Lori Vallow: Week One and Already Unhinged
Did we really except anything less? The week Lori got kicked out, exposed by her own brother, and tried to use her dead daughter as evidence.
THE DOOMSDAY MOM IS BACK AND SHE BROUGHT HER EGO
Lori Vallow Daybell is on trial again. Because apparently four murder convictions and a national media circus just weren’t enough courtroom time for America’s favorite apocalypse influencer. This time it’s Arizona. A fresh jury. A new conspiracy charge. A leftover murder plot aimed at her niece’s ex-husband. Brandon Boudreaux got shot at in his driveway and somehow we’re still pretending this is all just a misunderstanding.
And now Lori wants to represent herself. Yes, the same woman who called her children zombies and said she was sealed to her doomsday boyfriend in another dimension is now serving as her own legal counsel. She entered the courtroom like a spiritual attorney at law, armed with scripture and absolutely no legal training.
She interrupted the judge. She tried to introduce her own character testimony. She called herself courteous. The judge called her disruptive. When she wouldn’t stop talking in front of the jury, he turned to security and said it loud enough for everyone to hear. Take her out.
Not figuratively. Literally. Lori Vallow Daybell got kicked out of her own trial for being exactly who she is. And that was just day two.
DAY ONE: THE BULLET. THE JEEP. THE CULT NEXT DOOR.
Before the courtroom heard about gun barrels and cult tape, the jury had to meet the man at the center of it all. Brandon Boudreaux isn’t just a witness. He’s Lori Vallow Daybell’s former nephew-in-law. He was married to Melani Pawlowski, Lori’s niece and end-times ride-or-die, until everything cracked. One minute Melani was raising kids in a quiet Arizona neighborhood. The next she was telling Brandon he had been possessed by a demon named Nick Schneider. That’s not slang. That’s theology. In Lori’s world, if someone was labeled dark, their soul had been replaced. Their body was just a shell. And once you were just a shell, it was open season.
Brandon knew something was wrong. The vibes were off. The paranoia was building. He had already gone to the police once before. Months earlier, he reported that Melani had taken their kids and disappeared for several days without warning. She returned with a strange new energy and stranger new beliefs. Brandon tried to sound the alarm. He told officers he believed Lori and her brother Alex were dangerous. That he was being watched. That he felt like something bigger was happening. But nobody knew what to do with that kind of fear. Not yet.
Everything changed on October 2, 2019. That morning, Brandon dropped his son off at school, worked out at the gym, then headed home. He was pulling into his driveway in Gilbert, Arizona, when he saw a Jeep parked outside his house. It wasn’t just idling. It was lurking. Dark tinted windows. No movement. Then the back window slid down. A rifle came out.
“I saw the barrel before I heard the shot.”
The bullet blew through the driver’s side window of Brandon’s Tesla. Shattered glass flew across his face. He ducked. Slammed the car into gear. Drove in circles trying to escape. Somehow he wasn’t hit.
He called 911 immediately.
“Someone just shot at my car. My window shattered. I don’t know if they’re still out there.”
The dispatcher asked if he was hurt. He said no. Not physically. But his voice cracked. You could hear it. The panic. The disbelief. The sound of someone who realized the people he had warned everyone about had just tried to kill him.
Officers arrived and confirmed the bullet was real. The Jeep was gone. The shell casing was recovered. The rear window glass was shattered. The round had lodged inside the metal of the car. Inches from Brandon’s head.
Later, they would trace that casing to a rifle registered to Alex Cox. Lori’s brother. The same Alex who had already shot and killed Charles Vallow just months earlier. The same Alex who would later die under strange circumstances right before the Idaho arrests began.
The Jeep? It was even worse.
It had been Charles Vallow’s, but by the time of the shooting, it was being driven by Tylee Ryan. Lori’s daughter. The teenager whose body would later be found dismembered and buried in Chad Daybell’s backyard. Tylee had taken the Jeep with her when she moved to Rexburg with Lori. Her name came up repeatedly in connection with that car. Her fingerprints were in it. Her life was wrapped around it. And then, somehow, that same vehicle was spotted in Arizona, used in an attempted murder.
