Lorraine Whoberry felt like a criminal the day her daughter was murdered.
On January 29, 1999, Lorraine received a call at work from a law enforcement officer who informed her that she needed to go home, but refused to tell her why. She arrived to find her house surrounded by police and emergency vehicles, but still no one would give her any explanations. Not until more than an hour later did she learn from her fiancÉ that her daughter Stacie was dead and her daughter Kristie critically wounded.
Distraught, Lorraine demanded answers, but her questions continued to be ignored. Instead, she was ushered to a neighbor's house where police interrogated her for two and a half hours as they tried to determine her part, if any, in the crime.
"I felt belittled, unworthy, angry, and frustrated," says Lorraine. "I was being interrogated, but the questions I was asking were being ignored. It was as if I were the criminal."
When the detectives finally cleared her and allowed her to go to the hospital to see Kristie, the officers who drove her spoke about their families and plans for the weekend while she sat in shock in the back seat. At the hospital they headed to the farthest parking lot, never telling Lorraine they were avoiding media camped out at the main entrance. The receptionist popped her gum and said, "We ain't got nobody here by that name," in response to Lorraine's inquiries about her daughter. A manager arrived, only to ask Lorraine to wait a half hour for the shift change for a social worker.1