“Teddy Hoover” turned out to be Benjamin Appleby, then 29, who had stolen the identity of a dead friend and had served time for robbery and had confessed to exposing himself to young women. Detectives uncovered his real name after a tip led them to his girlfriend in Bantam, Connecticut, a woman who was then living with a man whose last name was Appleby. Finally, in November 2004, Kansas detectives traveled nearly 1,300 miles to Connecticut, where they questioned Appleby about Ali’s murder. He broke down.
During his taped confession, Appleby hung his head and rubbed his forearms nervously as he described how Ali had rejected him. “I f***ing lost it,” he says. He admitted to strangling her but couldn’t remember what he had used to do it. He cried as he described covering her body. “I’m trying to do the right thing,” he said, sobbing. “I don’t want any sympathy.”
But after Appleby was brought back to Kansas to face charges of capital murder and rape, he recanted, saying his confession was made under duress. He’s still waiting to go to trial.
PROUD MEMORY
To honor Ali’s memory, the Kemps have launched a scholarship fund and TakeDefense.org, a national organization that offers free self-defense classes to women, so that they will know they have the skills to protect themselves—and not just throw a punch in panic, as it seems Ali did. So far it has trained 5,000 women (among them Laurel and Jennifer Wyand, another of Ali’s friends). “Ali would have loved all that her father is doing in her name,” says Jennifer, “helping to make sure that nothing like this happens to another young girl.”
During Appleby’s preliminary hearing, a pathologist testified that Ali had violently resisted her attacker, breaking her left index and middle fingers as she struggled. Laurel finds solace in the fact that Ali tried to strike back. “She fought until she couldn’t fight anymore. That didn’t surprise any of us. Ali loved life too much to give up.”
I Didn’t
Kill Him!
Tawny, 19, knew she didn’t cause her
brother’s death. So why didn’t the rest of
the world believe her?
A pit opened in my stomach as I pulled onto my street and saw an ambulance, police cars, and a Life Flight helicopter. My dad was yelling, so upset I couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. It was total chaos. As I got out of the pickup, three cops approached me. “You killed your brother!” one shouted. Then he grabbed my shirt, spun me around, and cuffed me. I was scared and confused. I had no idea what was going on. I never imagined that my younger brother would be dead at 17—or that I’d be accused of killing him.
BROTHERLY LOVE
Jeff* and I were just two years apart. When I look at old photos and home videos, I see us as babies lying on a blanket together, or as kids practicing karate moves.
My parents divorced when I was 5, and I didn’t live with Jeff for several years. Then when he was a sophomore in high school, he came to Utah to live with my dad and me.
I started to see Jeff as a really cool kid with a lot of talent. He had a dry sense of humor, like on Monty Python. He played guitar and sax, and was on the debate team. He would have made a great politician or lawyer.
SAD DIAGNOSIS
One day when Jeff was 17, he spaced out and didn’t respond when I called his name. Minutes later, he snapped out of it. The doctors said he had absence seizures, an epilepsy-like disorder. Another day, he had a grand mal seizure. He fell to the floor shaking and had to be rushed to the ER.
The diagnosis was really hard for Jeff, because his dream was to enter the Air Force Academy; the seizures made that impossible. Worse, his driver’s license, which he’d just gotten, was taken away because the disorder made driving risky.
After that, he became really angry. He was constantly doing crazy things, and he even jumped in front of my dad’s car once.
TRAGIC FIGHT
On July 8, 2002, I was taking Jeff and my 12-year-old half-brother Mark* on errands. We stopped at the bank, then Jeff wanted to go to Burger King. My dad was making dinner, so I said no. He got really angry and started swearing at me.
I ignored him, and dropped Mark off for a haircut. From the backseat of the pickup, Jeff kept yelling and even threw an ice scraper at me. I said, “I’m taking you home.”
When we were about 15 feet from our house, Jeff suddenly pushed the passenger seat forward and reached for the door. All I could get out was, “Jeff, don’t … wait!” Before I knew it, the door was open and he had jumped out.
