The nightmare roommate and the surveillance, police, and eviction measures that got her out

heThe wildfires that would come to engulf Los Angeles had just begun to burn when Frankee Grove finally admitted to herself that she needed a roommate. It was January 2025, and Grove, then 42, had recently broken up with her boyfriend of six years. They had lived together in a two-bedroom Spanish bungalow on a quaint street in Venice. For Grove, this rental — with its vegetable garden and hardwood floors, arched doorways, and terra-cotta roof — had come to feel like a home.

But she couldn’t afford the $5,100 monthly rent by herself. She needed to find a subletter, but her spare time was spoken for: She was volunteering to help those impacted by the wildfires currently ravaging the Pacific Palisades. Grove, a dedicated empath and striving progressive who has two decades of experience in education, always tried to see the good in others, and she wanted to embody those qualities herself.

Still, she was bleeding cash. Grove eventually turned to Facebook, hoping to find someone who could move in quickly. She connected with a woman named Sabrina Mollison, whose online persona was classic SoCal: A fledgling fitness influencer, she posted Instagram reels of herself working out in expensive athleisure, posed for selfies in full-length mirrors, and affixed aspirational (but fairly banal) captions under day-in-the-life content (“Trust the process” and “You can’t make progress if you don’t start”).

Grove, who grew up in Massachusetts to teacher parents and had a decidedly more bohemian vibe — she launched a botanical side hustle, sported a surfer-girl haircut, and summered on Cape Cod — believed that their incompatibility might be a good thing. They didn’t need to be friends. Lately, her life was defined by instability. Grove welcomed a simple, transactional relationship.

Mollison arrived for a tour wearing a workout uniform and a thick layer of makeup. Grove showed her the house. Mollison appeared underwhelmed, her affect flat, but said she would rent the room for Grove’s requested $2,200. Grove didn’t ask Mollison to sign any type of lease, just took her deposit and told her that she could move in in a few days, during the last week of January.

Mollison arrived via an Uber with all of her belongings in black trash bags. Grove felt a growing sense of unease. As Mollison unpacked, Grove thought back to how restless she felt the night before. Her gut told her that something was wrong, but she chalked it up to nerves. She traded her apprehension for the financial security of a confirmed subletter, of doing something kind for someone else.

After Mollison settled in, she handed Grove $670 in cash. It wasn’t enough to cover what she still owed for the first month’s rent, but Mollison said not to worry. She’d give her the rest of it by week’s end.

A few days later, Grove, who worked for an ed-tech company, left for a three-day work trip to New Orleans. Upon her return, she noticed that some of her food (a dozen eggs, a bottle of wine) were gone. Had Mollison eaten her groceries? Grove, allergic to confrontation, approached Mollison gently, as if her new roommate were a child who did something naughty.

“I realize we didn’t have a conversation about food and stuff in the kitchen,” Grove told her, “and I prefer to keep our things separate.”

“Okay,” Mollison said matter-of-factly, with the same dejected air Grove had noticed from previous interactions. It wasn’t rudeness so much as aloofness, a type of non-engagement, as if Mollison wasn’t actually processing what Grove was telling her. The missing food was a bad sign. Things would escalate quickly.

Grove woke up to find Mollison sleeping on the couch, presumably drunk. After Mollison got up, Grove noticed bright red stains smeared all over the cushions: Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. This wasn’t a piece of Ikea furniture, either, but rather a designer midcentury modern sofa from Cisco Home that Grove’s ex-boyfriend bought for $6,600 (plus delivery).

Grove quickly took the covers off the cushions and brought them to her local dry cleaner, who charged her over $300 to remove the bright red Cheeto dust. Grove, with her aversion to confrontation, again didn’t say anything to Mollison, but knew she had to cut her tenantship short.

The next day, Grove texted Mollison: “Hey Sabrina, we need to talk about this arrangement, when do you have time today or tomorrow to do so? I’ll work around your schedule.” Mollison responded that they could discuss it that day. Before they spoke, Grove called her 74-year-old godmother, Catherine Russo, for advice on what to say. Russo, a longtime lesbian activist from Cape Cod, had known Grove since birth and had always been somewhat of a protector. Grove admitted that she had no idea how to approach this fairly basic interaction and hoped Russo wouldn’t think it too ridiculous that she might write out a script, memorize it, and then have the conversation. Her godmother was supportive of the idea.

