Redemption (31 page)

Another Good-bye

abrina had been my best friend, my roommate, and my partner in crime for more than a decade. Sometimes we had been close; other times, we drifted apart. But we had always been there for each other. She had my back if I needed anything—from a shoulder to a cigarette. We had trained dogs together through the C.H.A.M.P. program. Selfishly, I hated the thought of being in prison without her. At the same time, I truly wanted her to have a good life. I wanted her future to be wonderful and fulfilling.

Sabrina was getting her chance. Even though she had a life sentence like I did, the parole board was letting her go. I wasn’t jealous about that. I was just hurt that she would no longer be a presence in my life. She could dream big, and I couldn’t.

A few days before an inmate left, we always threw her a going-away party. It wasn’t a party-party because we couldn’t have food or drinks. But all of the person’s friends would gather in the yard and give speeches or say nice things. We always waited until the last second to have the party because leaving is so emotional. When prisoners say good-bye, it’s forever. Sabrina wouldn’t be allowed to visit me until she had been off parole for five years. Because she had a life sentence, parole officers could keep her on parole for thirty years if they wanted to. The point was: people are often saying good-bye forever once they leave prison.

I would miss Sabrina. We all gathered and hugged her and showered her with good luck and good wishes. We asked her about her big plans. Then we went around in a circle, as we always did, and asked this question: “What would you do if you were free?”

I was the only one in our group that day who had life without parole. It only made me hate the question more. Some talked about seeing their loved ones; others wanted to open a restaurant or go to Disney World. I shrank to the back of the circle, hoping they’d pass over me. Of course, they didn’t.

Sabrina pressed me because she believed I would be out one day. She said, “Come on Stacey, what do you want to do?”

“When I’m free, I want to go to Walmart,” I said. That was my standard answer that made everyone laugh.

“Oh come on, you can do better than that,” Sabrina said.

I felt so put on the spot. I tried not to dream about freedom much because it was too heartbreaking. But I could tell by her stubborn eyes that she wanted my answer. So I thought about the epitome of freedom.

“If I’m ever free, I want to go skydiving,” I said with meaning. I wasn’t scared; that’s what I really wanted to do.

Everybody cheered.

Sabrina hugged me and said, “One day, you will.”

Nancy Grace

efore Holden left office, I received one more call for an interview, this one from Nancy Grace. At the time, she was a reporter for the
Larry King Live
show. I knew who she was, and I was scared of her. She was mean. I told Mike and Ellen that there was absolutely no way I was going on air with that woman.

Of course, they persuaded me to change my mind.

She came out to the prison with her long, choppy, hard hair. She was as mean as I figured, and she said, “Girl, I will know if you are telling the truth or not. And if you think I’m going to put you on TV so you can sit up here and lie and weaken a prosecutor’s case, then you need to think again. If you are a liar, then you deserve to be here.”

I just said, “Yes, m’am” and “No m’am” like an obedient girl. The last thing I wanted was trouble with Nancy Grace. I knew I’d hold my own when I simply told the truth.

By the end of our interview at Vandalia, the hard-edged reporter was crying. She believed me. The episode aired, and I was happy with the outcome. I said I didn’t understand how I ended up where I did, but that I had made mistakes. She asked me if I still saw my mom.

“Your mom is really all you have,” Grace barked.

“Her and my sister,” I answered.

“Do you ever blame her or wonder why she didn’t save you?” Nancy asked.

“Yes. But I can’t. I can’t live like that. I can’t have all that anger. I can’t be mad at anybody. I can’t be mad at my dad. I can’t be mad at me. I can’t be mad at her. I can’t be mad at Christy. I can’t be mad at my prosecutor—I just want to be free in my heart, in my body, in my mind, and in my soul.”

Ellen was a guest and spoke on my behalf. To balance the story, Nancy also interviewed the prosecutor, Bob McCulloch, who went on and on about how I killed my father for his money. Ellen gently corrected each one of his statements.

I thought he looked like an ass on television, and my case looked understandable. It was becoming clearer to other people that his lack of compassion was the reason my sentence was so severe.

