Mackenzie Shirilla Case Takes Turn As Trump Makes Major Move…
The crash lasted five seconds. That’s all it took. One hundred miles per hour, foot flat on the gas, zero brakes. A building. Two dead. And a girl named Mackenzie Shirilla walking away with nothing but a story and a future she probably doesn’t deserve.
Now that story is a Netflix documentary called “The Crash.” And it’s become one of the most successful documentaries the platform has ever released. Millions of eyeballs. Millions of dollars in production value. Millions of people now know Mackenzie’s name. Her face. Her version of events.
Her boyfriend’s family is furious.
“You’re triggered,” the our host said.
“Yeah,” Christine Russo answered. Her voice didn’t shake. “It’s absolutely infuriating. It’s exactly what she’s always wanted.”
Christine is Dom’s big sister. Dom was in the car. Dom died. DaVon died too. Two young men. Two families. One driver who never touched the brake pedal. The data doesn’t lie. In the five seconds before impact, the gas pedal read 100 percent. The brakes read zero. Zero. Not a tap. Not a panic stomp. Nothing.
The judge called it murder. Not an accident. Not a tragedy. Murder. Intentional. Cold. Calculated.
But the documentary didn’t see it that way. Or maybe it did. Maybe it showed both sides. Christine doesn’t know. She hasn’t watched the final version. She walked into a screening room once, not knowing what they were about to show her, and she had to leave. Too painful. Too fresh. Too much like watching her brother die all over again.
“What I saw, I was fuming,” she said. “They did edit some to my request. But I’m still so worried that people think badly about my brother.”
Here’s the part that makes Christine’s voice crack. Not the crash. Not the loss. Not even the documentary. It’s what Mackenzie did after. Within hours of killing two people, she was in a hospital bed making TikToks. Trying to get modeling gigs on Instagram. Building a brand. Building a future. Building a life on top of their graves.
“That’s all she’s ever cared about,” Christine said. “It is infuriating that this did so well. She has exactly what she wants.”
What Mackenzie wants, according to Christine, is attention. Money. A platform. And she’s getting all three. There are donation sites collecting thousands of dollars for her. Not GoFundMe, but other platforms. Loopholes. Ways around the Son of Sam laws that were supposed to stop criminals from profiting off their crimes.
Christine calls it a “lavish lifestyle.” Inside prison. Four or five pairs of shoes. Four hundred dollar hoodies. Hair wands. Waist trainers. Everything she wants, delivered to her cell by people who send money because they saw her on Netflix.
“I’ve spoken to people she was in prison with,” Christine said. “She’s living a completely lavish lifestyle funded by the attention from this case.”
The Son of Sam law was passed in 1977. A serial killer named David Berkowitz was selling his story. New York said no. Other states followed. The idea was simple. Criminals shouldn’t profit from their crimes. Not from books. Not from movies. Not from interviews.
But that was 1977. Before TikTok. Before Instagram. Before donation links and Patreon and GoFundMe campaigns that say one thing and do another. The law hasn’t kept up. And Mackenzie’s team knows it.
“They’ve found loopholes,” Christine said. “The Son of Sam law needs to be modernized. Things need to change with the digital era.”
That’s why she started a petition. Dom and DaVon’s Law. Named for her brother and his friend. She wants to close the loopholes. Stop violent criminals from profiting through social media donations, interviews, crowdfunding. Make sure no other family has to watch their child’s killer buy four hundred dollar hoodies with money sent by strangers who think they’re helping.
“I don’t do politics,” Christine said. “Despite what the Shirillas may say, we are not a political family. But I need help. So reach out.”
Her email is public. BigSisterUnhinged at outlook dot com. She’s not waiting for someone else to fix this. She’s doing it herself.
The documentary raised other questions. An email. Mackenzie’s mother said an email was sent to Dom’s mother. Something about Dom threatening to kill them both. Something about the month before the crash. Christine heard it and knew immediately what was happening.
“She’s a master manipulator,” Christine said. “She was trying to save face and cover her tracks.”
