Don't Be Fooled Into Thinking "It Will Never Happen To Me" ... I Made The Mistake Of Thinking That For So Many Years ... I Was Wrong
In
January, my daughter was assaulted in our home. The events of that night come
into focus with a sharpness that I cannot describe, carved into my memory with
an acuteness that can only be explained as indelible, forever haunting my soul,
robbing me of any sense of security I may ever feel. It is a feeling that one
cannot imagine, one so intense, so completely overpowering that it leaves you
weak, trembling from its dominance. Yet more than anything else, it is a feeling
that no parent should ever have to face, should never have to come to terms
with. A feeling of fear, of
helplessness, of shark terror. But there’s more.
It’s also the knowledge that someone wants to harm your child, has in
fact been watching her, carefully calculating the moment for his attack.
It is a feeling of pure unadulterated hatred and loathing for another
human being.
It was around midnight that I first noticed the car. It had pulled up outside of our home, was sitting idly in front, motor running, headlights on. I was working on the computer, and because my desk is in front of the window that overlooks our front yard, I saw the car instantly. It sat there for almost ten minutes, no other sign of activity other than headlights and running motor. My daughter Lennie is seventeen, an age where kids will often drop by unannounced. Even though it was late, most of her friends’ curfew wasn’t for another hour or two. It occurred to me that perhaps it was one of her friends, waiting to see if she was still awake before knocking on the door. I called to her, telling her that I thought she might have company, but that I didn’t recognize the car. She walked over to my desk, showing her full image in the window. Yet as soon as she stood up, the car sped away. Disregarding the incident as odd, but nothing out of the ordinary, I worked a while longer while Lennie continued reading her book.
Once she opened the door, she realized she didn’t know the man who stood before her. Yet, my daughter is an outgoing person, she trusts easily, believes in the goodness she is certain is inside of everyone. So when he asked to please use our telephone, she closed the door, came to me, explaining who it was. I remember questioning her, asking if it wasn’t a little odd to want to use someone’s phone at that hour of the morning. Yet she felt it was just a friend of a neighbor, and didn’t want to be rude. Assuming the man had some sort of trouble or he wouldn’t have been ringing our doorbell, I was fatefully equally as trusting, and I only nodded, watching her walk away with the telephone.
That is my last purely calm and rational thought of that night. Within what seemed like seconds, I heard my daughter’s screams – screams of pure panic and terror. The sounds of her cries still echo in my mind, it is a sound I carry with me every waking moment, a sound that denies me the comfort of sleep, a sound that threatens to destroy my very sanity. I sat up in bed, my first thought being that it wasn’t happening, no, not my daughter, there was a mistake, it wasn’t real. Yet instantly, I disregarded those thoughts, and mother instinct took over. Never even thinking about of calling the police, the only thing I knew beyond any doubt was that I had to reach my daughter, had to help her. I glanced quickly around the room, searching for a weapon I could use, fully prepared to give up and race down the steps empty handed if none were available. My eyes fell on a paddle, a souvenir from my fiancé’s college fraternity days. I grabbed it, knowing it was better than nothing. By this time I was screaming, crying, racing for the stairs. I could hear the struggle ensuing downstairs, Lennie’s screams had only intensified, each outcry being answered by one of my own, equally as desperate. I cannot tell you the thoughts racing through my head at that moment, I can only tell you that as I reached the top of the stairs, I closed my eyes, praying to God that I would find her alive when I reached the bottom. It was then that I heard the crash. My heart jumped, froze in my chest as I frantically raised the paddle over my head and rushed towards the landing.
When I reached the landing, Lennie was on her hands and knees, crawling towards me. Her lip was bleeding badly, and there was a look on her face that shattered my heart. I hurried to her, pulling her with me towards the bedroom, screaming questions at her; where was he, did she lock the door, what had happened. Crying, flailing anxiously, we dragged each other back to the bedroom, locking the door behind us before collapsing on the floor in each other’s arms. Desperately, Lennie stood up, screaming at me to call 911, to please hurry, that he might have gotten back inside. Shaking, petrified, we dialed 911, convinced that at any moment, the bedroom door would crash in and he would be there, ready to finish what he had started.
