HONEY ROCK DAWN

Part VII

Earlier posts:
Intro, Intro Addendum
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI

When I left off, the stalker had been unable to pay his bond to get out of jail before the trial; he had requested that his bail be waived and, during that hearing, gone into a graphic tirade about a double-murder fantasy of his while on the stand.  His request was denied and bail remained at $10,000.

At that point, I was finally able to move everything about this to the back of my mind for the first time since the stalking began ~ he was obviously stuck in jail and the trial was six weeks away.  But the relative peace I enjoyed did not last long, for I soon received another call from the Victim’s Advocate.

She told me the stalker had changed his plea ~ to Guilty.  This was not some sudden bout of conscience; this was simply strategy, to speed up the process and, in his mind, hopefully get out of jail before the trial would even have taken place.  The Prosecuting Attorney was able to require a mental evaluation, which had to be scheduled and completed before the sentencing hearing could be scheduled.

The eval was scheduled, then it was rescheduled, then it was canceled, then rescheduled.  It came out during the sentencing that the individual who finally did administer the mental evaluation considered the stalker “outside their realm of expertise” and recommended he be seen by someone with more focused qualifications, but, due to the disorganization surrounding the initial eval or, perhaps, just a general disorganization and ball-dropping by the Prosecuting Attorney, that never happened.  The only good thing that came from the mess surrounding the mental evaluation was that it did keep the stalker in jail for another three weeks.

And then it was time for the sentencing hearing.  I did not have to go but I chose to go, and when the stalker’s public defender saw me in the courtroom she threw a fit, literally shouting, “Why is she here? She doesn’t need to be here, we’re going to change our plea back to Not Guilty.”  She muttered nasty stuff under her breath about me before the judge arrived, loud enough to be sure I heard it all, and then she really did try to change the plea back to Not Guilty but it was not allowed.

There was a short hearing which consisted of the Prosecuting Attorney and the public defender each stating why they were right and the other wrong, and then the judge made his pronouncement.  This was the same judge who had presided over the bond hearing, when the stalker had described his elaborate plan to murder two innocents, and I was convinced he would give the stalker the maximum sentence of six months to be served in jail.

The judge did sentence him to the maximum sentence of six months.  I was sitting next to the Victim’s Advocate and got excited when I heard this.  “Don’t get excited yet,” she whispered with the dry resignation of having seen this over and over again.  And she was right.  The judge went on, citing this and that and time served while held on bond and probation and waived court fees and then, speaking directly to the stalker: “you’ll be free to go at 7am tomorrow morning.”  This is what I wrote in my notebook at the time:  I hold bullshit in too high esteem to call this bullshit.  This is disgusting irresponsibility.  This is a system that fails the responsible and the innocent, one that is hideously mired with subtle and not-so-subtle misogyny.

Afterward, I met breifly, separately, with both the Victim’s Advocate and the Prosecuting Attorney.  Both said, “Don’t worry about him bothering you anymore; you’ve been too difficult, caused him too much trouble.  He’ll find someone else.”

* * *

I did not write this series for catharsis.  I found catharsis with my handgun.  I wrote this for others, because I would have liked to have read something like this when I was going through it myself.  It would have helped me.

I also feel that violence against women is a topic that is still too ignored.  I took self defense classes in my teens and 20’s but still found myself unprepared in my ability to respond to the physical and psychological demands of being stalked.  It wasn’t until I started thinking like a fighter and had a crash course in strategy and fighting back ~ which I lived and breathed every day for months ~ that I gained the skills and the mindset that brought clarity and confidence.  And now, I don’t have to stay in that zone, because I know I can access it any time I might need to.

My longwinded point is, don’t wait for a reason.  Learn these skills now.  Hone your inner fighter and let her live inside you, quietly dormant but agile when you need her.  I had the shrapnel version.  I wasn’t beaten, raped, killed, or permanently disabled like so many women are every day.

I love knowing I can fight.  I love knowing that by writing this, other girls and women are accepting (yes, accepting) their own power, as well.