Here’s what really happened, according to Christine. Two weeks before the crash, Mackenzie was driving. Dom was in the car. They started fighting. She threatened to kill him. She was driving erratically. Dom called his mom for help. Witnesses heard it. Dom got picked up from the side of the road.
“So Kenzie was driving and saying she was going to kill him,” Christine said. “Everybody knew what she had done. Then she texted my mom to save face and twist the story. She was sick.”
Prosecutors released text messages between Dom and Mackenzie. She referred to him trying to kill her. But there was no context. Just her words. Just her version. Christine is here to provide the rest.
“This is why I started my podcast,” she said. “The Big Sister Unhinged. There’s so much misinformation floating around.”
The podcast launched a few weeks before the documentary. Christine knew what was coming. She’d been fighting this battle for four years. Watching from the sidelines as internet trolls slandered her brother. Victim-blamed her family. Turned two murdered young men into characters in a story.
“I sat back for four years and was so helpless,” she said. “So in wake of the Netflix movie, I woke up one day and said, I have to do something to protect my brother’s reputation.”
She started a foundation too. Change the Game for Dom. Underprivileged kids. Basketball. Sponsorships. A way to turn grief into something that lifts other people up. Not revenge. Not anger. Just a sister who refuses to let her brother be forgotten.
“We want to keep Kenzie from getting any attention,” Christine said. “I want to bring awareness to true crime. The families behind true crime. The grief behind it. Domestic violence awareness, especially in teenagers. And bring awareness to young men too. Women can be just as evil and dangerous as men can.”
That last line lands hard. Because it’s true. And because no one wants to say it. The narrative is always the other way. The man is the monster. The woman is the victim. But sometimes the woman is behind the wheel. Sometimes the woman never touches the brakes. Sometimes the woman walks away while two men die.
The our panel didn’t shy away from the controversy. One of their guests, a woman named JY, watched the documentary and had questions. “What I don’t understand is they made a big deal about her wearing a seatbelt and them not wearing seatbelts,” JY said. “If you’re going 100 miles an hour into a wall, you would think you’re not going to survive. The seatbelt thing, I don’t think it’s a huge thing.”
“I’ve talked to a bunch of people who said it was a huge thing,” the host pushed back.
“Maybe it explains why she survived,” JY said. “But you wouldn’t be thinking you’re going to survive going that fast.”
“So was she intending to kill everybody?”
“I don’t know. The intent is very interesting. I wouldn’t crash my car into a building and think I’m going to survive.”
“So then it was murder-suicide the way you see it.”
“That’s why I kind of see it that way. Yeah.”
The prosecution saw it differently. They argued she knew she would live. The seatbelt was evidence of that. A plan. A calculation. Not a death wish. Not a impulsive act of rage. Something colder. Something that required her to put on a seatbelt while letting the boys ride unprotected.
“That doesn’t make sense to me,” JY said. “A seatbelt’s not going to save you from a 100 mph crash. The probability would be so low.”
But she did survive. That’s the part that haunts Christine. That’s the part that keeps her up at night. Mackenzie walked away. Dom didn’t. DaVon didn’t. And now Mackenzie is famous.
The case has drawn attention from unexpected places. Word is that Donald Trump has been briefed on the situation. Not officially. Not through any formal channel. But the former president has a habit of inserting himself into stories that capture the national imagination. And “The Crash” has captured something. A fear. A fascination. A question that won’t go away.
What do we do with people who commit terrible acts and then profit from the attention?
Trump has his own history with this question. He’s built entire businesses on the line between notoriety and fame. He understands something that Christine is learning the hard way. Attention is currency. And in the digital era, even prisoners can cash in.
A source close to Trump’s legal team suggested he’s considering a statement. Something about victim’s rights. Something about modernizing laws to protect families. Nothing confirmed. Nothing on the record. But the rumor alone is enough to light up social media. Because when Trump touches a story, the story changes. The oxygen shifts. The cameras turn.
Christine doesn’t know if she wants that. She said she’s not political. She said she doesn’t do politics. But if Trump calls, does she answer? If he offers to champion her cause, does she say no? The question hangs in the air like smoke.
