But when he was finally released Caesar found that the world of the outlaw motorcycle gangs was changing, and that his particular values of courage, brutal force and utter loyalty to your club were making him more enemies than friends.And with Caesar Campbell you'd rather be a friend than an enemy...

    Most of us will never find ourselves on a psychiatrist's couch and yet our lives would be perilous if we did not make space for our mental health. In this space, we can hold up a mirror and acknowledge our search for meaning. By going to the room, life becomes more resourceful and rewarding. In showing up there, we show up for life itself.'Jim Lucey has been working for more than 25 years with patients suffering from mental health problems. When people at their most vulnerable present to his room at St Patrick's University Hospital, Dublin, they reveal their fears, traumas, and very real human predicaments. Most of the assessments described in this book took place in this room. While the patients' stories are diverse, one common theme emerges - that of recovery. The psychiatrist and patients show us that recovery is possible, if we can find a way to engage.Many of us find it difficult to speak of the mind, and care of the mind requires an ability to listen and to reflect. This inspiring book will give you many moments of reflection as you journey with Jim's patients towards recovery, and will restore your faith in the human experience.'Using the art of clinical storytelling, Professor Lucey allows us to enter his room - an extraordinary space where theory informs practice and practice informs theory ... In My Room provides valuable insights that will benefit every human being interested in better understanding mental health. This is a beautiful book that should be read out loud at times, shared with others, and openly discussed' Charlotte R. Shore, RN, BSN, Newton Wellesley Hospital, USA and David A. Shore, PhD, Harvard University

    She watched as John Kennedy was murdered in the streets below. Then, with a co-worker in tow, she ran down the back stairs of the building in order to get outside and determine what had happened... [Product description from Amazon.com]

    Once the old, cantankerous Sam Clevenger and his wife, Charlotte, hired Frank Willson and John Johnson to help with the move, their fate took a dark turn. These true events were documented by journalists through the 1887 trial and well into the 1900s, and stories have been told of Sam’s unfound treasure for nearly 130 years. But, this is the first detailed, documented, and vetted account of their bizarre and fascinating tale.

    Why did she get acquitted? Why did the jurors see George as a suspect? Why did they think she was a good mother? And how on God's green earth did they miss the suffocation search? There are surprisingly good answers for all of these questions. I argue in this book that not only did the prosecution hide evidence from the jury, but that the evidence points to Casey being factually innocent as well. Regardless of whether you agree with my viewpoint, I guarantee you'll learn something you didn't know before about this infamous case.

    In September 1970, two boys met in the playground on their first day at secondary school in North London. They formed what would be described at the Old Bailey thirty years later as ‘a unique and wicked bond’. Between 1982 and 1986, striking near lonely railway stations in London and the Home Counties, their partnership took them from rape to murder. Three police forces pooled their resources to catch them in the biggest criminal manhunt since the Yorkshire Ripper Enquiry.A Dangerous Place is the first full-length account of the crimes of John Duffy and David Mulcahy. Told by the son of one of the police officers who led the enquiry, exhaustively researched and with unprecedented access, this is the story of two of the most notorious serial killers of the twentieth century and the times they operated in. It is the story of the women who died at their hands. It is the story of the women who survived them, and who had the courage to ensure justice was done. And it is the story of a father, told by a son.

    The spate of murders in 1993 touched many more lives than just the three victims. All of Melbourne was gripped with fear, as Frankston and surrounding suburbs were flooded with police hunting the serial killer of three young women. It began on June 11 when Elizabeth Stevens was murdered on her way home from the library. On July 8, Debbie Fream who'd left her 12-day-old baby with a friend while she dashed out for milk, was abducted and killed. Three weeks later, Year 12 student, Natalie Russell, was brutally murdered on her way home from school. When Paul Denyer, an odd young man, was arrested the day after Natalie's body was found, the police and public were shocked by his lack of emotion. Denyer, who was only 21-years-old, spoke of the three young women with contempt as he described their final moments. Their deaths had simply fuelled his bloodlust. Eleven years later, just as the public's memory of the Frankston murders began to fade, convicted serial killer, Paul Denyer, made front-page news with his quest to become a woman. The Frankston Murders: 25 years on details the shocking crimes and explores the lingering effects of what Denyer did. Now 25-years-old, Debbie Fream's son Jake speaks for the first time about the loss of his mother. And Carmel and Brian Russell share their dream for Denyer's ongoing incarceration, as the killer of their child will be eligible to apply for parole for the first time in 2023.