A hobby of mine was to make intricate afghan blankets for my friends. I didn’t crochet for money anymore, but if I really liked someone, I would make them a beautiful blanket from the best yarn I could find. I sent blankets to Tom W., Christy, Mom, and my mom’s friend Robyn. My mom’s coworker, Robyn Merschen, had lived a traumatic life, and we became friends through the mail and phone calls. She and her husband, Ed, would come see me on food visits and bring me all kinds of yummy dishes. I made the blankets for my friends in prison and for myself.

I wanted to open up; I wanted to thank the people who’d stood by me all the years I’d been in prison. I started to want to build relationships instead of avoid them.

I’d need those relationships to pull me through. Governor Holden was about to make his decision. I was so hopeful, I almost couldn’t contain myself.

Ellen and Mike held a demonstration outside his office around the end of October. Commutations are usually given out at Thanksgiving and Christmas. They got a group of my supporters together—my mom, my sister, Tom W., Ed, and other friends—and they waved signs outside of the state capitol. We all thought we were going to get it. We’d had so much positive publicity—just what his people had asked for.

Governor Holden commuted a few people’s sentences, and I could barely breathe waiting to hear from him. Word never came. I didn’t even get a yes or no answer. He left office, and my clemency petition had been ignored.

My heart was completely broken.

Yes or No

fter I picked myself up off the floor—wasn’t I at least worthy of a yes or a no?—I got back to the regular business of being an offender. I trained dogs, I taught fitness classes, and I spent time with the few people who mattered to me. Visits with my mom were still rocky sometimes, but things between us were getting smoother. After many years of figuring out life on her own, Christy was coming to see me again. Seeing Christy was always the best part—even though I worried about her.

I experienced dark moments of depression on and off. I had doubts about my fate more often than I used to. I would be watching TV and see a happy family and think
Damn, why couldn’t I have that? Here I am, and I did this to myself
. Sometimes Mike would call and catch me in one of those times. He showed me more kindness than I could imagine. With his huge sense of right and wrong, he’d tell me, “Just imagine yourself floating down a river, the breeze in your hair while you’re catching a fish. That will be you one day.”

I trusted him. He had run for the prosecutor’s office in his hometown of Houston, Missouri, a few years before. The guy running against him used me as a playing card during the campaign: “How can you elect Mike Anderson for prosecutor when he wants a murderer to go free?” Mike was very vocal during that election about my case and why it was important. He stood at podiums supporting me, and he won the election.

I had reasons to stay positive, though it wasn’t easy. I had been incarcerated for fifteen daunting years by the time Governor Matt Blunt took office. During his State of the State address, I watched his facial expressions intently, searching for indications that he might set me free. I got a positive feeling about him. He stood there saying that all child abusers should get the death penalty. He seemed like the type of guy who would have sympathy for me.

During his term, Governor Blunt tried to get such a law passed in Missouri before the Supreme Court struck it down. He was serious about child abuse. He understood that molestation was horrific, and that it should no longer be swept under the table. I had more hope than ever.

One big joy in my life was Christy. She had stopped taking drugs and didn’t drink much anymore. She’d quit her job at Hooters. She got married and had a daughter named Alisyn on August 4, 2006. I never had a better visit than when I held my niece for the first time.

News about Ali was a highlight of my life as time dragged on, sometimes quickly and sometimes slowly. Prison was no longer fun or adventurous. It was the same old thing with the same old offenders year after year. I wasn’t trying to find my way anymore, but I was noticing big changes in myself.

I was healing. In those last three years, I stopped asking why my father raped my sister and me. I forgave him. I started to be kinder to myself. I started to feel I was worthy of a real life, a life outside these prison walls.

There are three things you find in prison. First, you find God. Second, you find forgiveness. Third, you find yourself. I was lucky to find all three. I told God that I was not happy about my predicament, but wherever He placed me, I would do what I could to make a difference. If I needed to go public, I would go public. If He wanted me to train dogs, I’d train dogs. Where God decided to lead me, I would follow.

But I truly hoped He’d lead me out those doors. I hoped for that more than anything else.

Governor Blunt’s term was ending at the end of 2008, and he was not running for reelection. I was antsy all year long. He had my new and improved clemency package. We received no word from his advisors; they wouldn’t communicate with us except to tell us they were aware of me and my case.