I hit the brakes and rolled down the window. He was half-sitting, half-lying by the side of the road. I asked if he was OK and he snarled back, “Leave me alone.” I decided to let him cool off, thinking he’d walk the few steps home when he was ready. I drove off to pick up Mark. When I got home, the police were waiting for me.
SERIOUS ACCUSATION
I’ll never forget the look of terror on Mark’s face as we pulled up to that awful scene. We didn’t know what had happened. As the officers cuffed me, I learned that Jeff had died—and they thought I’d run him over. At the county jail, I was handed a booking sheet that said “hit and run” and “homicide.” I felt so sad and angry at myself for driving off. But I also knew that I hadn’t hit him.
On my second day in jail, I finally talked to my dad. I told him what had happened; he just cried. I was released after 72 hours since no charges had been filed. When I went to Jeff’s funeral the next week, I half expected him, always a joker, to open his eyes and scare us silly. But he didn’t.
UNANSWERED QUESTIONS
It took several months for the police to decide whether to file homicide charges. Things with my father were hard during that time. Once, he wondered aloud if I really had hit Jeff. Thankfully, the autopsy found no sign of Jeff having been hit by a car. There was some evidence of head trauma. Maybe he had a seizure while sitting by the curb and fell backward. Or he could have hit his head when he jumped, and that could have triggered a seizure. It’s frustrating not knowing exactly how Jeff died, but I’m glad Dad read the report and knew I hadn’t killed him. It helped to know I had Dad’s support.
I was ultimately charged with failing to remain at the scene of an accident. I pled guilty and received suspended jail time and probation. I was so relieved not to be charged with homicide.
MOVING ON
Often I dream of the afterlife. In good dreams, Jeff is with my grandparents. In my nightmares, he’s alone and miserable; sometimes I wake up screaming.
I cope by taking it one day at a time. Soon after Jeff’s death, I moved out. I work at a clothing store and go to school for massage therapy. Massage has helped me forgive myself, because I’m learning something I can do to make others feel better.
I also go to a support and counseling group every Thursday morning. One of our recent assignments was to write a letter to somebody we’re angry at. I wrote to Jeff—asking why he jumped out of the truck—and to myself too. The anger and guilt won’t disappear, but expressing them helps me move forward. That’s something I need to do. With all that’s happened, I know how short life can be; there’s a lot I want to do before my time is up.
*Name has been changed
School
Attack
When Edith became a counselor at the
Pleasantville Cottage School, she had no idea
what the girls there had in store for her.
The Pleasantville Cottage School has 16 residential cottages on 175 acres of rolling, green grass in the quiet town of Pleasantville, New York. But this boarding school, for kids 7 and up, isn’t always as peaceful as it appears. Most students at the school have been sent there because they’ve been neglected, abused, or had serious behavioral problems. In fact, the cottages’ bedrooms don’t have doors, so counselors can easily monitor the school’s 200 or so troubled students at all times.
Angenika Carter, one of the Cottage School’s residents, was reportedly sent there after being sexually abused and attempting suicide several times. Late one night in August 2001, when Ang
enika was about 15, she was up at midnight, way past the school’s curfew. Edith Toro, the overnight counselor in her cottage, walked into her room. “What’s going on?” Edith asked. Angenika glared back at her—she was so sick of adults controlling her. “I’m tired of you!” she suddenly snapped, then she walked over and stuck her face right into Edith’s. “I hate you,” Angenika hissed.
No student had ever gotten that aggressive with Edith before, and she felt scared. She began to back away, but then Angenika grabbed her and threw her to the ground. Luckily, Edith’s cottage cocounselor, Jackie, heard the commotion, came running, and quickly pulled Angenika off Edith. But as the campus security arrived and led Angenika out of the cottage, she punched Edith in the face—as hard as she possibly could.
