And I Don't Want to Live This Life : A Mother's Story of Her Daughter's Murder (9780307807434) (59 page)

I shared one of David's problems. I was beginning to feel the same way about my job as he did about his schoolwork. It didn't seem to matter. It wasn't important—to me or to anyone else. I was having trouble getting out of bed and on my way in the morning. I seldom got into the office before ten thirty. Or stayed past three. I tired easily. My energy—my drive to succeed—seemed to have vanished.

About a week after I got Sid's second letter, my job took me to New York for the day. This was my first trip there since the day after Nancy's death, and it was an awful experience. I was ill at ease from the second I got off the train in Penn Station. It was even worse out on the street. Each time I heard a siren, I saw Nancy in the back of an ambulance. She was being rushed to the hospital, her life bleeding out of her. Toward the middle of the afternoon I was seized by chest-aching panic at the thought of being caught in New York City after dark. I felt I was going to hyperventilate at a sales meeting and had to flee to the ladies' room. When the meeting was over, I high-tailed it to Penn Station and got the hell out of New York. It was no longer an exciting city, with jazz and ballet and theater. It was Sid and Nancy's New York.

I had to go to Washington the following week for a two-day conference. It was my first solo overnight trip, also the first time I had to meet new people and be charming. I tried. I walked around the banquet room with a frozen smile on my face and a little nametag stuck on my chest. I felt like I was really wearing a banner headline on my forehead
:
MURDERED GIRL'S MOM
.

Sure enough, I hadn't been there an hour before a middle-aged businessman recognized my last name.

“Spungen,” he said, staring at my nametag. “Spungen. Spungen. I know that name.”

I said nothing.

“Hey, I got it,” he exclaimed. “Did you know that girl? The one that was murdered?”

No more frozen smile.

“Yes,” I replied.

“How?”

“She was my daughter.”

He laughed. “Don't be ridiculous. That wasn't your daughter.”

“You're right,” I snapped. “That was my dog.”

His eyes widened. He walked away. So much for my attempt to be charming. I went up to my room. I needed to call home. I needed to hear Frank's voice.

Nancy's death had made us closer than ever before. I later discovered that few marriages are the same after a child is murdered. The divorce rate among the parents of a murdered child is very high: nearly four out of five couples split up. They look at each other and see only their pain. In a sense, Frank and I had already gone through that years before, when Nancy was growing up. Now we were in the minority, the one out of five couples who grab on to each other as a result of their child's murder and don't let go.

I told him what had happened downstairs.

“It just won't seem to go away,” I said.

“Try to roll with it,” he suggested. “Don't take things to heart. A lot has happened, but one thing hasn't changed—there's always going to be plenty of assholes in the world.”

I still wasn't ready to go back down after Frank and I were through speaking, so I phoned Suzy to see how she was doing. She was by herself in her apartment, continuing to keep her distance. As soon as I said hello she began to cry.

“Oh, Mommy, it's so awful,” she wailed. “I'm having such a bad time. I need to be with you.”

“But I'm in Washington, sweetheart.”

“Come home, please.”

“I can't. I have meetings tomorrow. What happened? Tell me what's wrong.”

“I can't be around other people. I just can't. I went to class today. Political science. The professor called the roll, okay? And when he got to my name he said ‘Spungen. No relation, of course, to Nancy Spungen, killed by Sid Vicious at the Chelsea Hotel.' He thought he was being funny. He didn't know. Some of the people laughed. I started to cry. That made everyone around me freak. I ran out. I just can't be around other people.”

“Tomorrow you're going to go right back into the classroom and tell that professor—”

“I can't stand it, Mom! I can't! What am I gonna do?”

“Maybe you should think about seeing someone.”

“You mean a shrink?”

“Yes.”

“No way. No!”

“Why?”

“Nancy went to shrinks. No way. I'm not Nancy.”

“I'm not saying you are, Suzy. Just because you need help doesn't mean you're Nancy. David's seeing one. So am I.”