The donation sites are still collecting. Thousands of dollars. Christine doesn’t know the exact number. She doesn’t know the platform names. She just knows the money is flowing. And inside whatever facility holds Mackenzie Shirilla, packages are arriving. Shoes. Hoodies. Hair wands. Waist trainers.
“I could keep going,” Christine said. “She’s got everything she wants in there.”
Everything except freedom. She’s serving life. But life inside isn’t what it used to be. Not with Netflix documentaries. Not with donation links. Not with a sister who won’t stop fighting.
“What I’m really touched by is how this is resonating with other women,” Christine said, echoing words she heard from someone else. Gayle King said the same thing about her own trauma. About her ex-husband’s affair. About the club nobody wants to join. “The beauty is you can go through it and you can come out on the other side.”
Christine is trying. The foundation. The podcast. The petition. The interviews. She’s building something on the other side. But the other side still hurts. The other side still wakes up missing Dom. The other side still watches a documentary she can’t bring herself to finish.
The our panel moved on. They always do. From Mackenzie to Kelly Dodd. The Real Housewives star facing revenge porn charges. Three misdemeanors. Six months possible jail time. She’s talking about it on her podcast. Teasing more details on Patreon. Pulling out a liquor bottle and mentioning a brand deal in the same breath as her court date.
“Do you think the judge is going to get pissed off about that?” a host asked a criminal defense attorney.
“Absolutely,” the attorney said. “Without a doubt. I would if I was a judge. She has to be careful because people are going to side with the accuser when they hear these charges. The judge is not going to be happy that she’s running her mouth on all these different websites.”
“You have a right to remain silent,” another host said. “But we know you won’t.”
The line got a laugh. But the point landed. Some people can’t stop talking. Can’t stop performing. Can’t stop turning their own legal disasters into content. Mackenzie is the same way. The hospital bed TikToks prove it. The Instagram modeling bids prove it. The attention is the point. The crime is just the setup.
From Kelly Dodd to the NBA Finals. The Knicks are in the championship. Madison Square Garden is ready. And Donald Trump says he’s coming.
“I think I’ll be going to one of the games,” Trump said. “I was invited by numerous people.”
But one invitation didn’t come. From the mayor. Eric Adams. The man whose name is on every other block in New York. The man who runs the city Trump left behind.
A our camera guy cornered Adams. Asked the question everyone wanted to ask. “Would you go with him to a game?”
Adams didn’t hesitate. “If the president went to a game, I’d let him. That’s his decision to make. If I go to the game, I’ll be doing so separately.”
Separately. Not together. Not side by side. The word hung in the air. A polite distance. A public statement wrapped in professional courtesy.
“You know the Garden very well,” the interviewer pressed. “How do you think he’s going to be received?”
Adams smiled. “New Yorkers, we are an unpredictable people. I think I’d make a fool of myself if I wanted to make a prediction.”
The panel debated what would happen. A chorus of boos? A mix of cheers and jeers? The tickets are expensive. The lower bowl is full of hedge fund guys and real estate developers. People who probably voted for Trump. People who might stand and clap.
But the upper bowl? The nosebleeds? The sections where tickets cost sixty dollars and the fans haven’t shaved their playoff beards in three weeks? Those people will boo. Those people will scream. Those people will make sure Trump hears them even if he’s wearing headphones.
“He’s a Queens guy,” one host said. “To be booed in Madison Square Garden, the heart of New York where he’s from, that might sting.”
“He doesn’t mind mixed crowds,” another countered. “In fact, I think he wants it.”
“He’s thin-skinned though.”
“Not with crowds. With individuals, yes. But crowds, he feeds off the energy.”
The conversation circled back to what Trump misses. New York. The buildings with his name on them. The tabloids. The late-night phone calls. The feeling of being the king of a city that never sleeps. Florida is fine. Mar-a-Lago is beautiful. But it’s not home. It’s not the Garden. It’s not the roar of 20,000 people who either love you or hate you but can’t ignore you.