Part VI

Earlier posts:
Intro, Intro Addendum
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V

About two weeks after the bond hearing - during which the stalker remained in jail as he could not produce $10,000 cash - I got a call from the Victim’s Advocate in the court.  This is a woman who works in the Prosecuting Attorney’s office and, as her title indicates, acts as a liaison between the court and the victim.  She was the one truly competent, invested individual I encountered during my dealings with the court and has become a friend.

The stalker had plead ‘not guilty’ at the initial hearing, and he wanted to get out of jail until the jury trial which was scheduled for two months out. The Victim’s Advocate was calling to inform me that the stalker had, through his court-appointed attorney, requested a hearing to have his bond waived.  WAIVED. Seriously? I mean, even in Monopoly, unless you are lucky enough to draw a Get Out Of Jail Free card, you SIT THERE OR PAY TO LEAVE. Does the United States judicial system now hand out Get Out Of Jail Free cards upon request? Apparently so. Because the Victim’s Advocate urged me to appear in court and testify, stating that if I did not, it was very likely his request would be accepted by the judge.

I did not want to testify, but I thought, at the very least, it would be good practice for the jury trial and at best, could keep him in jail until the trial.  Mike took the day off and went with me, and I drenched myself in Golden Armor, which did its job - even though I was in a small room with the stalker and on the stand in front of him, I felt that he could not see me, could not access me.  He was in an orange jumpsuit, chains shackled around his ankles and wrists cuffed to a chain around his waist.

I took the stand first, and the Prosecuting Attorney asked me questions that allowed me to describe the history of the stalking and the measures taken to try to stop it.  He ended with the question, “Do you think the bond should be waived?”  I said, “No.  When I told him to stop, he said he would stop but he didn’t; it escalated.  When the Chief of Police called him and told him to stop, he said he would stop but he didn’t; it escalated further.  He says he will stop now but there is nothing in his past behavior to indicate that he will stop if he is released, in fact, the pattern shows the opposite.  I hope the court recognizes this and will hold him accountable for his actions.”

I was told to remain on the stand because it was now the defense attorney’s turn to question me.  The court-appointed defense attorney was a misogynistic incarnation of evil.  God, she was vile.  SHE.  And not just with me.  She defends rapists, abusers, and stalkers, and I heard much about her treatment of other female victims - her attempts to blatantly humiliate and denigrate victims while they’re on the stand - and that she was chronically rude and unprofessional to the staff of the county attorney’s office.

When she had her chance with me, she tried.  Oh, how she tried to slander my character and upset me.  But it soon became evident to everyone in the room that she was no match for me. I wanted to say, “Lady, don’t waste your time. I BLOG.  The worst you’ve got won’t come close to the hatemail I’ve gotten. The trolls have made me immune.”

She became visibly filled with hatred because I didn’t crack under her words.  And her defense was ludicrous.  Here’s an example:
Her:  Have you read anything by Stephen King?
Me:  No.
Her:  {accusatory tone}  What??
Me:  No.
Her:  {pause}  Well, you know who he is?
Me:  Yes.
Her:  {sing-song voice}  My client is creative.  He wants to be a writer.  Say he was just acting this way as research for a novel he’s working on.  There’s no law against that, is there?
Me:  Yes, there is.  That’s why he was ARRESTED.

So, by her logic, it’s OK to kill someone, as long as you write a book about it afterward?  Idiot.

Then it was the stalker’s turn to take the stand.  The defense attorney made a big fuss about how I had accepted his “friend request” on Facebook, nevermind that I’ve accepted over 3,000 friend requests, that it happened months before the stalking began, and that I had since blocked him.  That, and the “he’s the next Stephen King,” were their only defense.