Grove took a deep breath, calmed her nerves, and walked into the living room. She held eye contact, kept her chin up, and told Mollison that she didn’t think the arrangement was working out, and that Mollison had 30 days to vacate.

“Okay,” Mollison replied with the same flat tone as before. Well, Grove thought, that was easier than expected. She didn’t put anything in writing. To Grove, they were two grown adults who had come to an agreement.

But bad things kept happening: A few days later, Grove came home to find a humongous husky in her living room. She asked Anthony Jones, Mollison’s boyfriend, who was in the house with her, if it was his dog.

“No,” Jones said. “It’s Sabrina’s.”

“I got her from the shelter,” Mollison said. “Her name is Luna.”

“You want to play games? I promise you, to my core, I am going to ruin your life.”

Grove was floored. She took a minute to gather her thoughts and then confronted Mollison in the same civil tone as their previous interaction. Grove told her that she couldn’t have the dog here, and it needed to be taken out of the house.

“Okay,” Mollison said.

Mollison, of course, did not get rid of the dog. She also seemed to be drinking more heavily, and came home the following night in a rage, screaming at someone on the phone and stomping around the house. Grove, terrified, pushed a bench in front of her bedroom door, fearful that Mollison would try to enter.

It was here that Grove got the sneaking suspicion that Mollison may not abide by their verbal agreement for her to move out. She turned to ChatGPT for help, asking AI what the proper course of action would be to have a subtenant evicted. The chatbot told her she needed to serve the subtenant, in writing, with a formal 30-day notice to vacate.

Grove was confused: Mollison wasn’t on the lease, hadn’t signed a written subtenant agreement, had barely any belongings in the house, and had begun to damage Grove’s stuff. Why couldn’t Grove just kick her out and change the locks? It felt absurd, and a little ironic. Grove, a diehard liberal, wholeheartedly supported tenants’ rights, but she could tell that this eviction process — something that she morally didn’t even necessarily agree with — was going to be difficult.

On February 14th, Grove posted the notice on the front door and on Mollison’s bedroom door. A few days later, Grove was in her room when she heard Mollison come home. Mollison was on the phone, enraged — and yelling about Grove. To whomever she was speaking, Mollison read aloud Grove’s notice to vacate, the end of which promised to initiate formal eviction proceedings if Mollison did not move out within a month’s time.

And then Mollison, still talking on the phone and unaware Grove was eavesdropping, said: “Bitch, I promise you before then, your life will be ruined. You want to play games? I promise you, to my core, I am going to ruin your life.”

woTwo days later, Grove decided to install security cameras in her home. She needed technological reliance, a thing that could both document and deter. The decision, however, made Grove feel dirty. She was morally against surveillance, and equated it with America’s slide into techno-dystopianism. A few mansions had gone up in her neighborhood recently, outfitted with a gaggle of cameras. She’d never do that, Grove told herself. But here, with Mollison, this act of surveillance — of self-surveillance, since everything she did would also be recorded — was both invasive and protective.

A few days after hanging the cameras, Grove found, on the kitchen counter, an application for a civil restraining order. Mollison’s allegations shocked her: She accused Grove of “stalking” her, “yelling,” and “threatening” her. She also claimed that Grove said that she would “kill me and my dog,” Mollison wrote. “I believe she has weapons. I am afraid for my life in my own home.” According to the packet’s cover page, a restraining order was not issued, but a court date for March 13th, 2025 — a few weeks hence — had been set for Mollison to plead her case to a judge.

Grove took photographs of the application and put it back where she found it. Now, she was scared. She called one of the only people she knew would try to protect her: Matty Cater, her ex-boyfriend. He agreed to come be with her, but was shocked at what Grove had gotten herself into.

With Cater there, tensions only escalated. Grove entered the kitchen from her bedroom to find Mollison drinking wine on the couch with a friend, their glasses placed without coasters on Grove’s expensive coffee table. Grove asked them if they would please use the coasters.

Mollison rose from her seat, clearly drunk. “Bitch,” she said. “I’m going to fight you!”

Grove went back into her bedroom. “Matty,” she said. “Sabrina just said she wants to fight me.”

Cater went out into the living room. “Ladies,” he said. “You need to leave. You are drunk, and you need to leave the house.”

