Gone Forever

by Diane Fanning

  “Okay,” James said. “Did you notice that there’s grass and dirt on your mom and dad’s stones?”

  “I think they were just through here mowing and it flew up on them.”

  “Grandma Smith wouldn’t like that,” James said.

  Ann smiled and thought, no, she wouldn’t like it one bit.

  Together, they brushed the debris off of the stones.

  At the end of August, Mona sent her son another letter. She complained about a sinus infection and encouraged Rick to send a birthday card to James. She wrote that she sent her grandson a card with ten $1 bills in it, but would not honor Rick’s request to send James a Game Boy Advance cartridge.

  Then the Bank of America situation raised its ugly head again.

  As you know by this time, Don and David just found out about the B/A deal. They are both very upset about it which is certainly understandable, and it has caused me a lot of stress also. I am so very sorry that it had to happen. Just exactly how did this thing get started?

  Somehow—perhaps from his mother—Rick managed to obtain the telephone number of the foster family who cared for James and Timmy. Against court orders, he dialed it on Christmas Day. The foster mother answered the call. She was torn. She knew she shouldn’t allow him to talk to the boys. But it was Christmas. What harm could it do?

  She regretted that decision faster than she made it. As soon as Timmy heard the sound of his father’s voice, he blanched, dropped the phone and ran to his room. Behind the slammed door, he went into a tormented rampage of destruction. The foster mother never made that mistake again.

  Rick still continued to create problems at the Bexar County Correctional Center. On January 5, 2004, Inmate Quinton Moody reported that there would be problems if he and McFarland remained in the same unit. Their conflict started when they were in the BA unit together and now resumed in unit BB. Moody claimed McFarland was going out of his way to make things difficult for him and other prisoners. On January 8, Gregorio Rodriguez claimed he feared for his safety around McFarland.

  Later that month, Cecil Burley, McFarland’s then-current roommate, said that Rick was flushing stuff down the commode for two days prior to the surprise health, sanitation and contraband inspection of the cell. “He knew something was coming,” he said.

  Maybe so. But, once again, Rick did not do a thorough job cleaning up the evidence. Inspectors confiscated several non-privileged items, including correspondence, from his cell that day.

  Finally in February, after months of motions, delays and the juggling of conflicting schedules, a date was set for the big show. The timing could not have been worse for Sergeant Boyd Wedding. Every February, he took vacation days so he could work at the San Antonio Stock Show and Rodeo—a major event on the city’s calendar of events since 1950.

  For some, the rodeo was just another excuse for San Antonio to throw a party. It was more than that to serious rodeo fans. The event was inducted into the PRCA—Professional Rodeo Cowboys Association—ProRodeo Hall of Fame in 2003 and was ranked as one of the top five rodeos in the nation. Over one million visitors enter the grounds annually. While there, they consume nearly 5000 pounds of brisket and over 6000 gallons of soda.

  One of the big draws every year was the musical talent amassed for the two-week event. 2004 was no exception—including performances by Reba McEntire, Brooks & Dunn, Alan Jackson, Martina McBride, and Dwight Yoakam. Even Willie Nelson was booked, but laryngitis kept him off the stage.

  During the days before the trial, Wedding spent his vacation working the rodeo, fielding calls from the district attorney’s office, and finding copies of whatever document might be needed. On top of that, anticipation of facing cross-examination added to the stress, and reliving the memories of Sue’s disappearance and death resurrected the pain. Some vacation.

  The defense’s successful change of venue motion moved the trial three counties away to the city of Austin in Travis County. The University of Texas School of Law would host the unfolding drama in a cherrywood-trimmed, state of the art courtroom in the John B. Connally Center for Justice.

  The lavish courtroom included a $60,000 bulletproof judge’s bench, high-backed leather chairs for the attorneys and a fully equipped TV production studio. With eight cameras to shoot all the action, they would broadcast gavel-to-gavel live coverage on the university’s website.