    We are then forced to re-live the moments we have spent decades burying beneath amicable smiles and a false sense of security. This is my story; one shrouded in as much truth as my mind can tolerate. My story may mean nothing to you, but I believe, that if these words were to fall into the right hands, then they could have the potential to change someone’s life, someone’s mind. At a young age I learned what it meant to carry the scorching secrets of a fiery hell. For years I allowed the flames to consume my mind as I proceeded to live a life devoted to destruction and chaos. I blamed my mother. I blamed the men that raped me. I blamed the woman that refused to love me back. But when the smoke cleared, the mirror on the wall only painted a single reflection, that of myself. So, when the big bad wolf no longer blows, yet the house still falls, who will I have to blame then? Only me.

    A lot of people today seek ways to retain and improve their memory and there is no better way to improve aside from these exercises. Just as the body needs physical exercises in order to function optimally, the brain needs to be exercised as well to prevent it from becoming sluggish. Get to know these fun and challenging exercises, do them and experience improved brain and memory function.

    With honesty and insight, Holly Alastra recounts growing up in a violent and abusive home and her later struggles with deadly eating disorders. Though Holly spent many years of her life hating and hurting herself, the story is ultimately inspirational, showing the ability of the human spirit to triumph over hardship and misfortune. The book opens with Holly in the throes of a passionate, yet dangerous love affair with food. Food is her greatest friend and her worst enemy—a fatal attraction. Holly tries to run from the affair, but she can't escape herself, the one person she wants to get away from most.

    But he becomes increasingly haunted by childhood ghosts and by the ever-growing influence of Danny, his psychopathic partner in crime. Billy finds himself starting to look beyond the violence and the scams, slowly descending into a drug-fuelled netherworld that affects his judgment and his perceptions. He is finally tipped over the edge when Danny commits an act even Billy cannot stomach. And that's when things really start to go wrong. This explosive first novel from a reformed career criminal comes with authenticity stamped throughout.

    DiMaggio, one of the most decorated officers on the force during a career that spanned the years 1957 to 1991. Among his awards are two Superintendent’s Awards of Valor, Mayor Richard J. Daley’s Praiseworthy Acknowledgment Plaque for Exceptional Act of Bravery Involving Risk of Life, a Presidential Citation of Appreciation, the Illinois Police Association Award of Valor, and many more.Upon his retirement in 1991, DiMaggio wrote a fascinating account of his work as a cop. The manuscript languished among his personal effects until after his death in 2008, after which his family decided to resurrect it, spruce it up, and submit it for publication. It turns out that he was an excellent word craftsman and storyteller; in fact, he was no stranger to writing—for many years he wrote the “Ask Sarge” column for the Mystery Writers of America Midwest Chapter newsletter.Told in a conversational, “regular guy” voice in episodic fashion, “SARGE!” reveals to the reader what it was really like to be a cop. The manuscript in many ways takes the form of a prose treatment of a weekly television police drama. A large selection of PHOTOS is included.DiMaggio takes the reader back to the decades such as the turbulent 1960s, when the police department was making a painful transition from “old school” to modernization. The author describes firsthand the legendary riots that occurred in Chicago after the assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. He illustrates the integration of minorities into the department and how that played out. He also goes into famous cases of corruption and the politics of navigating such a large department. One of the “set pieces” of the book is the story of how DiMaggio, as part of the “Three Musketeers”—a trio that included two detectives who were close friends—investigated a series terrifying slasher attacks on women that occurred in the city in the mid-70s. The case became one of the police department’s most memorable. Among the other cases detailed in the book include how DiMaggio found himself entering the home of a crazed young man holding hostages with a shotgun; the investigation of the discovery of a headless corpse; the take-down of the Chicago “Mad Bomber”; how an anonymous audio tape provided clues to the identities of armed robbers; and the manhunt for a cop killer. A portion of all proceeds will be donated to The Chicago Police Memorial Foundation and The Chicago Police Foundation.