“Well, I’m going to fucking fight you!” Mollison screamed.

Grove approached Cater. “Let’s just call the police,” she said. They waited outside, away from Mollison, for the officers to arrive. Jones, Mollison’s boyfriend, arrived just before the cops showed up. He asserted, with a degree of confidence that gave Grove pause, the falsehood that Mollison was on the lease, that this was her house too, and that Grove was actually the harasser.

The conversation became a he-said-she-said, and the police admitted that there was nothing they could do to solve the dispute. After the police left, Cater told Grove that it would be too dangerous to stay there. They booked a room at a hotel and, when Grove returned to the house the next day, she elected to stay in the detached office, only entering the house to use the restroom, so she could avoid Mollison.

Anxiety radiated throughout Grove’s body. Her appetite dropped. Naturally thin, she still lost 10 pounds. She couldn’t concentrate. She worried about her job, where she began to make careless mistakes. During a meeting with the company’s founder, she flubbed crucial metrics for the schools with which she worked. She couldn’t lose this job. Now single, her income was essential to her livelihood.

To make matters worse, Grove was about to leave on a long-awaited vacation to the Bahamas with her mother, who had been battling a rare and aggressive form of cancer. Worried that stress would poison the trip, Grove obtained a prescription from her doctor for anti-anxiety medication and booked an appointment with her psychic.

“She has evil and dark energy,” the psychic told her, referencing Mollison. “You need to leave.”

Grove took her psychic’s advice. She disclosed to her landlord the situation with Mollison, and told him that she planned to move out at the end of March. And then Grove left for the tropical Caribbean, hoping to have a reprieve from the situation in which she found herself.

Russo, Grove’s godmother, offered to fly to Los Angeles from Massachusetts to house-sit while Grove was in the Bahamas. A women’s rights activist who did advocacy work in war-torn El Salvador (she documented human rights abuses and helped women escape paramilitary occupation), Russo wouldn’t be intimidated by a bad roommate.

But both she and Grove underestimated Mollison’s willingness to escalate.

By the second night, Russo finally told Grove what had happened: Mollison pushed Russo and screamed at her to “get the fuck out.” Russo called the police, who came to the house but didn’t arrest Mollison. After they left, Mollison went on a rampage in the house. She violently shoved all of the furniture in her bedroom out into the hallway and then into Grove’s bedroom. She also smashed the pot holding a 10-foot-tall ficus tree, sending dirt all over the floor. Russo filmed the destruction and sent the video to Grove. Mollison grabbed two more plants and threw them into Grove’s bedroom, the pots shattered atop her white rug.

When she was done, Mollison told Russo, “Clean this up.” And then she left the house.

Later, Russo told her goddaughter: “I’m glad it was me and not you. I’m fine.”

When she could steal time, Grove initiated her next steps. She filed a police report for vandalism, notified her newly retained eviction attorney as to what happened, and initiated a formal eviction lawsuit against Mollison to try and get her out as soon as possible.

During what seemed to devolve into a standoff, Mollison’s boyfriend, Anthony Jones, came to the house. He approached Russo. “Let me tell you what’s going to happen,” he said. “She’s going to get to live here for free for a long time.”

roveGrove arrived back in Los Angeles a few days later, where she essentially moved into the detached office in the backyard. Russo, terrified for her goddaughter, told her that she was going to stay until Grove moved out at the end of the month. After the two endured another night of Mollison’s drunken antics (smoking cigarettes in the kitchen, doing what appeared to be cocaine off the counter, screaming at Russo through her bedroom door), the Los Angeles Police Department set a meeting at Grove’s home on March 19th to go over her complaint about Mollison’s vandalism.

Grove and Russo walked the assigned detective, Chris Choi, through Mollison’s behavior, and he seemed genuinely concerned and understanding. He also recommended to Grove that she file her own restraining order against Mollison as a form of legal protection.

It was another thing added to Grove’s growing to-do list. Not only did she have to avoid Mollison, but also look after her godmother, not get fired from her job, and find a new place to live. And now she had to keep accumulating more and more detailed records of her interactions with Mollison and the damage she had caused. The situation was consuming Grove, with every waking moment dedicated to the wreckage that Mollison had wrought.

Grove woke up the next day hoping to have a normal morning: work, a few chores, and then lunch. That’s when, at 12:01PM, Grove stepped out from her office and found six police officers standing in her backyard.

