Poor Mojo's Newswire

"She hit me again, causing my vehicle to flip two and a half times, landing on the driver's side, and I just laid there playing dead," she said. Blackwell's mother says she'll never forget her daughter's reaction. "I got to her, she was crying, she was shaking, she says, 'Mama, this lady thinks I'm Casey Anthony and she tried to kill me," her mother said. Police chased Nalley for a while and finally arrested her for assault and battery with a deadly weapon. Nalley told police she was "trying to save the children." "She said that I was trying to hurt babies, I was killing babies and she was going to stop it before it happened again," Blackwell recalled. "She could have taken me away from my family, my daughter." Blackwell's daughter is also named Caylee -- the only thing Sammay said she has in common with Casey Anthony.

. . . I came home from work one day and unlocked the door as normal. What I found inside told a different story entirely. One of the hallway closets had been absolutely upended onto the floor but nothing else seemed obviously disturbed. There were a number of unsettling elements to my room, however. My underwear drawer was cracked open by just half an inch but I clearly remembered slamming it tightly shut in my rush to get to work on time. My mattress was at a slightly different angle than I remembered it. Despite all of these observations and a dark gnawing at my gut, I chalked everything up to my pair of unruly mischievous cats. There was nothing to steal and no sign of forced entry so I decided that I had to have been letting my imagination get the best of me. The alternative intruder theory was, quite frankly, too terrifying for me to even consider for too long. I didn’t really consider the fact that every single interaction I had with the building handy man had always signaled giant red flags. This man always seemed friendly but the way he complimented and always looked for an excuse to touch my body in some way always made me want to take a shower. It felt scuzzy and wrong but I felt obligated to be polite because he was the building handy man, after all. I didn’t want to piss off the person who did all of the repairs to my apartment but I never liked the fact that he had keys to every single unit. Our property manager was an old man who was in the late stages of cancer and it was clear that he positively adored and doted upon our handy man who spent long hours listening to his stories and making him sandwiches. It was out in the open that he got this job by going out of his way to be kind to the property manager. His post entitled him to free rent. Our landlord lived off site and had little-to-nothing to do with the actual operation of the building he owned. He didn’t even live in the same city. What I didn’t know that afternoon and for more than a month after the incident was the fact that I wasn’t alone. . . .