When it was the Prosecuting Attorney’s chance to question the defendant, he asked, among other things, why the stalker had a loaded .44 Magnum with him.  The stalker launched into a long, detailed, disturbing monologue about how he had creditors after him.  The creditors would not leave him alone.  And so he carried a loaded gun at all times because if those creditors got close he was going to shoot the first one in the face, and the last thing the second one was going to see was the bullet exiting the giant hole in the back of his partner’s head and the blood splattering all over right before it then entered his brain.  He was going to kill both those creditors with one bullet.  And then those creditors wouldn’t be bothering him anymore.

The courtroom was silent.  The judge had his jaw on the desk in front of him.  You could see the defense attorney saying “SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” in her head.  The Prosecuting Attorney told me afterward that the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end.

The judge made his declaration.  He was red in the face and said, directly to the stalker, “You are crazy, you are dangerous, and bail stands at $10,000.”

But this is not the end of the story.
Part VII is HERE

Part V

Earlier posts:
Intro, Intro Addendum
Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV

The actual stalking was the most difficult part of this story for me, personally, but the next segment of the story was - and continues to be - the most difficult part for me conceptually.  Because it’s not just about me.  What I have witnessed firsthand and learned in research in regards to the court system affects all women.  And the reality, for victims or potential victims, is not slanted in our favor.  Quite the contrary.  Only 4% of convicted criminals are sentenced to time in prison (statistic via Armed & Female by Paxton Quigley).  My stalker was found guilty.  And after the sentencing, he was free to go.  Even the court fees he should have had to pay were waived.  But I’m jumping ahead of myself.

My last installment ended with the stalker’s arrest.  The cops were amazing ~ from the moment I approached them, they were patient with me, proactive in their work, and totally professional throughout.

As per the arresting officer’s instructions, I called the Prosecuting Attorney on Monday morning.  He was condescending, distracted, and had no solid answers to my questions.  He didn’t know if there would be a hearing that day; when I asked him about bail he “hadn’t thought about it;” he was dismissive of the seriousness of the situation because the stalker had not confronted me face to face (uh, he was arrested first!).  This is when I learned that the stalker was found with a loaded .44 Magnum.  I also learned that the prosecuting attorney had 96 days left before his retirement.  He was literally counting down the days.  He told me he would call me later.

When I hadn’t heard anything further by midday, I called him back, only to be given a new version of the same spiel.  I was antsy, irritated, concerned, and I was glimpsing the tip of the iceberg: my safety was in the hands of someone who didn’t care that much personally, philosophically, or professionally.  So I walked up to Mike’s house and asked him for a lesson in handguns.

My very good friend Carol taught me to shoot a rifle long before all this began.  Her father taught her; she, in turn, taught her daughter and sons, and, when I asked her, she taught me.  She taught me from scratch, from the ground up ~ safety, posture, ethics, sportsmanship.  We were shooting cans and, at the end of the day, she pointed to a can and instructed me to “make that can dance.”  Meaning, shoot multiple rounds with enough speed and accuracy so that the can didn’t stop moving.  I didn’t think I could do it.  She made me try.  I made that can dance.  I bought a rifle a few days later.  Not so that I could go around killing things, but so I could continue practicing what I believe to be a valuable skill and one I found I really enjoyed.

So, I had experience with rifles but handguns were a different story.  As Carol said, “there’s only one reason to have a handgun.”  And back then, that one reason seemed completely outside the realm of my reality ~ a non-issue in my simple little life.  But the Monday after the arrest, I saw my life differently.  My reality had changed.  That Monday, instead of pacing circles waiting for the PA to call, I decided to learn to shoot a handgun.  I shot dozens of rounds, with Mike at my side offering tips or suggestions at intervals. At one point, when I was reloading, Mike commented that my hands were shaking.  “I know!” I said, “they’ve been shaking all day.”  And then I realized something.  I looked at him and said, “When I shoot, I’m not shaking.”  “No,” he said. “You don’t shake at all.”

I love target practice.  I have clocked a lot of hours doing it.  I find it very similar to yoga.  You cannot be distracted when you have a loaded gun in your hand.  You cannot fret about an argument you had, or worry about something that’s looming in the future.  You must be centered, fully engaged in the moment or you risk hurting yourself or someone or something else.  I find target practice very grounding.

