Public memory is often shaped less by facts than by repetition. Once a story takes hold, it tends to resurface unchanged, even as circumstances evolve, evidence emerges, and legal proceedings move forward. The ongoing coverage surrounding Rebecca Grossman offers a clear example of how that dynamic can quietly distort public understanding, particularly when tragedy, media attention, and unresolved litigation intersect.
The recent attention surrounding a foster care initiative launched by the Iskander family has once again brought the underlying case back into the spotlight. Any discussion of this effort must begin with recognition of profound loss. The deaths of Mark and Jacob Iskander are an immeasurable tragedy, one that permanently altered their family’s lives. Grief of that magnitude is real, enduring, and deserving of compassion.
But compassion does not absolve the media, or the public, of responsibility when recounting facts connected to an active legal case. And when disputed claims are repeated as settled truth, especially during appellate review and pending civil litigation, the consequences extend far beyond storytelling.
The Rebecca Grossman case is not closed. Her criminal conviction is under appellate review. Civil discovery has concluded. A civil jury trial is forthcoming. This procedural posture matters.
When media outlets revisit the case now, they are not recounting history; they are intervening in an ongoing legal process. That distinction is critical, yet often overlooked in human-interest reporting, where emotional resonance can eclipse legal precision.
Recent broadcast coverage framed the foster care initiative as a moment of healing while reintroducing allegations from the criminal case without acknowledging their contested nature. In doing so, it revived a familiar narrative, one formed in the immediate aftermath of the tragedy and repeated largely unchanged ever since.
One editorial decision in particular illustrates the problem. A reporter posed the question of whether Rebecca Grossman had ever apologized, presenting the response without verification or context and without reference to a substantial record showing otherwise.
That question was not neutral. It implicitly reinforced the idea that no remorse had been expressed, an idea that has been widely circulated despite evidence to the contrary.
Journalism does not require defending defendants. But it does require distinguishing between what is alleged, what is disputed, and what is documented. When that distinction collapses, narrative replaces record.
Independent reporting, court filings, and deposition testimony paint a more complete picture of Rebecca Grossman’s actions following the collision.
Video from the scene shows Grossman visibly distressed once she became aware that children were involved. Over time, she sent multiple letters to the Iskander family expressing sorrow and empathy. These communications were sustained, personal, and documented, so persistent that prosecutors eventually sought court intervention to limit further contact.
Those facts are not speculative. They are supported by records and corroborated accounts. Yet they are often omitted from mainstream retellings of the case.
At sentencing, the only point at which Grossman was permitted to speak directly, she again attempted to address the Iskander family. As she began, Nancy Iskander and her mother stood and moved to leave the courtroom. That moment is frequently framed as proof of Grossman’s indifference. In reality, it reflects something else: a refusal to receive words of remorse.
Such a refusal is understandable in the context of grief. It is not, however, evidence that remorse was never offered.
Another recurring theme in public commentary is frustration with the continuation of legal proceedings. Statements suggesting that appeals and civil actions “keep wounds open” resonate emotionally but risk mischaracterizing the legal process.
Appeals are not optional. They are a constitutional safeguard designed to address potential legal error, evidentiary exclusion, or procedural unfairness. In the Rebecca Grossman case, appellate review carries particular weight given the volume of evidence excluded from the criminal trial and the emergence of additional information through civil discovery.
Portraying appellate review as an unnecessary prolongation of pain reframes due process as obstruction. That framing may satisfy emotional impulses, but it undermines public understanding of how justice functions.
The Iskander family’s decision to proceed to civil trial rather than settle is fully within their rights. It also carries foreseeable implications.
Civil trials reopen factual questions. They compel sworn testimony. They surface evidence not previously examined. In this case, civil discovery has already highlighted unresolved investigative and evidentiary issues that were not fully explored during the criminal proceedings.
Public messaging that ignores those realities risks presenting a misleading sense of finality at a moment when the law itself has not reached one.
Compounding these issues is the continued operation of a social media page created in the names of the Iskander children and administered by activist Julie Denny Cohen. The page has frequently disseminated unverified claims, hostile rhetoric, and coordinated online attacks targeting individuals connected to the case.
The tone and tactics employed stand in contrast to the restorative aims associated with the foster care initiative. While grief can explain anger, it does not justify the spread of misinformation or harassment.
When such content circulates unchecked, it further entrenches a single storyline—one that resists correction even as the evidentiary record evolves.
The media’s role in cases like Rebecca Grossman’s is not merely to reflect public sentiment. It is to interrogate claims, contextualize disputes, and resist the temptation to recycle narratives simply because they are familiar or emotionally compelling.
When reporters repeat contested assertions without acknowledgment of contrary evidence, they shape public perception in ways that can influence jurors, witnesses, and the broader legal environment. That influence is amplified when litigation remains active.
None of this diminishes the Iskanders’ loss or undermines the value of their charitable efforts. Supporting foster families is meaningful work. That truth stands independently.
But empathy does not negate the obligation to report accurately, especially when the stakes involve a person’s liberty and the integrity of the legal system.
Rebecca Grossman has never denied her involvement in the accident. What she has consistently rejected is the portrayal of her actions as malicious, grossly reckless, or evasive—characterizations that remain contested and were promoted despite contradictory evidence.
That distinction is essential. It deserves acknowledgment, not erasure.
As the civil case approaches trial and appellate courts continue their review, the cost of repeating disputed claims grows higher. Public commentary does not exist in a vacuum. It shapes expectations, hardens assumptions, and narrows the space for fair adjudication.
Tragedy deserves compassion. Charity deserves support. But justice requires restraint, precision, and a willingness to revisit what we think we know.
When a story is repeated often enough, it can feel immutable. But the law moves more deliberately for a reason. Accuracy is not an inconvenience—it is the foundation on which fairness depends.
