Fear of Our Father Read online

  “And that’s the word he used?”

  The boy continued, “Yeah, and he said ‘He’d shoot at me. He used to put one bullet in one of the spinning chambers, he’d spin it, click, click, click, click, click, ‘Oh, you got lucky this time.’ And spin it, click, click, click, click, click, ‘Oh, you got lucky again.’ Click, click, click, ‘Oh man, this is your lucky day!’ He said, in Minnesota, one time he actually really shot at him. He said he shot at him before, but missed him on purpose just to scare him. But the other time he said he nicked his arm. He has a scar on his shoulder.”

  Hussey asked, “Is there anything else that you can think of?”

  The boy thought for a moment and said, “Well, I know that for a while I thought my uncle had something to do with it. The look he gave me told me that he did something or he knew something. He’s been mad at her for a long time.”

  “Did he ever tell you that? I mean he told you in so many words that he …”

  Daniel continued, “I told him, ‘You know Grandma still loves you, right?’ He’s like ‘Don’t tell me that, don’t tell me that! I’m still mad at her.’ I asked, ‘Is it because she didn’t do anything while he was abusing you?’ He said, ‘Because she still loves him after all that he put us through.’ He really hated his dad.”

  Hussey said, “Tell me a little bit about your Aunt Stacey.”

  “My Aunt Stacey is the best. She’s awesome. She’s like my grandma, loves Disney. But I did notice when my uncle started hanging around more she changed. Trying to live up to a big brother’s expectations, like acting different. You know, trying to be all tough, kind of. Like my uncle cussed a lot. My aunt didn’t. And then my aunt actually started cussing. And I didn’t notice that before he showed up.”

  I was surprised to learn that Daniel thought my personality had changed like that. I wasn’t even aware of it. I can only guess that maybe hanging around with Rickie again after all that time brought out a hard edge that I must have developed growing up. Over the years, with Susan in my life and without abuse, I had been able to relax and just be myself. I didn’t need to be defensive or hard. But maybe having Rickie around again triggered old behaviors. Whatever it was, the boy had noticed it and I had not.

  Daniel continued, “You know about my mom when she gets mad at me and stuff.” I can only assume he was having a hard time talking to a cop about what was going on at home, with Cheryl sitting right there. “Rickie, Grandma, and Stacey kind of teamed up to try to stop her. And they started getting closer and closer and my aunt basically kind of imitated my uncle.”

  After telling Hussey that we bought the house down the street from Mom’s house because he asked us to, Daniel got back on track. “My uncle knows how to fake a person’s death. He knows how to kill a person, make it look like they committed suicide or accidental death. I know he’s really good at crimes. And he could’ve easily killed my grandma. He could’ve got one of his friends; he has a lot friends that do crimes. He could’ve gone in, Tased on my grandma then taken her in her car, put a whole bunch of clothes in it, buried the clothes with her.”

  Hussey prompted him to continue, “Uh huh.”

  “Then taken the car and got it impounded or he could’ve gotten rid of all the stuffed animals in the back, the license plate, whatever.” (Susan’s license plate was stolen from her car shortly after Mom disappeared.)

  “Why would you put this scenario together?” Hussey asked.

  “Because I know what my uncle is capable of. And I know he’s really smart when it comes to this stuff. And I also know that he was really mad at my grandma. But the only thing that holds me back is I also know that he’s a really good person. And he always told me he would never hurt a child or a woman. But I don’t think she would leave no matter what.”

  Hussey asked, “But did he ever tell you that he knew how to fake somebody’s death and make it look like they ran away? Did he tell you that specifically?”

  “He told me if a person wanted to fake their death to get out of stuff, he could do it. Or he could actually kill somebody and make ’em look like they ran away.”

  “Okay, so he did tell you that?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When? Was it just one of the times you were with him?”

  “Probably. It wasn’t with my aunt, I know that. I don’t know what she knows.”

  “You haven’t talked to her much since your grandmother’s been gone,” Hussey stated.