The message couldn’t be louder. The Jeep was supposed to say family. Lori used it to say target acquired.
THE DETECTIVE. THE SHELL. THE TAPE THAT HELD IT ALL TOGETHER.
After Brandon left the stand, things got cold. Forensic. The emotion drained out of the room and in walked the numbers guy. Detective Nolan McDermott. Soft voice. Straight facts. No emotion. He wasn’t there to make it dramatic. But what he delivered was jaw-dropping.
He showed the jury the photos first. Brandon’s Tesla. The window blown out. Glass all over the driver’s seat. The bullet still lodged in the frame like a bookmark left by a killer. You didn’t need to be a ballistics expert to get it. One inch difference and Brandon would be dead.
Then he pulled out the shell casing. It was recovered at the scene. Right on the road. A clean .223 caliber round. No damage. No rust. Just sitting there like it wanted to be found. Like the shooter didn’t care if they were caught. Or maybe they just thought they wouldn’t be.
That casing was tested. Ballistics matched it to a rifle owned by Alex Cox. Lori’s brother. The same guy who had already shot Charles Vallow to death in a living room while Lori watched. The same guy who would later show up dead himself before any trial could touch him.
But it wasn’t just the bullet that sealed it. It was the tape. Green painter’s tape. Tucked inside the rear window frame of the Jeep. A small detail in one of the photos. But it meant everything. McDermott said that kind of tape is used to mount and stabilize long rifles for a clean shot from inside a car. It keeps the barrel locked in place. No wobble. No margin of error. Just point, fire, and drive off.
Who the hell mounts a sniper rifle in the back of a teenage girl’s Jeep using Home Depot supplies? Alex Cox. That’s who. Because guess what they found in his apartment when they searched it. A roll of the exact same green tape. Still sitting on his workbench. Next to the gun cleaning kit. Next to the tools. Next to the evidence. Like he forgot he was supposed to clean up after a hit.
“The tape recovered from the Jeep was consistent with tape found in Mr. Cox’s garage,” McDermott said.
It just kept stacking. License plate scanners picked up the Jeep driving from Idaho to Arizona in the days leading up to the shooting. Past cameras. Through Utah. Into Gilbert. It was in Brandon’s neighborhood the night before the bullet tore through his window.
Alex’s phone pinged too. Right there in the neighborhood. Right before the shot was fired. He wasn’t watching from a distance. He was on the same street.
“Cell data places Mr. Cox near the scene of the shooting within minutes of the 911 call,” McDermott told the court.
So let’s recap. Lori’s dead husband’s Jeep. Her daughter’s fingerprints. Her brother’s rifle. Her cult’s doctrine. Her niece’s ex-husband as the target. A roll of painter’s tape holding it all together like a homemade assassination kit.
And they almost pulled it off. This wasn’t messy. This wasn’t heat-of-the-moment. This was military precision with a Pinterest aesthetic. It was a murder plot held together with Target-brand tape and apocalyptic delusions.
By the time McDermott stepped down, nobody in that courtroom was thinking cult. They were thinking cartel. The vibe shifted from spiritual madness to something way more dangerous. Something strategic. Something practiced.
Brandon wasn’t supposed to be here. But he is. And now the jury knows exactly why.
THE ROOM WENT STILL
By the time Detective McDermott stepped down, the air in the courtroom had changed. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was worse. It was still. Jurors didn’t fidget. They didn’t glance around. They locked in. One of them gripped a manila folder like it was the only stable thing in the room. Another leaned slightly toward their neighbor, eyes wide, lips pressed into a thin line. No one needed to say it out loud. They got it.
From the prosecution’s table, Treena Kay held her expression like a pro, but the glint in her eyes gave her away. Not glee. Not satisfaction. Just quiet confirmation. The evidence had landed. Hard. GPS data. Phone pings. Tape residue. Ballistics. Surveillance. The whole thing mapped out like a script from a much darker genre. There was no room left for coincidence. It was a conspiracy in broad daylight, with Lori’s brother playing sniper out the back of her dead husband’s Jeep.