Unfortunately, this was only the beginning of the nightmare that was to become our lives. The officer arrived and looked around the house, filed a “simple assault” charge, and left after telling us to be more careful, and reminding us not to answer the door unless we knew in advance who it was. My beautiful daughter had sat at the kitchen table talking to the officer. She was bleeding from both her lip as well as the injuries on her back. The telephone lay on the floor where the man had thrown it, untouched. Yet, even though we asked several times that he please dust at least the telephone for fingerprints, or perhaps photograph Lennie’s injuries, the officer refused, saying there wasn’t much point. I know that as a victim of a crime, you are left with feelings of insecurity, having fears that are sometimes difficult to cope with. I had all of these, had the feelings of not being safe, of being afraid of any little noise, but there was more. I also had the feeling that calling the police had been a joke, that they hadn’t taken us seriously, what’s worse, a premonition that the whole incident wasn’t going to be given much attention.
The next morning, I awoke after having only been asleep for mere hours. Feeling completely distraught and helpless, I signed online, trying to find something, anything to occupy my time. I suppose out of a feeling of wanting to do something, regardless of how inconsequential it may be, I logged onto the State Police Sexual Offenders Registry. Never once did I honestly think I would find anything, never once did I consider that what I would find would alter our lives even more. Yet, I began pouring through the files, searching in our city for registered offenders, pulling out the ones that matched the very detailed description Lennie had given the police.
When Lennie awoke later that morning, I asked her if she would please humor me, at least look at the pictures I had found. I remember telling her that it probably wouldn’t amount to anything, but that it couldn’t hurt either. Yet moments later, I knew beyond a doubt that I was wrong. Her reaction is another of those moments that becomes forever embedded in a mother’s heart. When the picture came into focus on the screen, I was watching Lennie, talking to her. I watched her face crumble before me. Her body shook, she fell to her knees, crying, sobbing, repeating over and over “Oh my God Mom, it’s him, call the police, please, it’s him.” My hands were shaking as I turned to get a good look at the picture of the man in front of me. My heart turned to ice as I pictured him there in front of her, his hands on her, groping for purchase on her small body. I looked back at my daughter, asking her to be sure, reminding her that we couldn’t make an accusation if she had any doubts whatsoever. “Mom, I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. I will never forget his face as long as I live.” With those words, I reached for the phone – I knew without question that this was the man who had attacked my daughter.
The police once again came to our home and made an update on the report. Once again, they refused to dust for fingerprints, refused to photograph Lennie’s injuries, explained that they were very understaffed in this area. Because we lived in what is proudly referred to as “one of the safest areas” of Hampton Roads, they didn’t have the personnel to really be able to tell me just when they would get around to doing anything about this. When I asked them point blank just when we could expect to have this man locked up, their response both terrified me and troubled me. “I don’t know what to tell you, it may be a week, it may be six months before they even get around to talking to him” the officer had responded. He also told me that because of the way we had identified Lennie’s assailant, from a picture on the Internet, that our identification would automatically be suspect. My heart sunk – what difference did it make how we had identified this man? He had attacked my daughter with undeniable malicious intentions. Wasn’t that the real issue here? Apparently not in the eyes of the officer in front of me.
Later that afternoon, a friend stopped by. An officer with a neighboring police force, she was not only very worried about Lennie, but was especially upset over the way the police had handled the whole incident. Her first concern was over the way the report had been filed. Having forced his way into our home, the man was also guilty of breaking and entering – also known as burglary – which was a felony. Additionally, because Lennie had been bleeding, it was a felony assault – not “simple assault” which was only a misdemeanor. She explained that if the charge were allowed to stand, it would be the difference between a simple slap on the wrist, or something actually being done to stop this man. With her help, I telephoned the police department and asked to speak to a supervisor, voicing a multitude of complaints.