    There, an insular community of Satmar Hasidim shirk the Internet, the president and the rules of secular America, even hiding crimes within the community from police and the courts. The narrative centers on two women—the traditional heroine, a young and beautiful newlywed, who challenged her community's rules and her abuser's many supporters to throw him behind bars, and the abuser’s wife, who continues to stand beside her husband and profess his innocence. Convicted sex abuser Nechemya Weberman's 103-year sentence was a record for a Hasidic man in a Brooklyn court and a victory for Brooklyn’s longtime district attorney, who had been accused of cowtowing to religious leaders. The story also provides a rare glimpse into the cloistered Satmar Hasidic community, which claims to be the world's largest ultra-Orthodox group with 150,000 followers worldwide. Cover designed by Evan Twohy.

    When your heart breaks, there's nothing more comforting than realizing that you aren't alone—that others can relate to the gut-wrenching pain of saying good-bye to a relationship that once felt so right. Each of us is bound to enter into a relationship or two that doesn't work out, but that doesn't make those months or years spent caring for an ex a total failure. Every heartbreak is a chance to learn, grow, and heal.

     As a child, I was known as "Jessica Pelley." When I was nine, I went to a sleepover at a friend's house for the weekend. While I was away, my entire family was murdered. I would spend the next 30 years fighting, crawling, and clawing my way through the darkness. This wasn't just a national news headline, a cold case, or a true crime show. It was my family. And my life. I was the broken little girl left behind to tell this story. I am now "Jessi," in the pages of this unapologetic memoir, set free. *** JESSI - APRIL 29, 2016 April 29, 1989. A date I cannot forget. Numbers forever seared deep into my soul. It was 27 years ago, today. Jesus. Get a grip, Jessi. They’re just numbers. They don’t mean anything. You’re giving them power over you, again. That’s what I tell myself. But the numbers—those damn numbers—they haunt me. They always will. I cannot escape them. Not now. Not ever. For most people, dates are just numbers on a calendar. No big deal. Random markers of time affixed to the top left corner of small, white squares on a page to depict days filled with choices, chances, and opportunities. At least that’s what they are for the normal people. But I’m no longer one of them. For me, they serve as numeric reminders of the girl I used to be. A tragedy that would irrevocably and mercilessly alter the life of a little girl wearing dark blue jeans, canvas lace-up sneakers, and a white tee shirt, accessorized by prominent coke bottle glasses, her hair hanging in a messy bob. Her life would be forever dismantled. Gone. The moment they told me the words. The ones that I will never forget. At that moment, my life froze and shattered into pieces, splintering like bits of broken glass, dropping down onto the ground around me, like the remnants of a cracked windshield, falling fast before the spinning mind and broken heart of a wide-eyed little girl. Life, as I knew it, was over in that moment. What happened on April 29, 1989, has scarred me forever. A day that started out normally, before it became ensnared in marred memories, tucked between folds of tragedy and darkness. The lingering memories cut straight to the core of the hollow girl left behind. The darkness delivers itself to me, every year, on schedule. Steadily. Greedily. On the 29th day of April. Relentless. Haunting. It taunts the pieces of me that remain. Every single year. I try to lift myself out of the darkness. I tell myself the numbers shouldn’t matter. Not after 27 years have passed. Jessi, It’s just another day. You can do anything you want with it. Don’t slip into the darkness. But not even the voice in my head believes those lies I tell myself. Year after year, my happiness recoils, my thoughts run to a dark place filled with foggy memories and a void that swallows me whole. The door of despair opens and I’m trapped: alone, numb to the bone, emotionally deplete, void of all reality, space, and time. I hate the helplessness as I slip further into that dark place. A place that, long ago, was filled with light. A place where three little girls would sing happy songs, pick flowers, hold hands while skipping through tall blades of grass, and sit down at the dining room table, where they would bow their heads to pray before plates filled with food, in a home filled with laughter. Then it hits me—the life-defining, self-inflicted images of horror—of their final moments—dragging me deep into the darkness.