In the gallery, the press tapped at their keyboards like they were trying to break them. Notes flew. Reporters scribbled. Spectators didn’t shift in their seats. They froze. Someone whispered, “Jesus,” when the tape came up. Another covered her mouth when McDermott mentioned the cell site data putting Alex on the same street at the same time. This wasn’t just about the murder plot anymore. It was about what it meant. That someone could rig a rifle inside a teenager’s car and drive it across state lines like it was luggage.
Even Lori’s defense team looked rattled. No objections. No cross-examination heat. Just posture. Just silence. The kind of silence you use when you know the room isn’t on your sslowly
When court adjourned, the jurors didn’t move right away. Some sat back like they were still processing. Others walked out slow. Not the kind of slow you fake. The kind that says something stuck. Something followed them out of the room and down the hallway and into their own heads.
And Lori? She sat there with the same practiced serenity. Her attorney said nothing. She looked at no one. Her chair didn’t creak. She barely moved.
Day One didn’t need emotion. The bullet, the Jeep, the tape, and the testimony did all the screaming.
DAY TWO: THE CULT MOM CRUMBLES UNDER HER OWN DELUSION
Lori Vallow Daybell strutted into court like she was showing up to a parent-teacher conference. Hair done. Lip gloss perfect. Bible in hand. She wore that same smug little smile she always wears. The one that says she thinks she’s smarter than everyone in the room. Like this isn’t a courtroom. Like this is a stage. Like we should all be thanking her for showing up.
She wasn’t just the defendant today. She was her own attorney. Because in her mind, no one else could possibly do justice to her greatness. Not even a seasoned lawyer. She stood up and told Judge Justin Beresky she wanted to enter character evidence. She wanted to tell the jury how "loving" she is. How much she’s suffered. How misunderstood she’s been. As if the jury didn’t already know about the dead bodies. As if they didn’t already hear about her children being buried in her boyfriend’s backyard. As if she wasn’t on trial for a murder conspiracy with receipts.
The judge warned her. Plain English. If she opened that door, the state could and would walk through it carrying every disgusting piece of her Idaho past. The kids. The lies. The wedding in Hawaii while people searched for JJ and Tylee. But Lori couldn’t help herself. She kept going. She smiled like this was a storybook and she was the princess with the misunderstood past.
“I’ve been courteous,” she said with a straight face. This woman.
Judge Beresky had had enough.
“You have been nothing near courteous.”
Then she kept talking. She interrupted him. In front of the jury. She wanted control so badly she couldn’t even stay quiet while the judge spoke.
And that’s when it happened.
“Take her out.” Not an exaggeration. The judge literally had Lori Vallow Daybell removed from her own attempted murder trial because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut. And I was loving every min of it.
The room cracked. A few jurors blinked hard. The gallery went dead silent. The courtroom marshal approached. Lori stood there, still trying to look unbothered. But her face betrayed her. For a second, the mask slipped. She looked stunned. She looked small. Not like a goddess. Not like a mother. Like what she really is.
A manipulator. A narcissist. A predator who thought she could outtalk the system. The Lori I see.
When she came back into the room later, she apologized. She had that baby voice turned on again. She said she would be good. She said she understood. The judge told her flatly that if she interrupted again, her fantasy of being her own lawyer would end. No more solo act. No more courtroom cosplay. Just a public defender and a front-row seat to her own unraveling. She nodded. Meek. Obedient. Because in that moment, she remembered she wasn’t running the show anymore.
But the prosecution didn’t stop there. They brought back the facts.
Detective David Frerer laid out the Jeep forensics like he was reading her obituary. He described how they lifted fingerprints, used gunshot residue swabs, and linked the Arizona shooting directly to the same vehicle later recovered in Rexburg. The same vehicle Tylee used to drive. The same vehicle that showed up in Brandon Boudreaux’s neighborhood when someone tried to kill him.