“Are you Frankee Grove?” one of them asked.

“Yes,” she responded.

“You’re under arrest.”

Grove felt herself leave her body. And then the cold metal grip of the handcuffs on her wrists, the cop’s hand on her arm, her feet beginning to shuffle toward the street. Grove could also hear, from over her shoulder, Russo begging the officers to let her go. As the cop brought Grove over to his cruiser, she saw Mollison standing on the sidewalk, arms crossed, a devious smirk stretched across her face.

“What is going on?” Grove asked one of the cops.

“She claims you assaulted her.”

Grove was in shock. She tried to explain that it wasn’t true, that it was actually Mollison who was terrorizing her, that a grave injustice was underfoot. But there was nothing the police could do. They brought Grove down to the police station, took her mugshot and fingerprints, and put her in a holding cell. Grove was drowning in shame. She had been arrested in broad daylight. What would her neighbors think of her? What if her boss found out? Shit. She was supposed to be working right now! What if someone was pinging her on Slack? What would she tell them? Grove hung her head in her hands. How would she get herself out of this mess?

Thankfully, her time in the slammer was short-lived. Instead of a formal arraignment, Grove was given a slip with a court date, where next steps would be hashed out. Grove walked out of the police station to find Russo waiting for her. They embraced, and Grove burst into tears. She couldn’t help but replay the trauma of being paraded out onto the street, shackled and in sweatpants, for the world to see, like a secret criminal who had finally been exposed.

Grove, relegated to the backyard office and consumed by anxiety, began compiling more evidence to refute Mollison’s claims, including logging clips from her home security cameras. She also ordered a body camera on Amazon, opting for overnight shipping.

The system — built to believe victims, believe women — mandated that Grove get handcuffed, mugshots, fingerprinted, and stuffed in a cell.

The next morning, Grove strapped the body camera to her chest and started preparing to leave for an Airbnb, where she could avoid Mollison and plot her next move. As she packed a bag and loaded up her car, Mollison’s friend, whom Grove had met when she visited the house previously, approached her in the backyard, holding a paper bag.

In a fake, lilting, overly friendly tone, as if on the verge of a cartoonish giggle, she said, “Frankee, I have something for you. Should I just leave it here?” She placed the bag on a picnic table in the backyard.

Grove ignored her, didn’t touch the paper bag, continued packing her car, and then left. Grove and Russo drove to their Airbnb, an apartment in a large concrete complex in Marina del Rey. They pulled into the underground parking garage and found a spot. Just then, Grove’s phone pinged: activity on her security camera. Grove opened her app, which fed a live feed to her phone.

Six police officers filed through the front door and into her house — guns drawn — and began clearing the space room by room.

“Oh my god,” Grove said. “They’re looking for me.”

roveGrove tried to understand how Mollison was able to convince the police to come back to the house and arrest her again — and how Mollison’s friend trying to hand her a paper bag came into play. As Grove would come to confirm later, Mollison’s scheme to have her arrested twice was actually a two-parter: First, Mollison falsely claimed that Grove assaulted her, resulting in Grove’s first arrest. Then, armed with that complaint and Grove’s detention, Mollison went to the Santa Monica courthouse and filed for a domestic violence restraining order, claiming that they were in a romantic relationship and that Grove was abusive. The court granted the order — which needed to be formally served to Grove, hence the paper bag — and, once Grove was “served,” Mollison claimed that Grove, being at the house, had violated the retraining order, making her eligible, once again, to be arrested.

The plan was calculated, diabolical, and extremely clever. In fact, Grove and Russo felt it was likely too clever and suspected that Mollison’s boyfriend, Anthony Jones, was actually the brains behind the plan. (Mollison did not respond to multiple requests for comment; Jones was unable to be reached for comment.)

But there was also a deeper, tragicomic irony that was not lost on Grove. She had become a victim of the same progressive politics — tenants’ rights, women’s rights — that she had championed all her life, in that the credence California’s justice system automatically gave so-called victims could, quite simply, be weaponized against an innocent person: her. She was furious that Mollison took advantage of a system meant to protect vulnerable people, and that Grove, the innocent person here, had no recourse in the moment, despite Mollison’s lack of credibility. The system — built to believe victims, believe women — mandated that Grove get handcuffed, mugshots, fingerprinted, and stuffed in a cell.

