Eighteen-year-old Jim Morel was jogging one afternoon, not too long after the murder ordeal he had gone through with his childhood friends was over. He was out in the country air, running, trying to clear his mind.
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| Jim Morel |
Thinking about the future.
In his mind, Jim had turned on his friends. He wanted to forget about the past year and move on.
As he jogged near a secluded area of Norton, Massachusetts, a "big blue car," Jim described, pulled up behind, caught up to him, and stopped.
"Are you Jim Morel?" one of the two guys in the car asked. They were hulking men. Jim had never seen them before.
"Yeah, yeah ... why? What's up?" Jim was sweating. Out of breath.
Jim thought maybe they were old friends. It was getting late in the day. Pretty dark by this point. He couldn't really make out their faces.
According to Jim, however, they were not there to reminisce about the glory days of growing up outside Boston—they were there to hurt him.
Hurt him bad.
One of the guys, Jim said, ran toward him with a "kitchen knife" and started stabbing him in the arm.
"What the heck are you ..." Jim said. He was panicked.
Then the guy went for Jim's face.
He slashed.
And slashed again.
Feeling blood run down his face and arm, Jim took off as fast as he could into the nearby woods, literally running for his life.
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