DNA. Gunpowder. Fibers. Timelines. Every piece of it stacked until the jury didn’t need emotion. They had evidence.
Lori tried to cross-examine Brandon herself, and it flopped. It was quite entertaining really. She really thinks that she is God's gift to this earth. And thinks shes a fucking genius. Above us all. In every way thinkable. She asked if they got along. He said she was never a friend. Just an aunt. Just someone on the periphery of his life who turned into a threat. She asked about surveillance footage. The prosecution admitted Ring camera footage may have existed, but no one had collected it in time. A small technicality. Nothing that moved the needle.
A juror rubbed his eyes. A woman in the gallery shook her head. No one spoke. The evidence didn’t leave space for commentary. It landed like a body.
Then came Christina Atwood. Christina Atwood didn’t carry a badge or a law degree. She carried history. The kind you only get by standing close to someone for too long. She had sat next to Lori in living rooms and prayer circles. She had listened when Lori spoke quietly, the way people do when they believe they’re safe. And now she was sitting in court, breaking that safety open in front of a jury. Telling them exactly what Lori believed, and who had to die because of it.
She said Charles Vallow wasn’t just in danger. He was marked. Lori had decided he was no longer her husband. She called him a demon. She gave him a new name, Ned because that’s what cult leaders do when they want someone erased. They rename you. They strip your humanity. They devalue your life so killing you sounds like cleansing instead of murder.
Christina didn’t describe a grieving wife. She described a woman laying spiritual groundwork for an execution. Lori said Charles was “taken over.” That he wasn’t really Charles anymore. That his spirit had been hijacked. Which, in Lori’s twisted playbook, made him disposable.
“They said Charles had been taken over by a dark spirit,” Christina said. “That he was no longer himself.”
That wasn’t metaphor. That was motive. Lori wasn’t venting. She was calling her shot.
Christina heard it. And then Charles ended up dead.
Shot by Alex Cox. Lori’s brother. The same Alex who just happened to be in the house that day. The same Alex who claimed self-defense. The same Alex who never saw a courtroom because he conveniently turned up dead before the arrests started.
“The shooting of Charles by Alex was about a month after you heard them say they wanted him dead?” “Yes.”
One month. From prophecy to blood on the floor. This wasn’t miscommunication. It wasn’t misunderstood theology. It was Lori using religion as a weapon and her brother as the trigger. She wanted Charles gone. And she got what she wanted.
Seven witnesses in total took the stand on Day Two, but Christina’s testimony hit different. She wasn’t a forensics tech or a detective. She was someone who had been inside. And now she was out. And she was telling the truth.
Let me talk to you for a second, because if you’ve made it this far, you already know this isn’t just a trial. This is watching a woman burn the house down with everyone she ever claimed to love still inside. This is sitting in a courtroom while people explain how Lori Vallow decided who got to live and who had to die and did it with a smile on her face.
And the jury? You should have seen them. They didn’t flinch when Christina said the words. They absorbed them. That’s what it looked like. Not shock. Not confusion. Absorption. One juror had their arms crossed so tight it looked like they were holding their own body together. Another sat forward in their chair, elbows on their knees, eyes locked. You could tell they weren’t just listening. They were reprocessing everything they had already heard in light of what Christina was saying.
Because this wasn’t just about one death. Christina’s testimony was the moment it clicked that this wasn’t a woman reacting to chaos. This was a woman choreographing it. The jury heard that Lori talked about Charles needing to die a month before it happened. That she called him a demon. That she renamed him. That her brother pulled the trigger. That no one blinked. That Lori kept going.
And I sat there thinking, what kind of monster sits in a courtroom and acts like this is some divine misunderstanding? Who treats murder like a mission and then plays innocent when the paperwork catches up?
