wolf called Morgenthau “the greatest district attorney in the history of New York.”

Morgenthau, who died Sunday at 99, just 10 days before turning 100, spent nearly half his life jailing criminals from mob kingpins and drug-dealing killers to a tax-dodging Harvard dean.

He served as U.S. Attorney for New York’s southern district during the Kennedy and Johnson administrations, returned to law enforcement as Manhattan’s top state prosecutor in 1974 and didn’t leave for 35 years, with his office handling around 100,000 criminal cases yearly.

In 2005, at age 86, Morgenthau was elected for the eighth and last time, turning back a challenge from Leslie Crocker Snyder, a popular former state judge who tried without success to turn his age and lengthy tenure into campaign issues.

He was 90 when he stepped down from office in 2009, throwing his support to his eventual successor Cy Vance.

“I looked at my birth certificate, and I said, ‘It’s about time,’” he told The Associated Press at the time of his retirement.

In his position at the forefront of Manhattan’s legal and political scene, Morgenthau was widely acknowledged by allies and foes alike as effective, nonpartisan and incorruptible.

Under Morgenthau’s watch, New York County prosecutors took on many high-profile cases: political payoffs by mob boss Anthony “Tony Ducks” Corallo, the shooting of four black youths by white subway gunman Bernhard Goetz, the weapons-possession arrest of hip-hop mogul Sean “Diddy” Combs.

Over the years, Morgenthau’s office also prosecuted mob boss John Gotti, acquitted on state charges of ordering a hit on a union official, and former Tyco CEO L. Dennis Kozlowski, convicted of fraud and larceny in a case seen as an emblem of corporate excess. The office also produced guilty pleas from “Preppie Killer” Robert Chambers Jr. and John Lennon’s killer, Mark David Chapman.

Morgenthau, who had claimed a 97% conviction rate while U.S. attorney, lost the Combs case, but in the late 1990s, his state DA’s office was winning guilty verdicts in three of four cases.

However, Morgenthau insisted that convictions weren’t everything.

“The prosecutor’s job is to protect the public and to administer the laws,” Morgenthau once said, deriding district attorneys who collected convictions like “notches on a gun.”

That premise was put to the test in the Central Park jogger case, one of the most sensational prosecutions handled by his office. Thirteen years after a female jogger was attacked in the infamous gang “wilding” spree, Morgenthau asked a judge in 2002 to throw out the convictions of five men because DNA evidence and another man’s confession put them into question.

Morgenthau was born into a wealthy, prominent New York family. His grandfather, Henry Morgenthau Sr., was U.S. ambassador to the Ottoman Empire during World War I, and his father, Henry Morgenthau Jr., was secretary of the treasury under President Franklin D. Roosevelt, a family friend.

His childhood reflected his lineage. Morgenthau had a lifelong friendship with members of the Kennedy clan; he once cooked hot dogs with Eleanor Roosevelt for Great Britain’s King George VI; on another occasion he prepared a mint julep for Winston Churchill.

He joined the U.S. Navy one day after graduating Amherst College in 1941 and spent 4 ½ years in the service during World War II, earning the rank of lieutenant commander while seeing action aboard destroyers in the Mediterranean and the Pacific.

After the war, Morgenthau earned a law degree from Yale and joined a New York law firm headed by former U.S. secretary of war Robert P. Patterson.

In 1960, Morgenthau campaigned in New York for his friend and fellow Democrat, John F. Kennedy. The next year, the new president named him to the prestigious post of U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York, the nation’s busiest such office.

Morgenthau resigned after 17 months to run for governor against incumbent Republican Nelson Rockefeller. After his defeat in a disastrous campaign in 1962, Morgenthau was reappointed federal prosecutor by Kennedy.

Morgenthau developed a reputation for targeting white-collar criminals. In 1963, his office successfully prosecuted former Harvard law school dean James M. Landis for tax evasion. More than 40 years later, as state district attorney he convicted Kozlowski and a subordinate of looting Tyco of $600 million.

Morgenthau was forced out as federal prosecutor in January 1970 by President Richard M. Nixon after months of resisting political pressure to resign. He briefly joined Mayor John Lindsay’s administration as a deputy mayor, then waged another losing gubernatorial race before leaving the public eye for the next four years, engaged in private law practice.

In 1974, Manhattan District Attorney Frank Hogan resigned due to health problems after 32 years on the job. Morgenthau then launched his first successful run for public office.

Over the next quarter-century, Morgenthau was elected another seven times as head of one of the nation’s largest law offices, with 550 prosecutors and 700 other staffers. Among prominent figures who served in the office was the late John F. Kennedy Jr., U.S. Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor and Snyder, who ran against him in 2005.

Snyder mounted a vigorous campaign in which she pointed out that “Law & Order” had three district attorneys in 17 years on the air whereas Morgenthau had served alone for 30. The New York Times agreed that “three decades is more than enough time for any executive to accomplish his or her mission,” but that endorsement did not help Snyder overcome his advantage at the polls.

In addition to jailing Goetz in the 1984 wounding of four black youths who tried to rob him on a subway train, Morgenthau’s notable convictions included a crack dealer who killed the son of AOL Time-Warner head Gerald Levin; the murderous mother-and-son grifter team, Sante and Kenneth Kimes Jr.; and seven youths who killed a Utah tourist in a subway mugging in 1990.

His civic work included a relationship with the Police Athletic League that dates to 1962, and his position as chairman of the Museum of Jewish Heritage, which opened in 1997.

He collected a variety of awards and honors, including the Citation of Merit from Yale Law School and the Thomas Jefferson Award in Law from the University of Virginia.

Morgenthau was survived by his wife, Pulitzer Prize-winning reporter Lucinda Franks, and seven children. His first wife, the former Martha Pattridge, died of cancer in 1972.

___

Former Associated Press writer Larry McShane contributed to this report.

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