I don't know who cut out these newspaper reports from 1950 and 1951 that make the collage above. My father himself? Probably not, since he was incarcerated when some of these newspapers came out. His mother, my grandmother, a seemingly emotionless woman whose sons all seemed to harbor ancient grudges against her? 

The clippings lived among his paperwork regardless of who took them out, though they aren't all worth scanning because (in the timeless spirit of journalism) they tell pretty much the same story with bits of new information thrown in here and there. The dates are usually cut off, too; the only dated clipping is from February 1, 1951.

Could it have been a sister? A neighbor? I try to imagine who it might have been, where it might have happened. A kitchen table in Paterson, with dirty dishes in the sink and too many kids coming and going. Too many boy who might end up just like Tom if they weren't careful. The juiciest and most informative ones bear the following headlines: 

It's amazing, really, that they've survived this long. I bet they'd burn really nicely, all dried out with age. I'll have to work up the balls to pick one out, an insignificant one, and burn it to a crisp. 

Just to spite my desire to save every little last scrap of Thomas J. Wingate that I can.