The memorial had doubled in size overnight and was now about ten feet across and ten teddy bears deep. I walked over to a woman who was kneeling in front of it, hands folded, praying. Hoping she was a family member, I waited until she stood up before I asked if she knew the victims.
“No,” she said, shrugging, tears welling up in her eyes. “But I feel like I do. I haven’t stopped praying for them since I heard.”
Someone had tied several “Happy Birthday” balloons to the prayer candles, commemorating what would have been Jonathan’s eighth birthday that day. I sat on the hot sidewalk, put down my reporter notebook, and thought about my eighth birthday. My parents had taken me to Toys “R” Us and told me to pick out any one thing I wanted. I’d searched the aisles until I saw a shiny red bouncing ball.
“This is what I want,” I’d said, my grin fading as I wondered why they seemed so disappointed by my choice.
“Okay, Alysia,” my mom said. “You can have the ball. Now pick out your big present.”
I didn’t understand what they meant, so they picked out one for me: a pink Huffy bicycle with a wide padded seat and long streamers. It was nice, but I quite liked the hand-me-down bike my sister had given me; it still had a perfectly good seat that was long enough to fit me and my best friend. But my parents insisted on buying me the ball and the bike. The car ride home was strained, and I never rode the Huffy.
I was jolted out of my memories by an elbow to my ribs from the newspaper reporter sitting next to me. “Hey, I think some family members just showed up,” he said, excited.
I jumped to my feet before he finished his sentence. I’d always prided myself on being able to get exclusive interviews for big stories, and I was even more determined on this one.
“See that blue car driving around the corner? I think that’s them.”
As if someone had shot the starting pistol at the Kentucky Derby, we all dashed toward the car. But the story stopped being just a game the moment I saw the sad brown eyes of the two young men inside that Chevy Cavalier. I was struck by the deep sense of loss and helplessness reflected there.
Unlike their father, the boys looked innocent, vulnerable, and genuinely devastated. And in sharp contrast to Marcus’s nasty dreadlocks, their hair was clean and cut short, their clothing pressed. I recognized Serafino, in the passenger seat, from TV, but I hadn’t seen the driver with the goatee before.
How could they be related to that monster?
We surrounded the car, and Serafino rolled down his window. After the dozen of us shoved our microphones in his face, he rolled it down a bit farther.
My adrenaline surged, and I jockeyed for an opening as everyone began yelling out questions.
“How is your family doing?” I kept repeating, hoping he would answer eventually.
The national reporter from CBS was louder than the rest of us and wasn’t afraid to throw an elbow to try to force us to back up, but I didn’t budge.
“How is your family doing?” I tried again.
This time, the driver answered.
“This is very hard on our family,” he said, looking up toward me, unsure of where the question had come from. “We’re having a very hard time.”
The car began rolling forward as the media, myself included, scattered to get out of the way. I vowed to elicit longer answers the next time, when there weren’t so many of my competitors around.
MARCUS’S ARRAIGNMENT WAS that Wednesday, a morning assignment that required me to set my alarm for the ungodly hour of 6:30. For a city of a half million, downtown Fresno rarely had much street activity, but that day was an exception: news vans, cameras, and journalists lined every street around the courthouse.
I had made the hundred-mile trip to Modesto a few times to cover community reaction and a couple of pretrial hearings in the Scott Peterson case, but outside of that, I had never seen anything quite like this—especially not in Fresno.
One thing I’d learned from the Peterson story—seating was everything. I wanted to be able to look into Wesson’s eyes when they led him into the courtroom so I could convey my impressions to our viewers. I wondered where the family was going to sit and who else would show up. I was particularly eager to catch a glimpse of his wife on what might be the first time they’d seen each other since the murders.
The media queue to get into Judge Brant Bramer’s courtroom wound down the first-floor hallway, where reporters and photographers sat shoulder to shoulder on the wooden bench that stretched the length of the wall under a tinted window. I was in the front third of the line, sandwiched between an Associated Press photographer who admired my wide-eyed enthusiasm and a newspaper veteran annoyed by how much I was talking first thing in the morning.
When the bailiff opened the double doors leading into the courtroom, the media mob nearly ran him over. I slipped into an aisle seat in the third row of wooden pews on the left, waiting with anticipation for the show to begin.