And now, seeing the cops back at her house, Grove was losing her religion.

As Grove watched the police parade through her house, she vowed not to leave her Airbnb — turning her refuge into a prison — lest the cops were looking for her. But it wasn’t like Grove was sitting around with nothing to do. She still had to work, and she had hired a criminal defense attorney to help her navigate the Kafkaesque nightmare that had become her plea to prove her innocence.

As part of this process, Grove wanted to find out as much about Mollison as possible. She discovered that Mollison was fired from Equinox for allegedly filing time cards for client sessions that never happened. Grove’s friend tried to reach Mollison’s relatives, but discovered that her family had, in fact, cut off contact with her, and were unwilling to help.

In the meantime, Grove’s criminal defense attorney, Dawn Dunbar, filed a motion in court for an emergency ex parte hearing so a carve-out could be implemented within the restrictions of Mollison’s domestic violence restraining order, allowing Grove access to her house. The judge granted it, and set another hearing so Dunbar could argue the merits of the restraining order itself. Simultaneously, Detective Choi finished investigating the vandalism allegations against Mollison and told Grove that he recommended vandalism and theft charges against Mollison with the Los Angeles District Attorney.

Choi explained that if the DA decided to file charges based on the evidence presented, an arrest warrant would be issued for Mollison. But, Choi said, because the DA was so backed up, it could be at least a year before there might be any movement.

Grove gasped. “A year?”

Still, she was hopeful. In the wake of George Floyd’s 2020 murder, Los Angeles had elected a hyper-progressive DA, but in 2024 had reverted back to a tough-on-crime stance, electing Nathan Hochman. Grove obviously didn’t vote for Hochman, but in a strange twist of fate she was now essentially praying that a lifelong Republican who once worked in the George W. Bush administration would levy charges against Mollison. (Once in office as DA, Hochman had immediately revoked a host of his predecessor’s policies, now allowing his staff to pursue the death penalty and sentencing enhancements, among other changes.) Grove had never in her life wished ill on another human being, and yet here she was, hoping that this woman who invaded her home would be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

Choi explained that Grove could, in the meantime, file a civil suit against Mollison for monetary damages, which Grove planned to do. Despite the timeline for criminal charges, Grove felt that the tables were finally beginning to turn in her favor. Her good luck continued. Grove’s lawyer, Dunbar, called with great news: The judge, in a move that Dunbar had not seen in almost 20 years of practice, dissolved Mollison’s domestic violence restraint order outright. Grove was ecstatic. She felt that she was on the verge of getting her life back.

roveGrove was able to go back to the house and finish packing. When the movers arrived later that week, she called the police for a civil standby, which are basically officers who hang out to prevent any drama. By a stroke of luck, the same officer that arrested Grove came to the house to keep the peace. Grove filled him in on what had happened, and the disclosure seemed to bring a sense of levity to the situation. He asked about Grove’s gardening techniques, and she gave the officer a few tips.

Still, Mollison was in the house. When it came time for Grove to take her belongings from Mollison’s bedroom, the two cops took the lead.

“We’re going to have to go into your room,” the officer said to Mollison. “Is the door locked?”

“Why don’t you go find out?” Mollison snapped back.

The officers were not pleased. They made their way into the bedroom, and Grove was able to finish packing without further confrontation. The movers brought her stuff to storage, the cops left, and Grove made her way to her Airbnb. She went back to the house one last time the next day. It was empty and quiet with just her in it, its rooms devoid of furniture, just like the first day she moved in. Softly, she thanked the house and said her final goodbye. This was not how she wanted to close this chapter of her life, but still she wanted to take the time, and the space, to make sure the home knew all that it did for her.

Grove made the seven-hour drive to her friend’s house in Marin, north of San Francisco, where she planned to crash for a little while. Something about the forest, with its late-winter rains and redwood trees, began to calm her, and the stress that had come to ravage her body slowly dissipated. She spent a week up there before coming back down to Los Angeles for her court hearing regarding the dual restraining orders Grove and Mollison had lobbed against each other. The judge made a quick decision: Mollison’s would be officially dissolved, and Grove’s would be formally instated for a three-year term.