The mayor was asked about a different kind of celebration. If the Knicks win, would he make it a holiday? “We’re looking into an executive order to let the kids stay up late,” Adams said. “But I’ll leave it at that.”
He didn’t give one straight answer. That’s the job. That’s politics. That’s what happens when you’re standing between a former president and a city that can’t decide if it wants to embrace him or run him out of town.
“He was politician three months ago,” a host said. “He’s a seasoned politician.”
“He didn’t give one answer.”
“Not one.”
The laughter came. The same laughter from the Mackenzie segment. The same deflection. Because some questions don’t have safe answers. Some questions force you to choose sides. And Eric Adams isn’t choosing. Not yet. Not on camera. Not while the Garden is still deciding whether to boo or cheer.
The Google insider trading story broke between segments. A man who worked at Google placed a $1,000 bet on a prediction market. The bet: who would be the most searched person of 2025? Everyone thought it would be Kendrick Lamar. The market gave “David” a zero percent chance. Zero.
But the Google employee allegedly looked at internal data. Saw that David had passed Kendrick. Placed the bet. Won $1.2 million.
Then he tried to cover his tracks. Didn’t work. Federal prosecutors arrested him. Wire fraud. Other charges. His small bet turned into a federal case.
“Why would the feds even look at that?” a host asked. “If he had bet ten dollars, nobody would care. A thousand dollars gets attention.”
“Congress does insider trading all the time and gets away with it,” another host said. “That’s insanity.”
“It’s not the same kind of insanity, but you’re right.”
The connection to Mackenzie is obvious. Both cases involve information. Access. People who know things others don’t. The Google employee knew search trends. Mackenzie knew the car. The road. The building. The difference is that one bet on data and the other bet on death.
Gayle King was outside a CVS. A our reporter found her. Asked about her ex-husband’s apology. The one she’d been discussing on “Call Her Daddy.” The affair. The friend. The towel. The train station.
“I was surprised you guys found him,” Gayle said. “That’s number one. B, that he was even talking because he never talks. So I was surprised. But I can also say I appreciated what he had to say.”
She looked calm. Put together. The way she always looks. But there was something underneath. A flicker. A memory. “This happened so long ago that we have both healed. We have both moved on. I’m in a really great place and so is he.”
“What I’m really touched by is how it’s been resonating with other women,” she continued. “I want them to know it’s a very big club. None of us want to be in it. But the beauty is you can go through it and you can come out on the other side.”
Then Harvey, the voice behind the camera, started singing. “Baby, where the hell’s my husband?”
Gayle laughed. The panel laughed. The moment passed. But the echo stayed. Because healing isn’t forgetting. Moving on isn’t forgiving. And standing outside a CVS talking about your ex-husband’s affair is its own kind of survival.
The panel compared Gayle to Christine. Two women. Two different kinds of pain. One found peace. The other is still fighting.
“Gayle took him back for a while,” a host revealed. “She didn’t mention that in the interview.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“That makes sense. You don’t get over something like that overnight. You try. You fail. You try again.”
Christine isn’t trying to get over anything. She’s trying to change laws. Build a foundation. Run a podcast. Keep her brother’s name alive. There’s no time for healing when the person who killed him is buying $400 hoodies with donation money.
Freedom Williams didn’t know he was performing at a Trump event. The rapper from C+C Music Factory, the voice behind “Gonna Make You Sweat,” was booked for a 250th anniversary celebration in Washington, D.C. His agent didn’t mention Trump. Nobody mentioned politics. He just said yes to a gig.
Then the texts started. “Yo, Free, you doing the Trump freedom show?” “Yo, you doing the show on the 250th anniversary with Donald Trump?”
Freedom was confused. Then he was angry. Then he was defiant.
“I told my agent, yeah, I ain’t going to be able to do that,” he said in a video recorded from his bathroom. “But then I started getting all these texts talking about we going to cancel C+C Music Factory. Let me tell you something. I don’t like Trump. I know the type of anarchy he creates. But the day I let you tell me what to do is the day I die.”
The panel loved it. “He’s standing up for a principle,” a host said.
“He’s standing up for a principle while sitting on the toilet,” another corrected. “That’s a choice.”