GOOD INTENTIONS
Edith started working at the Cottage School in 1996, when she was 27. She had a day job in a company’s accounts-payable office, but she was putting herself through college and needed extra money. When an acquaintance told her about the school’s opening, Edith thought it would be the perfect second job. Because she had grown up in a very poor immigrant family, she thought she’d be able to relate to the kids’ hardships. “I hadn’t had it easy,” Edith says. “I felt I could help.” So with little formal training, she began work in Cottage 12, where she spent 11 P.M. to 7 A.M. making sure her 12 teenage girls stayed in bed and didn’t sneak out.
Just as she’d thought, Edith really connected with her girls. “They needed love,” she says. “And I loved them.” If any of the girls in her cottage got sick during the night or couldn’t sleep, Edith would let them stay up and read or watch TV with her.
NEW STUDENTS
In 2001, after Edith had been working nights at the school for five years, seven new teenage girls joined Cottage 12. Erica Mateo, Crystal Silva, Takiyah Miller, Lidia Orellana, Nicole Infante, Mary Brown, and Latoya Barcliff were sent to the Cottage School because they’d had difficult lives. When Crystal was 4, her dad pushed her mom out of the window of their sixth-floor apartment—and her mom grabbed onto him as she was falling, killing them both. Lidia was put into foster care when she was just five days old—by the time she was 14, she was reportedly smoking pot and stealing. The girls quickly bonded with Angenika, and as a group, they were more difficult than any Edith had met before.
Since these girls had no one else to lean on, they became like family to one another. Mary would steal her teachers’ wallets to get money, and then use it to buy Chinese food as a treat for the others. Latoya helped the other girls do their laundry, Takiyah braided their hair, and Erica helped everyone with their chores. It was nice for them to have each other—but not for Edith. As the girls got closer, they also began helping each other break the rules. They started setting their alarms for the middle of the night and sneaking out together to smoke pot. In fact, they snuck out so much that Edith even started unplugging their alarm clocks so they’d sleep through the night, which drove the girls crazy.
Edith was vigilant, and as the girls began realizing they couldn’t get away with what they wanted, they started to get more outspoken. “Stop bothering me!” Takiyah screamed one night around January 2002, as Edith made her rounds. “Go back to China!” The girls agreed that things would be better if Edith were gone.
BRUTAL ASSAULT
On Thursday, February 7, 2002, Edith arrived at work around 11 P.M. About 20 minutes later, she went upstairs to check on the girls. Suddenly Angenika charged out of Mary’s room and headed for Edith, her eyes wild with hatred, as if something had snapped inside of her. Scared, Edith turned to race downstairs.
Unlike the last time Angenika had attacked Edith, the cocounselor had left, so Edith had no one to yell to for help. Angenika caught Edith at the bottom the stairs and began to punch her head. The other seven girls gathered around to watch. “Don’t hit me!” Edith begged. But that only got the other girls to start yelling, “F*** her up!” Angenika grabbed onto Edith’s hair, and she and Nicole dragged her into the living room, while Takiyah began kicking Edith’s back. Edith was so confused and scared, she didn’t want to fight back. “I though one wrong move might cost me my life,” she explains.
The girls continued to beat Edith until Angenika splashed a bottle of rubbing alcohol into Edith’s face. “Burn the b****,” Latoya said as she handed Angenika a lighter. Angenika flicked it on—and Edith’s face went up in flames. It hurt more than she could bear, but still, she thought, I can’t die—I haven’t even gotten married or had kids yet. Within seconds Edith managed to get to her feet and throw a blanket over her head to put out the flames.
Edith’s head was pounding, and her skin was blistering. “Let’s go, b****,” Angenika said, as she easily shoved Edith down the steps to the basement. The girls raced after her. “We’re going to kill you tonight,” Angenika said. “Little by little, we’re going to make you suffer.” Angenika grabbed a fire extinguisher and blasted it into Edith’s face. Then Nicole ripped a piece of cable wire from the basement ceiling and wrapped it around Edith’s neck. “It would be so easy to kill you,” Nicole said, as Erica grabbed a jug of bleach from the nearby laundry room and threw it into Edith’s burned face. Edith screamed. “I couldn’t take the pain anymore,” she says. She finally thought to herself, Just kill me.