Now that that was taken care of, Grove turned her attention to other matters: the pending battery charge against her (Grove and her attorneys filed a mitigation package with the district attorney, thwarting the charges), Mollison’s pending eviction (which was approved, but since there was a three-month delay for lockouts, Mollison was still able to live in the house rent-free, which only proved to Grove that the bureaucratic eviction process was basically meaningless until the sheriff showed up and kicked the tenant out), Grove’s landlord getting pissed because Mollison was basically allowed to squat there for the foreseeable future (Grove gave him $10,000 to avoid any civil action), and Grove’s lawsuit in small claims court against Mollison for the damage she caused at the house (which required Mollison to be formally served). The process server Grove hired hadn’t been able to find her, so she decided to do it herself.

A local guy that had a crush on Grove had wanted to take her out on a date, so she pitched him on a unique outing: Do you want to park your van in front of my old house and play Scrabble until my horrible roommate comes home? The guy, a digital nomad who embraced #vanlife, was down, so they made their way to Venice. After a couple hours, a Waymo pulled up in front of the house, and Mollison stepped out, headphones over her ears and a can of beer in her hand. Grove’s friend grabbed the paperwork, got out of the van, and approached Mollison. As soon as Mollison realized what was happening, she said, “I don’t live here,” and ran away. With Mollison served, the small claims lawsuit could proceed.

But Grove had to leave town. The next day, she flew to Cancún for her job’s annual employee retreat, and then stopped off in Tepoztlán, Mexico, to stay in a small vacation home that Grove’s extended family owned. Grove also wanted to see a shaman who lived in the area and whom Grove had known since she was a child. The shaman agreed to conduct a cord-cutting ceremony with her, so she could let go not only of the house, but of Mollison’s effect on her.

Grove laid down atop a table in the shaman’s quarters, surrounded by dried flowers and floral water and crystals, and tried to let go, to try and not let resentment control her.

“You really need to just trust that what is meant to happen to her will happen,” the shaman said.

Grove had always held a strong sense of right and wrong, but now felt both a hardened thirst for justice and a deep-seated shame that all of this, in the end, was her fault.

But it was deeper than that for Grove. She had to come to terms with the fact that her nightmare roommate ordeal had subverted her entire belief system. She wanted to trust people, to believe that she and those she loved were generally safe, and didn’t want this situation to have a lasting effect on who she was deep down. Grove had always held a strong sense of right and wrong, but now felt both a hardened thirst for justice and a deep-seated shame that all of this, in the end, was her fault. She feared it may make her a more skeptical person. Beyond that, however, she knew one thing to be true now that she had skin in the game: Rather than an aspect of her progressive ideology being flawed, she concluded that many — perhaps all! — foundational systems in this world are more dysfunctional than she could’ve ever imagined. Being an optimistic, heart-on-her-sleeve progressive did not make her immune to their consequences.

A few weeks later, in June, Grove made her way back to Los Angeles for her small claims court hearing. Mollison did not show up, and the judge sided in Grove’s favor, awarding her a $12,800 judgment. A month later, the sheriff’s office arrived at the house in Venice and officially evicted Mollison, who left without incident. Grove, wanting to collect on her small claims judgment, first filed a bank levy on Mollison’s account, but there weren’t any funds to seize. (As of this writing, Grove has yet to receive a penny from Mollison. The Los Angeles District Attorney declined to prosecute Mollison, but the case is still under review with the Los Angeles City Attorney.)

Grove filed to have Mollison’s wages garnished from Club Pilates, where she worked during her time as Grove’s roommate. But then Adela Sirbu, owner of Club Pilates Marina del Rey, called Grove and said that she had to fire Mollison for allegedly stealing socks, poaching clients, and coming to work drunk.

During their lengthy conversations, Grove kept her tone professional and matter-of-fact, sharing only enough to relay the trouble that Mollison had caused her. But it was Sirbu who seemed more eager to speak about Mollison, to understand what type of person was truly lurking underneath her online persona and that of an unscrupulous employee. And the more that they commiserated, the more Grove allowed herself to believe that forgiveness was not actually the solution. In fact, Grove felt ever more sure in her conviction that Mollison should be punished for what she had done. And yet Grove couldn’t come out and say it directly, to go against her shaman’s advice, to betray what she wanted to believe about herself, to admit what she felt deep down in her heart.

And then Sirbu ended up saying it for her: “I hope she ends up inprison.”