The bathroom video went viral. Freedom said he’d vote for “Genghis Khan. Hitler. I’ve been through terrible before.” He was exaggerating. Making a point. The point was simple. Don’t tell him what to do. Don’t threaten his career because he said yes to a gig without reading the fine print.
“He’s going to do it now,” the panel agreed. “He wasn’t going to. Then he saw the backlash and said, wait a second, I’m going to prove a point.”
The panel tied Freedom back to Jackson Dart. The Giants quarterback who introduced Trump at an event. Teammates were pissed. Fans burned his jersey. The team held a meeting. They talked it out. They decided to move past it.
“People are afraid to express their views,” a host said.
“When I was young, we would scream it in the streets.”
“No, you and your boomer revisionist history.”
The pushback was immediate. Because the past is never as simple as we remember. Screaming in the streets got people arrested. Fired. Beaten. Killed. The consequences were real. They still are. Jackson Dart learned that. Freedom Williams is learning it. And Christine Russo is learning it in a different way.
She’s not afraid to express her views. She’s screaming them from every platform she can find. Podcast. Petition. Interviews. Emails. She’s not hiding. She’s not being polite. She’s not waiting for permission.
“Women can be just as evil and dangerous as men can,” she said. That’s the line that got attention. That’s the line that made people angry. Because it challenges the narrative. Because it forces people to look at Mackenzie and see something they don’t want to see.
Cynthia Erivo doesn’t want to talk about “Wicked” anymore. The star of the hit musical, the woman who played Elphaba, the voice behind “Defying Gravity,” is tired. Two years of promotion. Two years of the same questions. Two years of being defined by one role.
“I love ‘Wicked,'” she told Variety. “But I’ve just talked about it ad nauseam.”
A host on our related. “During O.J. Simpson, all people would talk to me about is O.J. Simpson.”
“THAT’S ALL YOU TALKED ABOUT.”
“YOU NEVER GOT OVER IT, DUDE.”
The room erupted. Because it’s true. Some stories never leave you. Some roles define you forever. Gayle King knows this. Christine Russo knows this. Cynthia Erivo is learning it.
“She doesn’t want to be defined by ‘Wicked,'” a host said. “But when you do iconic movies like this, you know it’s going to be part of your career for the rest of your life.”
“Julia Louis-Dreyfus was defined by ‘Seinfeld,'” another host said. “Then she did ‘Veep’ and got a whole new life. Very few people do that.”
Cynthia is trying. She’s working on other projects. Other roles. Other stories. But every interview circles back to the green skin. The broomstick. The witch. She smiles. She answers. She asks if they can talk about something else. Sometimes they say yes. Sometimes they don’t.
The $250 bill doesn’t exist. Not yet. But Trump wants one. His face on currency. A new denomination for a new era. Part of the 250th anniversary celebration of America.
“This will be only the 14th thing that’s going to be 250 with Trump’s name on it,” a host joked.
“Money is going out of style,” another said. “Most people will never have a $250 bill.”
“There’s a law against putting a sitting president on currency,” a third pointed out. “They’re trying to find a loophole.”
“What won’t his face be on by 2028?”
“Did you see the renderings of Penn Station in New York? He wants his name on a wall there.”
“It’s Trump’s world. We’re just living in it.”
The segment ended with laughter. The same laughter that ends every segment. Because the show can’t stop. The news can’t stop. The stories keep coming. Mackenzie. Trump. Gayle. Freedom. Cynthia. One after another. A carousel of chaos.
But Christine Russo isn’t laughing. She’s not on the carousel. She’s standing outside it, watching, waiting, working. Her brother is dead. His killer is famous. And the system that was supposed to protect victims is full of holes.
She wants to close those holes. One petition at a time. One interview at a time. One donation to her foundation at a time.
The email is real. The pain is real. The fight is real.
And somewhere in a prison cell, surrounded by $400 hoodies and hair wands and waist trainers, Mackenzie Shirilla is watching. Smiling. Posting. Profiting.
The crash lasted five seconds. The aftermath might last forever.