The jurors know now. You could see it in their posture. In their silence. In the way they didn’t look at Lori when it was over. Not out of rudeness. Out of recognition. They had just watched someone walk into a church and plant a bomb. Not all at once. Bit by bit. Word by word. Spirit by spirit. Until someone she claimed to love ended up dead and buried.
Lori thinks she’s still in control. But Day Two stripped her of that. The jury saw who she really is. They saw the pattern. They saw the plan. And for the first time, they heard it come from someone who used to believe her. Someone who escaped the cult before it swallowed them too.
That’s what Day Two was.
It wasn’t just about what Lori did. It was about who finally stood up and said it out loud.
DAY THREE: THE BUILD UP BEFORE THE BREAK
This was not about drama. It was about constriction. After Christina Atwood’s bombshell on Day Two, the trial entered a new phase. No new players. No spiritual outbursts. Just data. Just surveillance. Just receipts.
The prosecution brought back Detective Nathan Duncan, who methodically laid out the digital paper trail. He testified about iCloud backups, burner phones, and metadata Lori probably thought she had erased. He said two prepaid phones, purchased in Rexburg, pinged near Brandon Boudreaux’s home both the night before the attempted shooting and again just minutes before the trigger was pulled.
Lori leaned into her role as her own defense. She cross-examined Duncan and asked whether deleted messages could hide something. He answered yes but added that phone companies still store metadata. Even when a message disappears, the movement, the logins, and the pings remain.
“The metadata tells a story,” Duncan said. “Even when the messages are gone.”
Then Brandon Boudreaux returned to the stand for more questioning. He told the jury about the aftermath. About getting no response from Lori or Melani after the shooting. But then, suddenly, texts started coming through. From his own number. He testified that someone spoofed his phone or used a cloned number to send messages trying to intimidate his ex-wife.
“They were telling her to stop lying,” Brandon said. “But I wasn’t the one sending them.”
The implication hung in the air. Someone close to Lori was using tech to fake Brandon’s identity. Trying to shape the story. Trying to control the aftermath.
Prosecutor Treena Kay walked the jury through AT&T rerecords. Remember them? The two prepaid phones, bought with cash, disappeared from Idaho and showed up in Arizona just in time for the attack. Then the phones went dark. No more activity. No more signals. Like someone knew the clock had run out.
“It’s not just that they were turned off,” Duncan said. “It’s that they were disposed of. Gone.”
There were no grand gestures in court that day. Just spreadsheets. Just timelines. Just a surgical exposure of what this really was. A coordinated interstate conspiracy dressed up in scripture and family language.
THE COURTROOM FROZE DIFFERENTLY TODAY
Let me tell you something. This wasn’t silence out of respect. It was the kind of stillness that happens when a room collectively realizes they’ve been watching a monster try to pass for a mother. This wasn’t dramatic. It was disgusting. And we all felt it. No one flinched. No one whispered. No one needed to. Because the jury was locked in. And Lori? She knew. She knew the energy had shifted. But she still sat there with that same blank expression like she was going to blink and charm her way out of this. Like this was just another misunderstanding between enlightened souls. Girl. No.
We still remembered what she said the day before. I know you remember too. She stood up and had the nerve to tell the judge she had been courteous. Courteous. Like she hadn’t talked over him. Like she hadn’t turned the courtroom into her own stage. Like the whole trial wasn’t beneath her. And Judge Beresky, God bless him, looked right at her and said it. The line I wish I could stitch on a t-shirt and wear to her sentencing. You have been nothing near courteous. He didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. Because he said what we were all thinking. That this woman is not misunderstood. She’s not confused. She’s not grieving. She’s arrogant. She’s cruel. She’s dangerous. And she thinks if she smiles sweet enough and quotes scripture, we’ll forget about the bodies.
Today the prosecution didn’t bring fireworks. They brought a scalpel. Surveillance. Cell pings. Burner phones traced from Rexburg to Gilbert. Data Lori probably thought she was smart enough to erase. And it just kept landing. Clean. Sharp. Undeniable. Brandon said someone used his own number to send texts after the shooting. Duncan laid out the timeline. The phones went dark. The evidence stacked up. And nobody in that room could pretend anymore. Not the gallery. Not the jurors. And definitely not Lori.
