By: Rebecca “Becky” Hill
The walk around Moselle March 2023
As we viewed the property, I noticed a group of us were walking toward the well-built rows of narrow, red dog kennels and the feed room, and behind that was a fenced in pen for quail and other birds. Just as we were standing upon the ground where Paul and Maggie would have last shared their final moments of life, we felt the wind whip around us, as if to say that something wicked, something sinister and violent and unfair had happened here. We imagined the bodies of Maggie and Paul as they must have lain there that summer night on this same sandy ground where we were standing. At that moment, Moselle may as well have been a cemetery.
I vividly remember the brown, unkempt grass and the sound of footsteps as different jurors were checking distances in their minds by going from point A to point B to point C, without the use of a measuring tape, trying to confirm what they had heard the past few weeks about the facts of the crime scene and how the events had occurred. They were intent, serious, and perceptive.
As the winds persisted and the clouds rolled above us, I heard what sounded like whispers coming from Paul and Maggie: “This is where it happened. This was real. Hear our story. Find out the truth.” It was almost as if they were speaking from the grave, directly to me, to us. It was a haunting feeling.
As a mom of two adult children, I couldn’t help but think about Maggie as she heard those gunshots and went running back toward her son, Paul, only to see Alex, her husband, with a shotgun in his hand as Paul fell to the ground. What torment did she go through in those last few moments, seeing her son die and knowing that this, too, would be her end?
Visiting Moselle confirmed that Paul and Maggie were left laying almost head-to-head directionally—with Maggie running toward her son, Paul, and not away from him as Alex, the one who should have protected them, encircled her at the end and finally put a bullet into her skull. She hadn’t been running away from a stranger but toward her beloved son.
After the jurors and I studied where the murders had occurred, we were then directed by law enforcement, along with Judge Newman, to begin our walk toward the Murdaugh homestead. It was more than a half-a-mile walk from the dog kennels, down the winding pathway and tree-lined road to the beautiful house where this family once shared meals, memories, and moments of family love. For more information visis www.behindthedoorsofjustice.com