  Staff and students coordinated logistics with the District Court in Bexar County and with a bevy of media representatives including reporters and producers from NBC and Court TV. Seventy-nine county residents received the call to report for jury duty on Thursday, February 5, 2004.

  The gathered legal talent for the trial was impressive. The defense team was Mark Stevens and Pat Hancock, who between them represented many clients in high-profile cases, including the death penalty appeal for serial killer Tommy Lynn Sells and the criminal trial of Nelson Antonio Escalero, who held San Antonio Archbishop Patrick Flores hostage in his own church.

  The state matched them for talent. First Assistant District Attorney Michael Bernard—second only in the department to DA Susan Reed—led the prosecution team. In a previous incarnation, Bernard was an ACLU attorney who represented Branch Davidian members after the fiery fiasco in Waco. When he switched to the other side of the courtroom, he got a guilty verdict on the murder-conspiracy charges against millionaire Allen Blackthome in the bloody homicide-for-hire perpetrated on Shelia Bellush, Blackthome’s ex-wife, the mother of his daughters and now, in a second marriage, the mother of toddler quadruplets.

  Bernard was backed by lawyers Catherine Babbitt, the shining star of domestic violence prosecutions, and Bettina Richardson, whose organizational skills and intense recall of detail kept the team organized and focused. When they got frustrated or off-track, Richardson reminded them, “You eat an elephant one bite at a time.”

  The state was ready and confident. They had tracked down every issue until it resulted in meaningful evidence or led to a dead end. They even conducted an extensive search for any indication of the presence of a boyfriend and found nothing.

  They expected that McFarland’s lawyers might claim self-defense or even an accident—he pushed her, she fell down the stairs and he panicked. But the prosecution felt that the evidence surrounding the stolen Suburban would defeat any arguments in that direction. The only viable defense they saw was an insanity plea, but in order to effect that, Rick’s attorneys would have to give advance notice of intent, and that had not been forthcoming.

  From the state’s viewpoint, the most intriguing testimony involved Rick’s electronic trail as he hacked into Susan’s computer, and that definitive plant burr on Rick’s sock. The most compelling evidence they thought they had was the blood in the bathroom, Sue’s forcibly removed hair in the back cargo area of the Suburban and the blood on the bumper and the rear locking mechanism of that vehicle. Overall, they believed everything pointed to Rick McFarland from the first time he opened his mouth.

  Maybe the most damning evidence of all was the statement made by William about the earring, the shoe and the blood at 356 Arcadia. Although there was nothing in that house, it took no great leap of imagination to understand that William may very well have seen what he described in his very own home.

  Nonetheless, the prosecution decided months before that this testimony would not be heard by a jury. The state would not further traumatize any of the three boys by putting them in the witness stand to condemn their father.

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  The prosecution team expected the trial to last three weeks to a month. They did not expect that the defense would call witnesses—McFarland had no true friends, and to call the defendant himself would be a reckless temptation of fate.

  Reporters and spectators sat in their seats waiting for the jury selection process to begin. The start time came and went. The minutes dragged by as reporters struck up idle conversation with one another wondering if the delay was significant or just jumbled logistics.

  Finally, Ric
k McFarland entered the courtroom in a blue suit and coordinated tie. His facial expression was flat—no emotion was revealed in his eyes. The weight of reality bore down heavy on his shoulders. Once again, he failed to achieve the goal he set. He did not commit the perfect murder. He dug himself into another hole and Sue—the one person who always came to his rescue—was no longer there to bail him out.

  Judge Sid Harle mounted the bench. Defense and prosecuting attorneys announced a plea agreement to a stunned audience. After a moment of silence, the room came back to life—laptops clacked, pens scratched and cameras zoomed in on the players.

  According to the deal, the defendant waived his right to a jury trial on the murder charge that carried a possible sentence of 5 to 99 years, and the state dropped the related lesser charges. McFarland lost custody of his sons, but would not be required to offer an explanation of how he killed Susan McFarland. He accepted a sentence of 40 years and would not be eligible for parole until he served 50 percent of the time.

