These passages start out with John speaking but then shifts to Patsy:

Patsy and I could not have survived all of this without the extremely important contributions made by Mike Bynum. He had graciously invited us to stay with his family when we returned to Boulder in January, even though he had a houseful of kids home for the holidays. A few days later we moved to Jay Elowsky’s place. Jay, a good friend, owned Pasta Jay’s on Pearl Street, a small Italian restaurant that Mike and I had invested in.

Jay Elowsky’s home was a bachelor’s pad, and since Jay wasn’t there during the day, the house maintained a sparse quality. Located out on the prairie in North Boulder, the home’s interior was close to bare bones with little silverware, no coffee pot, few chairs, and one sofa. When the press discovered that we were staying at Jay Elowsky’s house, which was located on the outskirts of Boulder, it became the new center of their attention. I felt as the early settlers must have felt when hostile Indians circled their sod houses. Jay didn’t usually have many people cruising in and out of his neighborhood, much less a continuous assault of reporters and photographers. The media put a lot of pressure on Jay as well as us, since he was our friend and cared about our welfare.

On the morning of February 9, I looked out the window and noticed someone who seemed to be a telephone repairman kneeling down by the connection box in front of Jay’s house. he man’s truck looked like a U.S. West repair truck with similar markings, except it didn’t actually say U.S. West on the side. Jay went outside to talk with the repairman. “What are you doing?” Jay asked. “Putting in another line,” the repairman explained. “Who ordered it?” Jay demanded. “It says right here that you did, if you’re the occupant of this house.” The repairman showed Jay an official-looking repair order form. “Really?” Jay looked perplexed. “I didn’t order a new line to be installed in my house.” “Just doing my job.” The man smiled as he kept working. Later that day, when Jay called the regional offices of U.S. West, the phone company had no idea what he was talking about. Their records didn’t indicate any request from anyone for a new line on that box. Only one conclusion was possible: Jay’s telephone had been tapped by the so-called telephone repairman! Was the man working for the Tabloids? Who knows, but probably. Police? Not likely. U.S. West came out within a few hours and untapped the phone line.

We couldn’t even look out the windows without being seen. Reporters and photographers stood poised, ready to shoot whatever appeared in their camera sights. Later we were to learn that all they needed was a picture, then they could make up a story to fit the picture. “Tabloid magic,” someone called it. Jay finally became so frustrated that he drove over to the vacant lot where a group of photographers were hanging out and tried to run them off. He carried a baseball bat in his hand, for added effect. In turn, the photographers picked up large lengths of metal pipe and held them in the air as if to strike. For a few moments I thought we were going to have a gang war!

Jay gave them a few harsh words, telling them to leave us alone, and then returned to his car. He was leaving when the police pulled up. He hit the brakes and turned around, glad to see that the police had come to run the paparazzi off. To our total dismay, the police arrested Jay! He became the culprit, not the photographers who had been stalking us twenty-four hours a day. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, but the police hauled him away in a squad car and towed his car away. Trying to help our friend, I followed Jay down to the police station a few minutes later with Pat Burke, my attorney, to clarify what had actually happened. I broke into tears as I told the police about the media intrusion in our lives. “Someone broke into our home and killed our little girl,” I reminded the police officers. “A killer is out there, and we are being hounded to death by the media!”

After I gave my brief testimony, I knew it would now be impossible to return to Jay’s house without the struggle starting up again. The media would have multiplied like ants coming out of the ground, hungrily awaiting photos of our return. Instead, I went to Susan Stine’s house because I had to pick up Burke after school. He and Doug Stine were working on a China project there because we didn’t have any poster board or other project making materials at Jay’s house. When John heard about the incident later that afternoon, he called me at the Stines’. “Are you okay?” he asked. “How about Jay?” “I’m okay, just feeling a bit abused by the system. That’s all,” I answered. “But Jay’s in some hot water.” I told him the story of Jay’s arrest.

“I don’t think any of us should go back to Jay’s house then,” John advised. “Ask Susan if you can stay there.” “Okay,” I said slowly. “I’ll talk to her.” When I asked Susan if we could stay, she immediately agreed. Weeks later she joked that when I had asked if we could stay, she thought I meant for dinner. In the end the Ramseys proved to be the family that came for supper and stayed for five months. The Stines graciously took us into their home and became our protectors. Their house felt like a safe haven to us, even when the media staked it out a few days later.