The jury wasn’t just listening. They were absorbing. One of them underlined something so hard they ripped through the page. Another didn’t take their eyes off Lori for an hour straight. They’re seeing her now. Not the mother. Not the wife. The planner. The manipulator. The woman who walked through three states and five bodies like it was part of the plan. And now she’s sitting here acting like the system owes her softness.
Let me be clear. That room froze differently today. Because nobody needed to raise their voice. Nobody needed to scream. Everyone already knew. We weren’t looking at someone who got caught up in a bad situation. We were looking at someone who created it. And enjoyed it. And is still pretending we’re too stupid to see it.
But we see it. And if the jury is feeling what I’m feeling, she’s not getting out of this one.
WHY THIS MATTERS
Because we are past the point of wondering if she did it. That ship sailed. It left the dock dragging a trail of burner phones, forged identities, gunshot residue, and painter’s tape stuck to the back of a goddamn murder Jeep. There is no mystery left. She was involved. She planned it. She helped make it happen. What we’re watching now is the part where she tries to act like none of it stuck to her. Like she was floating above it. Like she was the only one in the story who didn’t get blood on her hands.
And I’m sitting here thinking are you fucking kidding me?! This woman staged her entire personality around being spiritually superior while bodies dropped around her like dead weight. She tried to flip a murder trial into a TED Talk about misunderstood motherhood. And today the jury sat in that cold courtroom, surrounded by timelines and surveillance maps, and finally saw it for what it is. Not grief. Not confusion. Just calculation.
The people she can’t lie to are coming in. The ones who saw it up close. The ones who used to believe her until it broke them. Her own family. And I don’t mean “family” the way she says it, with fake sanctimony and Instagram captions. I mean real people. Siblings. In-laws. People who knew what she used to be before she started thinking she could play God. She can’t talk over them. She can’t seduce them. She can’t hit mute and call it persecution.
These are people who buried the victims she left behind and had to keep breathing anyway. They know the damage. They know the script. They know the way she spins stories to keep herself looking righteous while everyone around her drowns. And now they’re done covering for her.
So if you thought the silence today was uncomfortable, wait until the jury hears what she sounds like through the voices of the people who know her best.
Because it’s not just the system that’s putting her on trial now. It’s her own blood. And she can’t charm her way out of that.
DAY FOUR: BLOOD SPEAKS LOUDER THAN DOGMA
This was the day Lori Vallow ran out of places to hide. No more excuses. No more script. No more spiritual loopholes. Her family took the stand and made it clear they were done playing along. They didn’t just testify. They testified against her.
Kay Woodcock, Charles Vallow’s sister, was first. She didn’t come in like a victim. She came in like someone who had waited years to say what the system wouldn’t. She told the jury that Charles was scared. Not paranoid. Not confused. Scared. He said Lori was different. He said something was wrong. He said he was in danger. And then he was dead.
Kay described the scene. The shot. The body on the floor. Charles face-down. And Alex Cox firing again anyway. Not self-defense. Not chaos. Just finality. And Lori? Lori didn’t call for help. Lori didn’t cry. Lori laughed that day. Smiled for the cops. Made jokes about Charles being a “zombie.”
Kay didn’t cry much on the stand. She had cried too much already. Her voice cracked, but her words didn’t. She told the jury that Lori didn’t just destroy a marriage. She destroyed a family. And she never looked back.
Lori didn’t look at her once. Not a glance. Not a blink. Because how do you look at the woman who had to raise the child you abandoned, while you danced through cult theology and left bodies behind you like breadcrumbs
“Charles was afraid of her,” Kay said. “He told me she wasn’t safe.”
And then came Adam Cox. Lori’s brother. The one she didn’t expect to see up there. He sat down and turned toward the jury like he had been holding this in since the day Charles died.