While I would never shoot an animal for a trophy, I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that if I looked out my window and saw a mountain lion stalking Frisco, I would be out the door in a flash, gun in hand, and I would shoot to save Frisco.  I would kill to protect those in my care.  The same measure of self awareness is required with a handgun as it pertains to protecting oneself from a human predator.  I know what I would do in that instance, too.

Shortly after I got back home, the PA called.  He told me the hearing would be that afternoon at 4:30, that the stalker would plead Not Guilty because “they always do,” and that the judge would decide bail because, “they always do,” and that I could testify by phone in the presence of a notary.  He gave me the number to call at 4:20 and said the proceedings never lasted more than 15 or 20 minutes.

I called the local notary and he agreed to meet me at his office for the call.  At 4:20 we called the courts.  I spoke with the receptionist and was put on hold for seven minutes.  Then the call was disconnected.  We called back; it went straight to the court voicemail service.  We called back again, and again.  Our calls were never answered.  Finally, at five minutes to five, I said, “we might as well stop trying; it’s probably over now anyway.”  So I drove home.  I got home at two minutes past five.  There was a message on my machine from a woman at the courthouse who said she “wanted to go over what happened in court today.  We close up shop at 5.”  I tried calling immediately in hopes of reaching someone, to no avail.

So, I had NO idea what had happened.  I didn’t know if he was still in custody or if he was out (I found out later that the presiding judge did not want to hear testimony over the phone. I was a little {ok, a lot} irked that they just hung up the phone without explaining why). I had to find out, though.

I looked up the number to the county jail and called the jail directly.  I explained the circumstance and was told, “He’s still here.  His bond is $10,000 cash.  And since he’s still here, now, it’s a safe bet he’ll be here all night, if not longer.”  I was also told that if he did post bond, the Victim’s Advocate from the court (someone I’d not yet met or spoken with) would be notified before he was released, and she would notify me.  “Even if it’s three in the morning?” I asked.  “Yep - even if it’s three in the morning.”  So I tried to relax.  I had, for the time being, a $10,000 bond, a phone tree, and borrowed handgun between me and the stalker.

But the stalker didn’t like being in jail, held on a bond he couldn’t afford.  And that’s when things got interesting.

P.S. What a devistating time to bring up my appreciation for and practice with guns.  But people have been patiently waiting for the next installment in this story and it would not be an honest, chronological account if I omitted this entry.  I do not want my comment section to become a space for debate over gun laws.  There are other places on the net devoted to such discussions.  There *is* so much more I want to say on the topic ~ of guns, personal safety, societal safety, RESPONSIBILITY…. Maybe another day.  This post is Part V in a series that I want to keep intact and undiluted.  Namaste.

Part VI is HERE

Clarification.

22 vs 44

To make things perfectly clear re/the post below, Part IV:

Neither Mike nor I are DIRECTING ANYONE to SHOOT ANYONE in the LEG!

His words are a visceral and accurate description of the .44 Mag.  If you shoot someone in the leg with a .22, they will continue moving forward.

Here’s a photo showing the difference.  You can see my shot with a .22 pistol next to the Pepsi logo near the center of the can.  And then Mike’s shot with a .44 Magnum made the enormous gash.  We were standing side by side, about 30′ from the can when we did this.  The .22 makes a sharp loud crack when it’s fired, and the can didn’t really move when I shot it.  When Mike shot his .44, I felt the boom under my feet.  The can flew.  This is all to say, the .44 Mag is a beast.  It’s to protect oneself against grizzlies.  And this happens to be the gun the cops found, loaded, on the stalker when they arrested him.

To reiterate, in stating these comparisons, I’m not advising to shoot the leg.  Or to shoot once.  Or to shoot at all.  I am not advising, period.

Guns are an enormous responsibility and no one should learn technique from a website!  That should be done in a safe, hands-on environment with skilled, safety-oriented mentors.  I am not giving tactical advice here.  OK?  OK.