  “You are bound to this agreement if I follow it,” Judge Harle told McFarland. “You cannot appeal.”

  The judge turned to the defense team. “Mr. Stevens and Mr. Hancock, is he competent to offer a plea at this time?”

  When the lawyers responded in the affirmative, Richard McFarland said the word everyone awaited; “Guilty.”

  “Are you pleading guilty because you are guilty and for no other reason?” the judge asked.

  The defendant said he was. The judge accepted the plea by berating McFarland for his lack of remorse and his indifference to the searchers who scoured the city for his wife. “As far as I am concerned, you have earned a special place in hell.”

  The prepared statement of Sue’s family was then read into the record.

  Justice is served today. Susan’s family can now close this chapter of her life and begin a new chapter—the lead characters being her three beautiful sons. Family and friends have been spared the giving and reliving of the lengthy, horrible parade of evidence marshaled by law enforcement and prosecutors proving Rick McFarland’s responsibility for Susan’s death—the realization of our worst fears.

  We are saddened that her sons have now truly lost both their mother and their father, but we are encouraged and sustained by the innumerable acts of kindness, assistance and compassion with which we have been blessed, especially those fine caregivers for the children. We thank and congratulate the prosecutors and law enforcement for their long, hard work—their diligence and dedication—to bring this tragedy to a resolution.

  Please keep Susan’s children and the family of Carmen Alcaraz, which suffers especially at this time, in your prayers.

  Carmen, an Hispanic woman, disappeared a month before Susan McFarland, but her body had not been found for fifteen months. Her funeral was in two days. The effort to solve Carmen’s missing persons case did not seem as energetic or focused as that employed in Sue’s disappearance. This disparity created an outcry in the community blaming racism as the cause.

  Law enforcement, however, pointed to a different reason. They credited Ann Carr with keeping the media spotlight shining with firmness and intensity on Sue’s disappearance. That illumination caused the public to be more forthcoming with tips and more willing to volunteer for the searches. They believed if it were not for Ann’s efforts, they might never have found the body of Susan McFarland.

  Sue’s family ended this part of their ordeal with an intense gratitude for the exemplary performance of all the investigators involved in the case, and with Sergeant Palmer in particular. Pete Smith, with both a professional and personal interest in this case, was able to study Shawn Palmer’s voluminous report of the investigation. Pete was impressed by its thoroughness. In his opinion, Palmer left no stone unturned. “Even in hindsight,” he said, “I could see nothing that could have—or should have—been done differently.”

  Down in San Antonio, Sergeant Wedding drove along in one of the rodeo trucks. By his side was another stack of papers he had to take to the district attorney’s office for delivery to Austin.

  He turned up the volume on the radio when the programming was interrupted for breaking news. Rick McFarland pled guilty. Wedding pulled to the side of the road, got out in the middle of the street and screamed with joy.

  The scene was much grimmer in the office of a child therapist. There, William, James and Timmy heard of their father’s plea. They learned that their dad admitted he killed their mother. They found out that he accepted a serious sentence and would be going away for a long time.

  The boys were stunned—James was the most conspicuous in his distress. Their fate was still in the hands of others. They would not know what their future held until a decision was reached in a Bexar County courtroom in the hearing to terminate their father’s parental rights on April 12.

  Since his arrest, the boys only saw their father once, when they’d visited him in jail. Now they would not see him again for the remainder of their childhood. At this moment, that thought was incomprehensible.

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  The legal teams that geared up for a performance before a jury—and the world—could not disengage from their adversarial positions when the job was done without the stress-relieving drama of a trial. Stevens and Hancock took exception to District Attorney Susan Reed’s remarks to the press—particularly her assertion that the defense proposed the deal only the night before. They went over the top when San Antonio Express News columnist Ken Rodriguez printed lead prosecutor Michael Bernard’s description of the suddenness of the deal as being “like my worst enemy going off a cliff in my new Ferrari.”