He said it flat out. He believed Lori and Alex planned the murder. He said he and Charles had talked about confronting her. That they had been trying to intervene. That Charles was desperate. That he had a plan. And then he was gone.
“I believe she was involved,” Adam said. “She changed. She wasn’t the sister I knew.”
He talked about how Lori called Charles a zombie. How she said his soul had left his body. How she used that to justify everything. How Alex followed her like a soldier on command. How none of it made sense until it was too late.
When defense tried to soften it. Asking Adam where he was when Charles died, he looked right at the jury and said he was asleep in Louisiana. He wasn’t there. But that didn’t stop him from knowing the truth.
Lori questioned him too. She asked how he could be away and yet know so much. He answered calmly. He watched her spiral. He tracked her texts. He lived it. He heard Charles’ warnings. And now he carried them here.
And Lori? She didn’t speak. She didn’t interrupt. She just stared straight ahead like silence could save her now.
This was not some expert talking about pings and timelines. This was blood. This was family. These were the people who used to believe her. Who used to defend her. Who finally had to admit that the woman they knew no longer existed.
And the jury? They watched it unfold. Quiet. Focused. Some leaned forward. Some sat back. But all of them felt it. The betrayal. The grief. The raw human cost of letting a woman like Lori convince everyone she was chosen by God while she tore her family apart from the inside.
There is no spreadsheet for what happened on that stand. No metadata for heartbreak. Just two people who buried the ones she destroyed. And then had to sit twenty feet away from her and say it out loud.
This is what she did to them. To Charles. To JJ. To Tylee. To everyone who got too close. And when it was over, Lori didn’t move. Because there was nothing left to say.
WHAT ELSE HAPPENED THIS WEEK
Let’s talk about the moments that didn’t get headlines but still ripped through the courtroom like shrapnel. The kind of details that build pressure in silence. No screaming. Just quiet suffocation.
Two neighbors from Brandon Boudreaux’s street took the stand. Real people. No cult ties. No theology. Just eyewitnesses with memories that refuse to fade. Lynette Mendoza said she saw a Jeep parked near Brandon’s home around the time of the shooting. It didn’t belong. It wasn’t moving. It was just sitting there with dark windows like it was waiting for something. Then Robert Abbatomarco followed. He said the same thing. Same Jeep. Same timing. Same quiet. It was parked for fifteen minutes. Then it vanished. That wasn’t a drive-by. That was a setup. And the jury knew it.
Lori also tried to pull something disgusting. She wanted the court to let in a police interview with Tylee. Her daughter. The same daughter who would later be found buried behind Chad Daybell’s house. She tried to use that girl’s voice to protect herself. She tried to weaponize the dead. The judge didn’t let it happen. He called it irrelevant and shut it down before it could leave the ground. The jury never heard the tape. But they saw Lori try. And that was enough.
The prosecution didn’t bring fireworks this week. They didn’t have to. They brought neighbors. They brought data. They brought quiet gaps where footage should have been but wasn’t. They let the silence work. They let the absence tell the truth. And it did.
What happened this week wasn’t explosive. It was steady collapse. Every new piece of testimony added weight to a version of events Lori cannot crawl out of. Her defense has thinned. Her questions have weakened. Her presence at the table now feels like waiting for the sentence to begin.
What happened this week is simple.
The walls are closing. And everyone in that room feels it. Especially her.
THATS A WRAP FOR THIS WEEK
I’ll be back with more trial recaps because someone’s gotta keep track of this chaos, and it sure as hell isn’t legacy media. In the meantime, make sure you’re following me on Instagram AliceRedpill12 for daily breakdowns and real-time rants. And don’t forget to check out my podcast, Alice Uncoded. Right now we’re deep into the Combs Confidential series covering the Diddy trial. Same energy, different courtroom, same corrupt ecosystem. Thank you so much for reading, sharing, messaging, lurking, screaming into your pillow. Yeah, I see all of it, unfortunately haha. We’re just getting started ya'll.
Really glad you are covering this! Thanks for your hard work!
What does it seem was her motive for all this death? And what was her end game?