  “I haven’t been allowed. I got in trouble for giving them my cell phone number.” Daniel had been in trouble for sharing his phone number with me and Susan.

  Detective Hussey was ready to wrap it up. “Anything else you can think of?”

  “When my uncle has problems,” Daniel said, “he likes to be ambitious. He don’t like to sit there and talk about it. He likes to save the world. He’s on a mission trip. He wants to do everything brutally. Like if he has a problem with someone doing something, he wants to do it his way. Do it mean and nasty. That’s what he wanted to do to Mom.”

  “When did he tell you that?”

  “He told me that he has a problem with my mom because he always had to deal with men.”

  Hussey interrupted, “I’m not following you.”

  “The only thing holding him back is that she was a woman. He viewed her like one of the abusive men that he takes out of the houses. It was my call,” Daniel explained.

  “He told you that? It was your call whether or not to do something with your mom?”

  “Yeah.” Daniel said, “It’s my call when, if I wanted it. Then when my dad stepped in, he told him, it’s my call. And my dad said, no, no, no and that’s why we went to the pastor as soon as possible.”

  Hussey wrapped up the interview, making sure first that Daniel knew the difference between the truth and a lie. And even though Cheryl and I still aren’t speaking, my heart still breaks for her, having to sit in the room and hear her child tell such horrible stories about things that happened when she wasn’t around to protect him from our brother’s madness.

  CHAPTER 8

  A Witness for the Prosecution

  It took another month or so after Susan’s deposition for my subpoena to arrive. In the meantime, I started to work at Gulf Coast, in the kitchen, and facing everyone. The restaurant, which was actually more of a diner even though we all called it “the restaurant,” was open air, like a Waffle House, where everything is done in plain view of the customers. I worked behind the counter, taking orders, cooking, serving food, washing all the dishes and pots and pans, keeping the place spotless for any surprise Board of Health inspections, answering the phone, and taking care of guests who were checking in at the resort. It was my job to make nice with everyone while they ate, and keep the customers satisfied. I ran all aspects of the diner, including storeroom inventory and ordering supplies, and manned the front desk, while Susan took care of all of the administrative duties from either Ann’s house or the office, adjacent to the restaurant. Susan’s brother, Robert, who normally ran the kitchen, had broken his foot, so I was pressed into service long before I was ready, but this was a family business, and when family needed you, you set aside your own comfort and chipped in.

  I told Susan that if we were going to make it, I’d have to act like nothing happened and just function normally, whatever normal was. It was awkward at first, not wanting anybody to ask any questions. How would I say, “I don’t want to talk about it,” in a polite, customer-service way? Luckily, I didn’t really have to. The people were friendly and I didn’t care that they were nude. They didn’t make it an issue, and neither did I.

  Susan and I both knew that everyone was watching every move we made. I was comfortable at Ann’s because nobody would say anything in front of her. But once I had to start working, I knew Ann would say, “Suck it up,” because that’s just how she was. I was just another person, with another interesting story, in the “naked city.”

  One couple, Bob and Kay, made my life miserable.
Bob was a shit-stirring gossip. He’d go from one house to the next, collecting news and telling people whatever he gathered along the way. Bob and Kay were in the hot tub, shortly after I arrived at GCR in February, with Dan and Franda. Because voices carry in the great outdoors, and the restaurant was not far from the pool area and Bob never was known to keep his voice down, I overheard—from the restaurant’s back porch while I was on break one day—Bob telling them that Ann had a murderer working in the kitchen. I liked Dan and Franda, and after I noticed Franda acting oddly a day or two later I pulled her aside and said, “Do you have an issue with me? I know what Bob said.” She said, “Oh, he just talks shit all the time. It don’t mean nothing to nobody.”

  I said, “Well, when you want to hear the truth come and see me someday,” but she was honest and said she was uncomfortable around me, with all the stories flying around.