By that night, the charge had been upgraded to felony assault, and additional charges of abduction and breaking and entering had been filed. The First Sergeant had come over and personally tested the front door for fingerprints, yet still no one had tested the telephone, nor had anyone photographed Lennie’s injuries.
By Monday, a detective was assigned to the case. He called me that afternoon, and appeared to be as concerned as myself that the case had been handled so recklessly. Without delay he sent forensics out to dust the entire property for fingerprints and to photograph Lennie’s injuries. Although it had been two days since the attack, the wounds were still raw and inflamed, the knot on her head glaringly prominent. At approximately six that night, the detective called to tell me that the man had been arrested and was in jail. As we realized all too quickly, that didn’t mean our troubles were over.
Within two days, the man was released on bail. Even though I had begged the detective to notify me of his release, I was told that they couldn’t do that, so I found out the hard way – when the man began stalking our home again. I should perhaps mention that the police feel this man had been watching Lennie for quite some time – this was not a random attack. They feel that this man knew that my fiancé’s car was not home, in all probability, assumed that I had gone out with my fiancé and Lennie was home alone. The vehicle we had seen outside our home that night belongs to this man, my description matches up perfectly with a car registered to him – a maroon mini van with “lots of glass.” Ultimately, there was his criminal record. He was a repeated offender, having already served time for attempted rape, sexual assault, malicious wounding, felony assault, and having been charged with rape and abduction. Yet knowing this, the courts had willingly released this man on bail. Perhaps scariest of all, he lives just around the corner from us – only a short distance down from where Lennie had innocently caught the school bus last year. After realizing where he lived, I was shocked and horrified to see a red neon parked in his driveway. For months, I had witnessed the neon riding by our house, turning around in our dead end court, and riding back out. It was easy to spot – we have a neon ourselves. At night when I would see the headlights, I would always assume it was Dave coming home from work. Only when it would turn around and I could see the color was red – not green as our own – would I realize it wasn’t him.
Within days of his release, her assailant was once again riding by our house. At night, we would hear noises around the house, sounds of someone outside our windows. Repeatedly, we telephoned the police, voicing our concerns, fears. And repeatedly we were told that unless we actually SAW him on our property, there was nothing that they could do. He was not violating his bond by riding by on a public street – never mind the fact that it was a dead end street, that he didn’t need to ride by here to get home; in fact, it was out of his way. Yet this didn’t matter, we were told simply to document each occurrence. My fiancé perhaps summed it up best one night when in frustration he told the dispatcher “Great, you guys are going to walk in here and find us dead with a damn list in our hands.” On one such occasion, Lennie's boyfriend angrily got in his car and followed the man, directly back to his own home, watching him get out of his vehicle and calmly walk to his front door - thereby eliminating any possibility of it having been someone else driving his car.
Monday night, a little over a week after the attack. It was late, almost two in the morning. Sleep was something of the past for all of us, being unable to close our eyes knowing this man was mere doors away, watching, waiting. We had cut out the lights in a vain attempt to try and sleep when we heard the first noise. Immediately, we began what had become an all too common routine – I rolled out of bed beside Lennie, Dave reached for the gun, aiming it at the door.
We waited in silence, each of us frozen with fear. Another bump – the sound of someone at the window downstairs. Again. Again. Finally, there was nothing. After several more moments of this, I once again called 911 and my fiancé went to search the downstairs. Lennie picked up the phone to call her boyfriend, he came right over – was there in minutes, whereas the police finally arrived twenty-five minutes after my initial call. Looking back, we believe it was Pat’s headlights that scared the man off.
The police began their customary search of our property. This time, three officers had responded instead of the one they normally sent. One of the officers stepped back inside to ask me if the screen had been off of our back window. Lennie and I looked up in horror – no, it had definitely been on just hours before. Her boyfriend confirmed this – they had walked the dog just hours earlier right in front of that window – it had been in place. Hearing this, I crumbled. Tears came unbidden to my eyes, I fell apart, afraid, desperate, certain that this man would not stop until he had gotten what he wanted, even more certain the police would do nothing to help us. I think one of my angriest moments throughout this entire ordeal was when the officer looked at me at that moment and said “Lady, you are just going to have to get over this.” I stared at him, unwilling to believe I had heard him correctly. Lennie, amazing in her strength, rushed to my defense. “Excuse me sir” she began “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but this man broke into my home, attacked me. He rides by here everyday, watching us. Tonight he tried to get back in here again, and you guys are doing nothing, nothing about it. Will you please explain to me how we are suppose to get over anything?” Yet, that was their attitude, the attitude we were left to deal with.