As the girls dragged Edith back upstairs to the living room, her skin peeled off her face. “We’ve got to kill the b****,” Nicole said. “Let’s just kill the b****.” But then a pair of car headlights washed by outside, and Mary shouted, “Some staff is on their way over!” It was 12:30 A.M. By that time, they’d been torturing Edith for more than an hour.
REAL CONSEQUENCES
The girls panicked. Edith, with a final surge of adrenaline, raced out of the back door and headed for the car, which a day counselor from Cottage 14 had just parked. “What happened?!” she asked in horror, as she saw Edith’s blistered face and swollen eyes. “They’re trying to kill me!” Edith gasped. The counselor immediately called staff supervision, and they raced Edith to nearby Westchester Medial Center and alerted the police.
Meanwhile, the girls fled into the freezing night. Angenika, Latoya, and Takiyah hid inside a boy’s cottage, and Nicole and Lidia ran behind the school’s gym—but they were all caught and arrested right away. Erica, Crystal, and Mary headed for a nearby bar, where they were able to hitch a ride to Queens, New York, where Erica’s boyfriend lived. (Within a five-week search, they were arrested too.)
On February 16, nine days after her attack, Edith was released from the hospital. Her face and chest were still blistered; her arms, legs, and back were covered with bruises and red welts. But three weeks later, determined to go on with her life, Edith went back to her day job. She arrived at work to find that her friends had decorated her desk with flowers and balloons. Edith was so thankful for their support but also relieved that no one asked her what had happened. “I don’t like to talk about any of this,” Edith explains. “It’s too painful.”
About eight months later, all eight girls pleaded guilty to assault. In December 2002, before the first sentencing hearings, Edith typed letters to each of the girls, which she planned to present in court. She hadn’t had any contact with them since her attack, and she thought confronting them in court might help her make peace with everything that had happened.
On December 17, 10 months after her assault, Edith faced her attackers for the first time as she sat at their hearing. Nervous and sweating, she began to read her letter to Angenika out loud, but tears poured from her eyes, and her voice vanished. James McCarty, the prosecutor, took over: “I hope that you could show some consideration and explain why I became a victim of your rage,” he read. When he finished Edith’s letter, Angenika said to the judge with a shrug, “I know I was wrong—I don’t expect her to forgive me.” The judge sentenced all the girls to prison terms, ranging from 1 to 10 years.
PERMANENT DAMAGE
Today, more than two years later, Crystal, now 17, is the only one who is said to have
been released. Her social worker says she’s trying to move on from this “extremely traumatic time” and won’t talk about it.
On the surface, Edith has healed. “Everybody says I look good—but they can’t see my scars,” she says. There are times Edith still gets so upset that she can’t get out of bed, but therapy is helping her understand that the attack was not her fault. “The girls didn’t hate me so much,” Edith explains. “They hated everything. They just got it with me that night because I was the weakest.” Edith wishes the girls had reached out for help to deal with their rage instead of lashing out at her. “They didn’t have parents to love them, or to tell them what is good and bad,” she says. “But just because you don’t have a family doesn’t mean you can attack somebody. We all get angry—there are other ways to handle it.”
My Nanny
Molested Me
For four years, Lauren, now 21,
was horribly abused by a woman who was
supposed to take care of her.
My parents worked a lot when I was growing up in Miami, Florida, so we always had a live-in nanny. In August 1997, when I was 12, my sister, Samantha, was 10, and my brother, Chase, was 5, my parents hired a new nanny named Waldina Flores. “Waldy” was 29 and seemed really cool: She would let me stay up late, and took my side when I fought with my sister. It was great always having her around—she was sort of like a fun second mom.
Seventeen Real Girls, Real-Life Stories Page 2