  “Okay, you’ve seen me around here for a couple months. Do you really think I can be as good an actress as I’d have to be to really be the murderer Bob says I am? I know that there are psychopaths out there who can fool people, but let’s get real. Could I really be that good?”

  “Well no, I don’t think so,” she agreed.

  “I’m going to challenge you. If I’m ever put on the witness stand, if this ever goes to trial, and you can catch me in a lie, you let me know.” And then I went back to work.

  I became a workaholic, but that’s what kept me sane. I worked hard before my mom’s death, but not to the same degree. I used to work for ten hours at Disney, where they demand perfection and I was happy to give it to them. My hours were unusual—sometimes predawn, sometimes more civilized—and they changed frequently, depending on what they needed from me. It was hard to get into any sort of real rhythm, but I was young and strong and could handle it, so I’d bust my rear end for them, and then have fun and go to movies, dinner, theme parks, but I didn’t have any desire for a social life anymore. I was grieving for Mom. Then it would hit me from time to time about how she died and the grief would be multiplied tenfold.

  Some of the older women took me under their wings, like Gail, whom Ann hired to work in the kitchen with me. She helped with all of the same things I did, taking orders, cooking, washing dishes, and she was invaluable on Friday and Saturday nights when we would make dinners for the whole resort, which usually received a huge turnout. I couldn’t have done it without her. Gail and her husband, Bob, lived nearby on the Withlacoochee River, where they had a fishing boat. She was a fisherman’s wife, and her face showed her years. Her raspy voice told of years as a smoker, and her asthma inhaler was never far away. She became a very dear friend to me, and I confided in her many of my fears and concerns about what was going on in my family, because I knew she wouldn’t tell anyone what we talked about. We became very close, but she died of cancer before the trial. Her death was just one more blow, a surrogate mom taken from me, just when I needed her.

  One of the Canadian snowbirds helped me make a cake that my mom used to make, a chocolate mayonnaise cake. We were talking one day in the restaurant about our favorite desserts, and I mentioned that I loved this recipe and didn’t have it anymore. She told me she had a recipe for that type of cake, and brought it in one afternoon after the lunch rush so we could give it a try, together. She had the same recipe my mom had—I recognized the recipe as we made it, and it tasted just the same. I, fortunately, ended up with a lot of surrogate moms, including Ann, in her own way, and Ann’s friend Diane also became a mom to both me and Susan. Diane even accompanied me and Susan to the trial. The people at GCR really did become my family.

  I was at work, with a restaurant full of lunch customers, when the process server arrived with my deposition subpoena. I was tired, having been there since before dawn and working the breakfast shift, and was looking forward to the end of the lunch rush. Susan had already had her subpoena delivered there, so I supposed that this was where they would eventually deliver mine, but the timing couldn’t have been worse, with a restaurant full of customers, some of whom obviously couldn’t wait to finish eating so they could hurry outside and talk about what they had just seen. But that was the least of my worries, being gossip fodder. I was getting used to that.

  What was most awful is that I saw that the State of Florida was charging Rickie with first-degree murder. I knew that in Florida, this meant a possible death penalty. This is when harsh reality set in. This wasn’t going away, and on April 30, 2004, I would have to speak against my brother. Although Rickie had committed heinous crimes, he was still my big brother, and we had gone through hell together, and while we were all kids—even though there wasn’t much we could do to protect one another—we did at least try to stick together and watch one another’s backs. Even though he had been found competent to stand trial, it seemed to me that he had to be mentally ill to have done the things he did. I walked outside onto the deck behind the building and sat down on one of the wooden benches, head in hands, crushed.

  When I arrived at the state’s attorney’s office for my deposition, I was shocked to see Detective Hussey sitting in the lobby. I called Susan, who was still parking the car, and begged her to call my lawyer, Michael Gibson, whom Ann had hired to be a buffer between me and the police as soon as Hussey made his initial threat. I didn’t have a clue what that man was doing in the waiting room. He had thrown so many threats at me that his presence made me very uncomfortable. Michael, who was arriving when Susan called him and had just pulled up, walked in with her and told me, “Oh, he’s probably here for something else.”