The police explained to us how what we were going through - the stalking, the harassment - was actually quite normal. He stated that this is why so many of these offenders never see the inside of a courtroom - they simply intimidate their victims into dropping charges. Not so in our case, as my daughter quickly and defiantly told him, the tears still shining brightly on her face: "Drop charges? Apparently this man has no idea who he is dealing with. I will not drop charges. He will pay for what he has done to me".
The following morning, angry, filled with frustration, I once again turned to the Internet for help. Searching out addresses for any Government Officials that may be able to help us, I wrote letters to each one, pouring out the story of what was happening to us, begging for someone to please pay attention, to please help us. To this day, I have no idea if any of those letters did any good or not. I do know that I received many replies - a telephone call from the State Attorney General's Office, a letter from the Governor, letters from many other offices I had written. Phone calls started coming in from local law enforcement, stating that the Governor had contacted them on my behalf, and they wanted to make sure everything was being handled okay now. Unfortunately, the extra attention did not last, and within a short time, the telephone calls - as well as any extra effort on their behalf, stopped.
Mercifully, the Commonwealth Attorney called me the next afternoon. By dinnertime, a warrant had been issued for his arrest. Unfortunately, they could not find him that night, however, the following day, having heard the police were looking for him, he turned himself in, and was mercifully once again in jail.
Frustrated, Lennie’s boyfriend had gone to his superiors at work, asking for their help. Almost immediately, a call was placed by his supervisor to contacts at a local television station. That night at eleven, the story of the hellish turn our lives had taken was broadcast across the state. They detailed the extra security measures we had been forced to install, showed Sasha, our beautiful guard dog we had been forced to buy, told a little about what it had been like, seeing this man riding by every day, knowing his intentions were malicious. They told how we spent our days locked in our bedroom, afraid to even venture downstairs alone. They quoted Lennie, her voice small and quivering, saying that every time she closes her eyes, she can feel his hands on her. Yet there was no way they could capture the irrepressible foreboding that shadowed our lives. Is it possible to truly gauge this amount of fear? I do not believe so, I do not believe there are words with depth enough to describe the feelings with which we lived.
Her attackers bond hearing was to be held the next morning. The Judge had said that he had no doubt the man was purposely harassing us, yet had felt it was everyone’s constitutional right to post bond. He said he would however make it high enough that he would hopefully have trouble meeting it - bond was set for $150,000. He cautioned the man not to come anywhere near us, that if he was seen on our street again, the next time bond would be revoked permanently. His attorney complained that it was unfair that we still had the liberty of riding by his client’s house; therefore he wanted that stopped also. The commonwealth attorney, without even consulting us, agreed to the terms - an agreement that adds another 20 – 30 minutes to us going anywhere now, as his house is on the main road out of our subdivision. And I am left wondering why we, the victims, have to be placed under any restrictions, any further hardship that we are already forced to endure.
In the meantime, the county assigned us a Crisis Counselor with their Mental Health Department. After three phone calls, and weeks of waiting, the Counselor finally got in touch with us and scheduled an appointment. Despite the fact that both my daughter and I requested that I receive counseling sessions also, at least on a family basis if nothing else, we were refused. Counseling was to be for Lennie only. And despite the fact that Lennie attempted numerous times to explain her feelings - feelings of fear, of being afraid to face her friends because she didn't know how to answer their questions, her fear of returning to school ... The Counselor seemed to have an agenda all her own. She insisted on focusing her attention on two topics. One that we had gotten a gun for our own protection - she did not like the fact that we had a gun in the house. And two, that she felt my daughter and I were too "close". In vain, my daughter attempted to explain our relationship to the Counselor, telling her that we shared a very special bond, one of being friends as well as mother and daughter. Yet the Counselor maintained that she felt we were too "close", shared too much with each other ... In disgust, my daughter walked out of her office. Since then, we have been forced to deal with our feelings of fear and frustration on our own - for we have never gone back.