This was going to be it. I could almost feel it. It had to work this time. The governor-elect, a man named Jay Nixon, was a political buddy of my naysayer, the prosecutor Bob McCulloch. If my sentence didn’t get commuted this time, I would have to wait four—probably eight—more years for a more sympathetic governor. I would probably be forty-three years old before I got another chance to get out.

It would be putting it lightly to say I got my hopes up.

Thanksgiving of 2008 came and went with no word. I called Ellen, and she sounded just as disappointed as me when she said, “Let’s just wait. Give him till Christmas.”

Christmas arrived, and Governor Blunt commuted a few sentences. My name was not on his list. Neither Ellen nor Mike had heard a peep from his office. New Year’s Eve only brought more silence. I did not get a yes or no from the governor. I wasn’t even worthy of an answer.

For about a week, I was the maddest person. I was like,
Okay, this is my life. And nobody even cares enough to tell me yes or no
. I was more upset about not hearing anything because it made me feel so useless, so small. Then I looked around me—at the cement block walls and the nauseating pink bathroom tiles—and I wondered if I was ready for more. Could I take incarceration another day?

I had done good things in the prison system. I had made small differences while locked up. I wanted to make a difference in the real world. I felt ready. There was so much more my soul needed to share and experience. It was hard to keep pushing myself when I was stuck on one square mile of land.

I wasn’t going to get clemency. Prison was going to be the rest of my life. It hurt so bad. My soul ached that this was all my life would ever be. I started to experience true self-pity, the kind I hadn’t felt since I first got to Gumbo. I was bitter—angry even—about all that was not going to happen to me.

I couldn’t even take a razor with me to shower number three because I knew I might get weak and make the long slashes up and down my wrists. I used an electric razor instead. I lived this way for about four days. I sat on my metal bed, and I thought,
I can’t live life like this. Every moment can’t continue to be a waking hell
. Every time my mind turned to suicide, I asked God to please just let it end.

My friend Chris Sitka sent me a poem that I read over and over. It was written by an anonymous author and called “Things I Hope for You.” It stated:

I wish for you to be the sun and the moon and the stars.
I hope that you never destroy your whole self when parts of you are hurting
.

I should keep myself whole if I could. I would focus on the sun and stars, and I would tell myself that I still have those things. I’m still here, and there’s still something to live for.

I reminded myself that I still had some choices. I could decide what color socks to wear. I could wear my hair up or down. I could decide what I wanted to eat for lunch and breakfast. Every moment in my life was a choice. In knowing I had choices—I could choose how I was going to feel day to day—I started to ponder true freedom. I could be free if I wanted to; the rest was just geography.

God left Moses out in the desert for forty years. I told God that I was ready, too. But the truth was, we don’t tell God anything. He tells us. I wasn’t happy about my plight in prison, but I had found my salvation there. I couldn’t become any more free than that.

My desperate fog started to lift.

I had a dream. I saw the grapevines that surrounded our white picket fence when we first moved into the house in Alhambra. The vines were gorgeous and produced beautiful grapes that my mother used to make jelly. I felt so much happiness in that dream. Then the vines slowly deteriorated, rotting away due to neglect. What was once lush and green became brown and decayed and broken in many places. I felt such sadness and grief. Then I heard a voice:
Do not be
sad, those were not your vines to tend. You will have your own vines and if you tend them, they will be beautiful
. My dream put my life in perspective. I was not responsible for my childhood, but I was responsible for myself as an adult. I wanted to tend my vines.

After one of the darkest weeks of my life, I let everything go. I was done. I had forgiven my mom, my dad, and myself. I had life without parole. I could either hate myself because of the choices I’d made, or I could forgive myself. I decided it was time. I was truly forgiven, I decided, and it was done. I gave myself forever to God. I asked him to direct me because I sure as hell hadn’t done a good job of directing myself. I surrendered. I felt relieved when I let go of all control.

Then it dawned on me that I was already free. For the first time ever in my life, I experienced peace. I remember what it felt like to breathe easily. I chose life, whatever that might be.

And I was free.