![]() Some cities have fabled bridges where the hopeless go to end it all. To them, the scene was nothing new: just another jumper. In the distance, the pool glistened in the Florida sunshine.Ĭops and firefighters arrived within minutes at the Sunny Isles Beach condo on that October morning in 2007. Ceil's blood pressure dropped so low she nearly fainted. What do I do? Who do I call? My God, what are the odds? he thought. "She had to be removed piece by piece."įred paced around, trying to be a good decision maker. ![]() "Her body splattered everywhere," Ceil recalls with a deep breath. She had landed four feet from the Feldmans' patio door. She was a 61-year-old terminal cancer patient. Or, more precisely, she had taken a dose of morphine, stood on a lawn chair, and jumped from her 24th-floor balcony. Her name was Khinna, and she had fallen from the sky. Near her head, blood formed a puddle on the cool concrete. He walked closer and found a fair-skinned, 89-pound brunette face-down and limp. Through the glass door, he caught a glimpse of a figure on his patio. "I thought a picture had fallen off the wall," he remembers. Then there was a strange and heavy thump.įred set his mug down and stood up. Even the palm trees below, with their downturned fronds, looked sleepy. Only white lounge chairs occupied the pool deck outside their door. Life hadn't yet begun to buzz at Sands Pointe Condominium. From their kitchen table, on the sixth floor, the elderly couple gazed in comfortable silence at the ocean. Fred and Ceil Feldman sat down for coffee and toast inside their snug beachside condo just before 8 a.m.
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