Finally, after several more postponements, we actually made it to the preliminary hearing. Several of the charges were dropped because they were filed incorrectly, but fortunately Lennie's assailant has ultimately, been bonded over for trial. Yet this is only another hurdle we must face, for despite the numerous dates given to us to appear in court, his attorney continues to have the case postponed. This of course, means a postponement in our lives, a postponement of us being able to pick up the pieces and start again. A postponement of all that most people take for granted – a feeling of security, of being safe. The ability to walk outside your front door without being in fear for your lives. The ability to get up in the morning, go to school or to work. The ability to truly live, unencumbered by a sense of anxiety and trepidation.
Since I began writing this story, almost from the inception of our case, there have been many changes and updates. Yet one sad fact remains constant - the Criminal Justice System protects the criminal, and the Victim is left wondering where to turn, what will happen next. For years, I have heard people plead that the Victim has no rights; I can only say that I sincerely wish I had listened more carefully, been more sympathetic. The incompetence, the coldness, the lack of effort is evident at every turn. In order to shorten the length of our story, I will condense the remainder of events that have shadowed our lives for the last eight months.
During the preliminary hearing, the Judge had made a motion that all witnesses were to be excluded. With grave misgivings, I left my frightened daughter in the courtroom alone - standing only a few short feet away from her attacker. After the testimonies, my daughter was called back to give information concerning where her boyfriend could be reached in order that he testify regarding the incident where he had followed the man after we had seen him circling our house ... As Lennie walked out of the courtroom, I saw her talking with the Commonwealth Attorney, obviously agitated. When I inquired as to what was wrong, Lennie explained to me that her attackers wife had been allowed to remain in the courtroom and hear all of our testimony - and then to subsequently testify herself. Upset that she had been allowed to remain, while I had been forced to leave my daughter in there alone, I asked the Commonwealth Attorney for an explanation. She flippantly shrugged off my question, stating that it had been her fault - that she had assumed the woman in question was the defendants Mother. Yet, should it have mattered who the woman was? As a sworn in witness, shouldn't she too have been asked to leave? Yet, this is the only explanation we were ever given.
After repeatedly pressuring the Commonwealth Attorney for the results of the fingerprint lifts the First Sergeant had obtained, she informed me that no lifts were ever taken. I corrected her, stating that the First Sergeant had obtained three very good prints. She very impatiently told me that she could not locate them, and that if I were so concerned about the evidence, I should call the Police Headquarters and attempt to locate them myself.
During the Preliminary Hearing, we arrived in court and were placed in the waiting area for the trial to commence. Despite the fact that the Victims Rights Program assures you that you will be given a separate waiting area, away from the accused and his family, we find we are standing only feet away from the defendant's wife. Later, when I asked the Commonwealth Attorney to please make sure this didn't happen again, I was told to "just walk to another part of the room".
And speaking of Victims Rights, there is a card with information that the victim of a crime is to be given at the time of the initial investigation. Yet we were not even made aware of such information until weeks after the assault, and only then as a result of one of the many letters I had written begging for help.
The Commonwealth Attorney assigned to our case left office, for reasons unknown. A new Commonwealth Attorney was assigned to us, a week before our trial. Once again, this preempted another postponement.
And then, a startling and terrifying discovery. The defendant's first victim, the one for which he served time in jail ... was also another young white female with blonde hair.
My beautiful daughter, a straight A student, could not return to school. Aside from the fears we lived with, there was a very simple explanation for this ... It is impossible to get up at seven in the morning to prepare for school when you have laid awake until six in the morning, too afraid to close your eyes. Her principle at school, a wonderful caring lady that Lennie respects immensely, arranged for her to continue her studies through home schooling. At least her grades would not suffer as a result of this. Yet Lennie being home full time brought new problems.