Part IV

Earlier posts:
Intro, Intro Addendum
Part I, Part II, Part III

My best friend has always said that I get the “shrapnel version” of events.  The bombs in her life tend to go off right in her lap, whereas the bombs in my life leave me with shrapnel here and there rather than blowing me to bits.

On a Saturday afternoon, an email came in from the stalker.  “I have to see you.  I’m packing a bag and driving up there…. If you don’t want me to come or if you’re going to tell the Sheriff’s department, just email me and tell me so.”

The last time I had responded to his emails was exactly one month prior, when I had said, “Stop, or I will get law enforcement involved.”  He, of course, had continued, sending me hundreds of emails, to which I did not respond but had forwarded to the Sergeant who had taken my case.

When this email came in, my immediate urge was to write back and say “NO!  What part of NO don’t you get???”  But instead I called Dispatch.  The Sgt. was not in but I was transferred to the Lieutenant on duty, who knew the details of my case as well.  She said, “Don’t write him back.  He will only interpret that as contact, even if you are saying, ‘don’t contact me.’  If he emails you again with his whereabouts, call back.  I’m working an event tonight and dispatch will patch you through.  If he enters the county, he enters our jurisdiction and we can take him in.  If he shows up at your house, call 911.”  At this point, I knew what the stalker looked like and I knew what he drove.  I was remarkably calm, thanks to the internal transformation described in Part III, and went about my day.

Mike came down at dusk.  He had a holstered pistol slung around his shoulder with baling twine, the twine fuzzy from years of use.
“I dusted off my ol’ .44 Magnum,” he said.
“Bailing twine?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.  “This thing’ll stop a grizzly bear, but you got to keep it close to your body.”
Mike spent years guiding pack trips in the mountains surrounding Cody, an area rife with grizzlies.  “If a grizzly shows up and there’s a horse wreck on the trail, and you fly off and your horse runs away, your gun does you no good if it’s tied to the saddle.  Gotta keep it on your body,” he said, patting the holster at his ribs.
“May I see it?” I asked.  I had seen it before but had paid little attention.  He unholstered the gun for me.  Black, heavy.  His initials were engraved in the handle.
“I don’t ever want you to have to shoot this gun,” he said.  “The recoil would probably break your wrist.  Shoot a guy in the leg with this, and he’ll fly back thirty feet.”

Mike and I played with Charlie and Chloe, then walked Daisy & Co. down to the corrals and tucked them in for the night.  When we got back to my place, I checked my email.  I grabbed my phone and was patched through to the Lt in seconds, and read her the email that had just come in. “I’m at the motel in Ten Sleep, room XX.  I need about an hour to freshen up and then we can meet.”

This is what I mean about the shrapnel version.  I still can barely wrap my head around the cocktail of insanity, narcissism, and stupidity that swirled through this guy’s veins and brain.  He pretty much served himself up on a platter, but ONLY because I had done my due diligence in the steps I had taken with law enforcement.

“We’re on the way,” she said.  “Sit tight, stay safe, I’ll be in touch.”

Mike and I sat outside.  It got dark.  Headlights approached and we could tell from the starlight that it was one of the deputy’s trucks.  He drove slowly past the driveway.  We could hear his radio crackling but couldn’t make out what was said.  “Is he lost?” Mike wondered aloud.  Just beyond the driveway, his truck squealed in a tight U-turn, sending gravel flying.  “Apparently!” I said.  But he didn’t turn up the driveway; he sped back towards town at full speed.  “Something’s going on,” I said, looking at Mike, who was looking at me.

Fifteen minutes later, the Lt. called.  “We got him,” she said.  “We arrested him at the motel on stalking charges and we’re taking him in.  Call the prosecuting attorney Monday morning, he’ll tell you what happens next.  Make sure you ask him to set a high bond.  [the Sgt's name] and I will be back Tuesday.”

Part V is HERE

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