The true crime genre has an innovative format, or perhaps even a whole new language and structure: officer-worn camera recordings. Faces of victims, witnesses and potential offenders appear suddenly to the cameras, at times in the intense brightness of headlights or torches as the officers approach, their faces and voices expressing caution or fear or anger or dubiously feigned naivety. And we frequently catch sight of the expressions of the officers themselves, one waiting impassively while the other conducts the inquiry with what occasionally seems like remarkable hesitation – though maybe this is because they know they are being recorded.
We have already had the Netflix true-crime documentary American Murder: Gabby Petito, about the killing of an Instagram influencer by her boyfriend, whose main point of interest was officer recordings and in which, as in this film, the police seemed extraordinarily lax with the suspect. There is also Bill Morrison’s Oscar-nominated short Incident, made exclusively of officer footage. Now comes Geeta Gandbhir’s documentary about the tragic incident of a Florida mother in Ocala, Florida, a African American woman whose children reportedly bothered and antagonized her neighbor, Susan Lorincz. In 2023, after an escalating series of neighborhood conflicts in which the police were repeatedly called, Lorincz shot Owens dead through her locked door, when Owens went to Lorincz’s house to address her about hurling items at her children.
The investigating authorities found proof that Lorincz had done internet searches into the state's self-defense statutes, which allow residents and others to use firearms if there is a reasonable belief of danger. The documentary builds its story with the officer recordings generated during the repeated police visits to the scene before the killing, and then at the horrific and chaotic incident site itself – introduced by 911 audio material of the caller contacting authorities in a melodramatically shaky voice. There is also police cell footage of Lorincz which has a disturbing, unsettling appeal.
The documentary does not really suggest anything too complex about the neighbor, or any mitigating factors. She is clearly unstable, although the kids are heard calling her “the Karen”, an hurtful taunt. The production is presented as an illustration of how self-defense regulations lead to senseless and tragic bloodshed. But the reality of firearm possession and the constitutional right (that longstanding U.S. legal right that a late commentator notoriously said made gun deaths a price worth paying) is not much emphasized.
It is feasible to watch the police interrogation scenes here and feel surprised at how little interest the police took in this point. When did she buy her gun? Where (if anywhere) did she train in its use? Had she ever had occasion to fire it before? Where did she store it in the house? Could it have been easily accessible and prepared? The authorities aren’t shown asking any of these surely relevant questions (though they could have inquired in recordings that didn’t make the edit). Or is gun ownership so normal it would be like asking about kitchen appliances or bread heaters?
For what appeared to her neighbors a extended period, the suspect was not even taken into custody and indicted, only held and even provided accommodation away from home for the night (another point of comparison, incidentally, with the Gabby Petito case). And when she was ultimately formally arrested in the holding cell, there is an extraordinary sequence in which the individual simply refuses to stand, will not extend her arms for the handcuffs, not hostilely, but with the politely self-pitying air of someone whose mental health means that she is unable to comply. Did the gentle handling up until that point encouraged her to think that this could be effective?
It didn’t; and the panel's decision is saved for the end titles. A very sombre portrayal of U.S. justice and consequences.
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