Despite the fact that there are allegedly programs available through the Victim Witness Program available to help us, our situation has financially deteriorated to the point of devastation. There is a question of safety, a question of responsibility, a question of ability. The option of returning to work is not a possibility for me. You see, the reason is quite simple. My daughter is home, very rarely leaves the house for fear of running into this man. You see, her attacker is free; walking the streets, coming and going as he pleases ... The very thought, the very idea that I get in my car every morning, leaving her home alone, defenseless - while this man watches our every move, is completely unthinkable. It simply is not an option - I will live on the street before I leave my daughter home alone until this animal is put away. And so, we suffer yet another consequence of his actions.
In May, after numerous postponements, we were forced to move. Aside from the financial difficulties that the case had created, there was a safety issue - we simply could not continue to live our lives where every time we looked out of our window, we were forced to gaze upon this man's house. Although we now live in another area, there is still a very definite, very obvious threat. In order for Lennie to be able to graduate with her friends, to graduate from her own high school, we could only move but so far. Each trip to the grocery store leaves my heart in my throat, terrified that this man will see us, will follow us home and discover where we have gone. There is the very real possibility that he already knows.
And then, there are also the questions, the questions to which I am certain I will never have an answer. 1) On the night that my daughter was attacked, we vividly described how the man had run away on foot. Yet, even knowing this, no K-9 unit was ever called in. It would have been so simple - a K-9 unit could have led the police directly to her attacker's door. 2) Though my daughter described the coat her attacker had been wearing in detail, she has never been asked to identify any articles of clothing belonging to the defendant. Why? 3) Almost without exception, the police officers involved in this case have seen fit to remind me that we live in a "predominately black" black neighborhood, and question us in an accusatory manner as to why my daughter opened the door that night. I do not understand why either of these issues has anything to do with our case. Are the police attempting to imply that our neighborhood, or my daughter's innocent trust of people are to be blamed for the attack? And yes, we are very much aware of the fact that we lived in a "predominately black" neighborhood, but it wasn't/isn't a high crime area - the police have said themselves that our neighborhood had one of the lowest crime rates in the community. Rather, it was a friendly neighborhood, the kind of place where you visit in your yards, talk about your garden, about your kids in school. So what difference did it's racial complex make? 4) The fact that the accused had served time in jail for a previous offense meant that he would have to actually go before a judge to be granted bail. Yet, after his first arrest, our city was blanketed under a very rare snow storm - courts were closed and no judges were in chambers to hear his request. However, he was granted bail, within two days of his arrest. How? We have never been given an explanation for this. 5) Despite the fact that numerous people in positions of authority within our city have apologized for the inappropriate manner in which this case was treated, that does not erase the fact that so many mistakes and omissions were made along the way that this case may well be lost due to a technicality. For example - the fingerprint samples were not taken for well over twenty-four hours after the attack - a fact the defense attorney has already harped on in the preliminary hearing. Apologies will not restore our lives is this man goes free. 6) But perhaps most of all, the question of why, why my daughter, why in the most wonderful years of her life, facing her senior year in high school, a beautiful, intelligent girl with the world at her feet and her future looming bright before her - why does she have to suffer the pain and fear that no teenager should ever have to endure, to struggle with the financial difficulties, the humiliation and defeat .... The age old question that one will never be able to answer ... "Why Her"?
And so we wait out our days. We exist, in our own little hell, waiting for the attorneys to stop fighting, waiting for the case to come to trial, waiting for an end to our existence as we have come to know it.
The worst thing is the fear. Every sound, every noise, has us throwing ourselves on the floor, hiding, trembling, tears forcing their way to their surface. How long will this continue, will we ever feel safe, anywhere, ever again? But most of all, there is the overwhelming, unshakable certainty that tells me if this man isn’t convicted, we won’t be alive long enough for any of it to matter.
Copyright Jane L Evans
All Rights Reserved