  The defense attorneys fired off a letter to Michael Bernard.

  Nobody in recent times has been portrayed more negatively in our county than Richard McFarland, It is not at all surprising that your boss would go to great lengths to put her best spin on any plea bargain reached with a person so unpopular.

  The letter continued with a blow-by-blow account of the defense version of events. Their chronology began in mid-January and included the accusation that Bernard was the first person to mention the possibility of a 40-year sentencing deal.

  You’re the only one in the county who could have convinced Susan Reed to participate in this plea bargain, and, for whatever reason, you did so. If you really wanted a trial as badly as you led Rodriguez to believe, we would be trying the case right now. If your brand new Ferrari went off the cliff, you were in the driver’s seat.

  Michael Bernard fired back a response—forgetting in his moment of ire that the letter he wrote would become part of the public record.

  Apparently this is getting personal. [. . .] There was no reason for you to take personal offense or to make personal attacks.

  [. . .] There certainly was no attack made against you. There was no “record” which needed to be set straight. Your integrity was not questioned. No one was gloating.

  You stated that you exhaustively prepared your case and properly represented your client. You did, and no one has suggested otherwise. We prepared ours. Both of us were ready and willing to proceed. [. . .] In the end both sides exercised their professional judgment regarding the resolution of the case. The case got resolved; the lingering adrenaline takes a little longer.

  I was and am shocked and surprised your client actually pled, but do not give a tinker’s damn how it came about. [. . .] I respond only because we were friends; the depth of your vituperation is bewildering. I believe the agreement was in the best interest of the family and fulfills their needs; I believe it to be in the interest of this community. Clearly you and your client believed it to be in his best interest. That is the stuff of which pleas are made. The rest of it is bullshit.

  The public revelation of this spat was embarrassing to all parties. On the other hand, for the community—rumbling with the tension caused by the dramatic buildup for the trial and stunned by the suddenness of its culmination—the squabble was great comic relief.

  But the story was not over yet.
Everyone held their collective breath as the fate of three innocent, traumatized boys dangled in the breeze.

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  Before going into court on April 12, 2004, Jodi, the foster mother caring for the two youngest McFarland boys, spoke to James explaining the day ahead. “Now, we have to start all over again,” she told him.

  “I don’t want to start over again,” James said.

  “But this will be the last time, James, and it will be good.”

  “And I’m never going to get married.”

  “That will be your decision, James. No one else’s.”

  In the wake of that troubling conversation, the boys’ foster mother entered the courtroom of Judge Barbara Nellermoe with a herd of lawyers and other interested family and friends. Every party concerned about the outcome had an attorney representing their cause sitting at the front tables.

  Although the three young boys—the focus of the morning’s hearing—were not there, their father was. He entered the courtroom in a navy jacket, khaki pants, white shirt and blue patterned tie. Handcuffs, fastened in front of his body, completed his ensemble.

  When Rick took his seat, the cuffs were removed. His shoulders slumped and the corners of his mouth sagged to his chin. McFarland’s attorney produced an affidavit of relinquishment of parental rights. Rick was sworn in and allowed to make his statement.

  “I, Richard McFarland, state on the record that I freely and willingly gave up my parent rights over my children. [. . .] I am signing for one reason and one reason alone, so that my children can turn the page and live in a loving home. [. . .] I want them to be together.

  “I express the utmost remorse to my three boys, William, James and Timothy. There is nothing I can do to change what has occurred but I want my boys to know that I relinquished my rights because I love them so very much.

  “[. . .] I wish love, happiness and growth for my boys in their new home.” He then spoke of the boys’ foster parents. “Thanks,” he said, “for the wonderful care they have given my boys. I’m grateful that I will be able to have contact with the boys in the future with pictures and updates.”