  When the assistant state’s attorney—Linda Drane Burdick, an attractive blonde with a powerful and intimidating personality, who eventually worked the Casey Anthony case—came out to get me, Hussey got up and told both attorneys, “I’m going to sit in on her deposition.” Michael said, “No, my client has a right to be there with the state’s attorney, myself, and a court reporter and that’s all that is required. That’s all I’m allowing.” Hussey turned to me and said, “You got lucky again,” and walked out the door, fortunately, but it set the tone for the day.

  I try very hard, as a mature adult, to make excuses for Hussey, that he was just doing his job, and that he must have believed that he was doing the right thing. But I was just as much a victim in this crime as the rest of my family—if not more so, with the way Rickie was dragging me into it—and I was reeling with indescribable fear and pain. Hussey had decided that I was guilty, period, and acted accordingly, with no compassion whatsoever. His lack of objectivity and his sneering, antagonistic pressure on me only made me fear and hate him more.

  My stomach was churning as the deposition began. The room, with its nondescript beige walls and conference table that seated eight, was full of lawyers: Gibson, Burdick, and my brother’s public defender, Gerod Hooper. I sat next to my attorney on one side of the oblong table, and Burdick and Hooper sat across from us. The court reporter sat, ready to go, at the end of the table.

  Hooper began right away by asking whether my father was an abusive drunk, and why no one reported him missing back in 1988. I’d spent so many years not talking about what felt like dirty little secrets that it was uncomfortable talking to these strangers about it, especially in light of the circumstances. I had to tell them what they wanted to know whether I liked it or not. It felt like being abused, all over again, not having any say at all in whether I participated in my current circumstances. It helped that Mr. Hooper was a very kind and gentle man, when he spoke to me. He was very sympathetic about my mother’s death.

  I knew they were going to ask me about the suicide attempt, and how Rickie was able to bury my mom’s body in my own backyard without my noticing anything was amiss. So I braced myself and prepared for the onslaught of questions. I vowed to just tell the truth, no matter how much it hurt to do so. “The truth is the truth is the truth” became my mantra.

  I told Hooper that I loved having my big brother back in my life. I loved having a family, after spending an entire chi
ldhood without one. What no one could seem to understand—at least that’s how it seemed with all of their dubious questions about my knowledge of the intimate details of his life—was that I didn’t know every facet of his day-to-day activities. I was at work most of the time and barely saw Susan as much as I would have liked, much less Rickie. Yes, we lived together, but we didn’t confide every detail just because we lived under the same roof. I didn’t know how much money he made. I didn’t pry into his financial life. Those things are personal. I stayed out of his business and he stayed out of mine.

  Then Hooper asked about the money that Rickie had given me between my mom’s disappearance in September and when they found her body in December. He had given Susan money to make payments on her car, and helped me put a down payment on a new truck, because mine was on its last legs. He said that he had come into some money and wanted to make up for the months he had lived there rent free. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, and I still kick myself for not thinking anything was odd at the time, but it certainly did look suspicious, in retrospect. I told him that I thought the money for my new truck had come out of our landscaping business account, but I could be mistaken. Hooper asked, “Why would there be a possibility that you’d be mistaken about that?”

  “That was quite a while ago. I don’t …”

  He interrupted, “Six months, wasn’t it? When did you set up these business accounts with Richard?”

  “I think we set up one in August and one in the beginning of September. I wanted to go into business with him. I thought it would be a great opportunity. Disney’s a nice job but I wanted to go much further.” I stammered a reply.

  “And you felt that your brother was a reliable business partner?” he asked.

  “Yes. I did.” Because I did. I was fooled by him, too. I thought my brother wanted me and the family back in his life. I thought he was eager to work and do something creative with his life. While we toiled together in the backyard, and with all the work he did on our house, he proved himself to be a hard and able worker, who didn’t mind putting his back into what he was doing.