She said she'd think it over. When I got back to Philadelphia, Frank and I went to see her. We discussed the subject again and she grudgingly agreed to see a therapist.

Her problems began to come to the surface. Much of what bothered her was what plagued David—the conflict between her grief and her resentment. But in Suzy it ran much deeper. Nancy had heaped more abuse on her. There had been intense jealousy and rivalry between them. Suzy had often truly detested her older sister. At the same time, she had looked up to her and sought her approval. She still loved Nancy. And she wondered how much of Nancy's influence guided her. Hers was a powerful struggle. It still is.

If Suzy and David had been able to communicate, they might have helped each other at this time. They were going through the same problems. But Nancy had driven a wedge between them. They did not have a close relationship.

Besides, Suzy was keeping all of us at arm's length. With her therapist's aid she began to understand why. Someone she loved had gone. It hurt. She was reacting to her hurt by pushing us away. A defense mechanism triggered revulsion when we tried to embrace her. After all, she loved us, too. She didn't want to open herself up to being hurt again.

Sid was released from Bellevue after a couple of weeks. Toward the end of November he appeared at a preliminary hearing, at which he pleaded not guilty to charges of second-degree murder. (First-degree murder in New York applies only to the killing of a police officer.)

The famous attorney F. Lee Bailey was retained to defend him. Bailey's defense, the press speculated, would center around Nancy's past history of drug abuse and attempted suicide in an attempt to prove she'd brought her murder on herself. This pained me. It meant that she, not Sid, would be on trial. She would be painted as someone who deserved what she'd gotten, just like a rape victim. Except a rape victim can be there to defend herself. Nancy wouldn't be.

I didn't think I'd be able to handle Nancy's public crucifixion, especially since I might be asked to get up on the stand and help. I decided I would not go to the trial. I told Frank. He understood. He said he was unsure about himself.

“Can they make me go?” I asked our lawyer.

“If you get a subpoena,” he replied, “you have to go.”

“What if they make me testify?” I asked. “What if they ask me all sorts of awful questions about Nancy?”

“Worse comes to worse,” he said, “you put your hands over your face and start screaming, ‘Leave me alone! Leave me alone! My child is dead!' And they'll leave you alone.”

I didn't think I could behave that way in public.

I began to worry more and more about the trial. It loomed ahead. It made it impossible for me to get on with my life.

In the beginning of December, Frank and I were asked to come to New York to be questioned by the new assistant district attorney assigned to the case, Allen Sullivan. Unlike his predecessor, he had prosecuted a number of major homicides and had the reputation of being a heavy hitter. Bailey's presence for the defense necessitated such a man for the prosecution.

I asked our lawyer if he thought he should accompany us to the questioning. He said it wouldn't be necessary.

“You haven't done anything wrong,” he said. “You haven't got anything to hide. I can't see why you need an attorney with you.”

He was trying to save us money. That was nice of him. Unfortunately it was a mistake.

Sullivan was in his late thirties, tall and brusque. He immediately put us on the defensive. He made no effort to acknowledge our loss. Rather, he declared, “I'm going to question you witnesses separately. Which one of you wants to go first?”

Frank and I held hands tightly. We looked at each other, confused.

“Well? Speak up!” he commanded.

“We'd rather not be separated,” Frank said.

“You
will
be separated,” he insisted, glaring at us.

“We came here voluntarily,” Frank said. “We have nothing more to tell you than we've already said twice before. We'd prefer to stay together.”

“We're
going
to stay together,” I said.

Sullivan looked at me, then at Frank. Then he threw down his pencil in disgust. “Okay.
This
time. But next time I separate you. Understand? Now, when was the last time you saw your daughter?”

Frank protested, “We've already—”

Sullivan cut him off. “I want the answers again,” he snapped, as if we were naughty children. He pointed a finger at us. “I want you witnesses to answer my questions,” he thundered.

