Two years ago this month I was sitting in a neck brace and a lot of pain when my phone rang. It was a criminal psychologist who worked for the public defender in a state where I used to live. They were desperate to help a young man they were positively convinced was terribly mentally ill. He was about to go on trial in a week for the random shootings of three persons, one of whom died.
When they told me who it was, you could have heard me WAIL out loud, and for days, which set back my recovery and had to have the surgery redone months later.
I had been stepmother to this little boy from the ages of 3-6, then again from 7-1/2 to 12. (In between a separation, due to danger to my life). At that time a therapist to whom I'd managed to get him, against his alcoholic abusive whoremongering father's wishes (who then wouldn't testify for his son for the same reason...the truth about his actions would come out) had recommended I leave his father and he go to a foster home, to preserve his and my lives. However, I was able to have his married brother in the Army in Germany take him to live with them after they'd lived with us for 3 mos. and this little boy felt secure with them.
That didn't work out either, for they also drank heavily, and he was in dire straits there, so after one year, he came back to his now-single-again father, and got into drugs to handle a multiplicity of horrible events in his young life. When he reached the mental breaking point, he went out and did something he still cannot account for doing. The public defender's office and their criminal psychologists were sure it was pure rage and pain, plus drugs, and a lesion on his brain, probably caused by cocaine.
So...now they were calling me, having found me through my SS#...to ask me to please go to that state and testify on his behalf, since in our conversation it was apparent that only I knew and would TELL the truth...his two sisters and his brother were too afraid of their father to go against him and testify! Neither would a great number of others they had approached testify.
I became the voice of this young man, whom I had always loved, missed, and wished to remain mother of, despite EVERYONE but one friend begging me not to so imperil myself at the hands of this dangerous father. The public defender arranged to have me picked up in a rental car by an investigator and driven there. They put me up in a motel without using my name, and the second night moved me.
As a witness, not being permitted into the courtroom until my testimony, I did not get to see my former stepson, child of my heart, until I was on the stand. I hadn't seen this 25-year-old since he was twelve. They had warned me, and I'd seen his newspaper photos, but I was still unprepared to see his psychiatrically-drugged condition. He sat there with his feet out as far as they would go under the table, more or less sprawled, and his eyes were unfocused. In other words, like Andrea Yates, he was a vegetable on trial for his life.
With great difficulty and not a few tears, often losing my breath, and the investigator told me causing one hardened artist to gasp and cry for this boy and me, I told his story.
When I finished, the prosecutor, whose table of aides was literally right under my face at a table horribly close to the stand, was upset himself for me. When the judge asked him if he had any cross-examination, he quietly said, "No." I knew he knew that both of us had suffered enough.
One of his sisters had summoned the courage to testify for him by then, BUT only if she would not be asked to say anything against her father, but it was very decent of her to come. I kept saying, to verify my words, "K is here, and she knows what I am saying is true." (She'd been 19 when I married her father.)
The team had told me we would "run the gauntlet" between a wall and columns, with reporters blocking us from going in between the columns to dodge them. I was to only say, "No comment" and keep moving. After a tearful reunion in the courtroom and ladies room, K and I left to run the gauntlet.
However, one male reporter put his mike in my face and said, after I'd said what they told me to, "Don't you want to tell D's story to everyone, as you did in there?" To my amazement the investigator said to me, "This guy is honest. Do it for D." Then he took me aside with this and a female reporter and even rushed back to the hotel nearby to get this boy's toddler studio photo!
When we saw the nightly news that night, and the newspapers next day (UGLY courtroom drawing of me), they spoke for this young person who could not speak, ever, for himself.
The judge (no jury) gave him life in prison. He sits there now. It may be worse than death.
For the first year I wrote continually, sending him childhood photos and anecdotes. They sent back a brand-new Bible I'd sent him...some rehab! They would not allow him to receive any foods sent via catalogs...only a local so-so store, IF I met various criteria...for Christmas. I could not send him a single gift. Only a money order. When I catalog-ordered him a set of drawing materials, due to his natural ability as an artist often raved over by his teachers, they never reached him. He wrote a few paragraphs. Then he called once, a year ago February. I sent him a birthday money order two weeks later. I have not heard from him again. I felt that I needed to let him go, because I could do little or nothing, and if he needed to not respond, that was one of the very, very small choices he had left in life. I do not know if it was from threats from his father to cut off money, or just his own inability to continue to relate.
However, let me tell you about the much-vaunted mental care in prisons in some places. It is non-existent. There was ONE prison in the whole state that offered anything, and his attorneys tried hard to get him into it, but failed. He gets no care for the brain lesion, no psychiatric care, nada. When we spoke, he was just trying to survive.
SO...any of you who think that this mentally-ill woman, whose condition has a medical name and which countless women suffer in one degree or another, and hers compounded by that rotten husband of hers, the pompous so-and-so, and whose psychiatrist failed her miserably, should then also be killed, think on this story and then make your judgement.
I have very different perceptions from this side of the coin.
And...lest anyone say, "Oh, but you've never be the victim!"...please recall my pleas for prayers here several times as I've tried to deal with the murder of a young woman who had become like such a daughter to me that she called me "Mom," affected my life last late August. I am still suffering, and her murderer hasn't been brought to justice yet...the case hasn't budged an inch since I last wrote here about it, seeking prayer, months ago.
Yes, I've seen all facets of the coin. Neither side is pretty. But I have learned from it that none of us is wise enough, good enough, thorough enough, informed enough, to pass judgments if we sit on a jury someday. My brother's done it 7 times, believe it or not, but I am thankful to never have been called, though I'd do it if I were selected (which I don't think I would be!)