Why did he keep calling us witnesses? Witnesses to what? We hadn't witnessed anything. We were the parents of the victim. Why was he putting us in an adversary position? Why was he yelling at us?

We were sorry our lawyer wasn't with us. We were intimidated and rather lost. We had no idea what our rights were. We realized Sullivan had a job to do, but we didn't understand where we fit into it.

He threw questions at us for about two hours. He didn't ask many that we hadn't heard twice before. Unlike the police and his predecessor, however, he was not satisfied with the extent of our knowledge. If we didn't know the answers, he pressed us, bullied us, belittled us.

“Has either one of you ever been arrested?” he demanded when he was through.

“No,” Frank said.

“Never,” I agreed.

“Positive?”

“Yes,” we said.

He eyed us skeptically. “I'm going to question you separately about that.”

He didn't believe us!

“I'll be in touch,” Sullivan said. “And then I'll see you at the trial. April, probably.”

So many more months before this would be over!

“I'm not planning to come,” I said.

“You
have
to,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“You
have
to,” he repeated.

“I don't want to.”

“Then I'll subpoena you,” he said.

We limped out of there. When we got home, I checked with our lawyer to see if there was any way to avoid being subpoenaed.

“Yes,” he replied. “Stay out of New York. They can't get you if you're out of state.”

That was a relief, but it was small consolation. I was flabbergasted by our meeting with Sullivan. Prior to that, I'd always thought the district attorney's office represented the victim. It doesn't. It represents
the state. Who represents the victim? Nobody. The suspect is taken very good care of. He gets free counsel if he can't afford it. His rights are vigilantly upheld and monitored. As for the victim, well, the victim has no legal rights. Nobody watches out for the victim's family. Society places a very heavy burden on it. Too heavy. And even though, in retrospect, we needed a lawyer with us at our meeting with Sullivan, we would have been forced to pay for it ourselves. That hardly seems fair.

Still, it would have been worth it. Sullivan would have been less likely to treat us as he had. I have since spoken to many other parents all over America whose children were murdered. They have similar horror stories to tell about the way they were treated by prosecutors. Our experience with Sullivan is not the exception.

Why did he treat us that way? Maybe he was trying to prepare us for what it would be like to be grilled on the stand by F. Lee Bailey. If so, he should have explained himself. It would not take that much more effort to show some sensitivity. Maybe Sullivan was a fine prosecutor. Maybe he was a warm, caring human being who found it necessary to shield his emotions. Maybe he was under too much pressure to build a case. Whatever the situation, it was not necessary to treat us with such disdain and hostility. We were still reeling from the shock of our daughter's violent death. The prospect of a lengthy trial was extremely painful. It would not be flattering to Nancy. It would keep us in the public eye. It would prolong the grieving period. The prospect of
attending
the trial was even more painful. A great emotional price would have to be paid. Some explanation for why this sacrifice was required would have been appreciated. We were given none.

I beg prosecutors to remember the other victims of murder—the victim's family. There are a lot of us out there. More of us every day. We hurt and bleed, too. Our rights and feelings must be dealt with in a better way than they are now.

Sid stayed in the papers.

In the second week of December he was jailed again, this time for allegedly slashing the face of musician Todd Smith, brother of singer Patti Smith, with a broken beer bottle. The incident occurred at a rock club where the musician's band was performing. Reportedly, Sid liked the looks of Smith's girlfriend, a guitar player in the band. He gave her a lewd pinch and she complained to Smith.
Smith told Sid to leave her alone. In response, Sid broke his beer bottle on a table and slashed Smith.

“He is hell-bent on living up to his image,” McLaren was quoted as saying.

Sid was arrested for the attack the following morning when he made his daily check-in with the police—a requirement of his bail. He wore a torn black T-shirt, black jeans, and boots.

“I doubt that he'll be let out on bail again,” the papers quoted a police spokesman. “But he could be.”

His bail was revoked. He was sent back to Riker's Island.

Again, we got a visit from the press corps. Again, we said nothing.