I searched the room for family members but, seeing none, I focused on the clear plastic divider that separated us from the enclosed area where Marcus would stand. The monster and I were about to be in the same room. I didn’t know what to expect—how he would act, how I would feel when I saw him, or if he’d turn around and roar at the gallery. I just had a feeling this wasn’t going to be your typical arraignment.
“Excuse me,” a young man’s shaky voice said. “Can we sit here?”
I looked up and saw the two Wesson sons I had chased down the day before.
“Sure,” I said.
I couldn’t help but think how much sitting next to them could enhance my story for that night. I stood up so the two of them could squeeze past. They seemed very nervous; they kept sliding around and bumping into me.
“How are you guys doing?” I asked, immediately realizing it was a stupid question.
How do you think they’re doing, Alysia?
“We’re okay,” they said, avoiding eye contact.
They were clearly distracted by the rolling and clicking of the twenty or so video and still cameras from the national networks and local stations that were pointing at the three of us.
“All rise,” the bailiff said, silencing conversation as we stood up.
The judge walked to his seat on the podium, visibly upset, and immediately reprimanded the media for taking pictures and video before he’d even made a ruling on whether to allow cameras in the courtroom. He ordered the photogs to discard every image they’d taken so far and prohibited them from photographing anyone sitting in the gallery. It was the media’s first collective defeat.
“What just happened?” Serafino’s brother, who I would soon learn was named Almae, leaned over and whispered to me.
I whispered back, noticing the expressions on some of the other reporters’ faces. I could hear them thinking, I can’t believe the family is talking to her. It’s not fair.
Then, like an icy winter wind, I felt Marcus Wesson enter the room from a door to the right of the judge. He was walking straight toward us when he saw the boys and looked right at me, sitting next to them. He shocked me by smiling at us. Shuddering at his gaze, I didn’t smile back, but the boys were visibly happy to see him.
The room was completely silent now. The accused mass murderer shuffling through in his yellow jumpsuit and shackles still seemed dangerous, like a wild beast that could break free from his chains and turn on his captors at any time.
I was on the edge of my seat. From what I knew about him so far, it seemed impossible that anyone could contain Wesson. His dominating and dangerous reputation was already larger than life—and two of his obedient offspring were at my side. I wondered if they might try to help him escape. What if they grabbed me, held a gun to my head, and said, “Let our dad go or we’ll kill the girl”? I scooted to my right until my hip was snug against the armrest at the end of the bench.
Before the judge could formally charge Marcus with nine counts of first-degree murder, there was an issue with legal counsel. Ma
rcus was no stranger to the law, thanks to a welfare fraud conviction more than a decade ago.
“I don’t want a public defender. I beg thee,” he said to the judge, insisting he already had a private lawyer.
“Is anyone here to represent Mr. Wesson?” the judge asked.
No one responded. After an uncomfortable silence, Almae sprang up next to me. I waited for him to put me in a headlock and draw his weapon.
“I am,” he called out to the judge.
All eyes spun around to our row. The bailiff turned and said, “You need to sit down.”
“I love you, Dad!” Almae yelled, making the most of his public moment.
Two bailiffs converged on us and, sensing he was about to be thrown out, Almae met them in the middle and started walking toward the door.
“Dad, I love you!” he screamed, repeating it two more times on his way out.
My adrenaline surged. Marcus looked unfazed and somewhat annoyed. I had two choices. I could stay there and take notes like the rest of the media pack, or I could go after the story that had just left the room.
I darted out of my seat and pushed through the wooden door into the hallway. I felt everyone’s eyes follow me and could hear them thinking, Is Alysia going to get the story out there? That bitch! Maybe I should go, too.
I also knew what they were whispering to each other: I can’t believe Alysia is out there with the family. That is so unprofessional. The real story is in here. I mean, how will she know what happens? But I knew I’d be fine—a verbatim transcript of the court proceedings would be available on the Associated Press wire in about fifteen minutes, and it would be hours before I had to go on the air.
I watched the bailiffs lead Almae into the courtroom next door, then saw Serafino come out of the first courtroom and follow his brother into the other one. I sat in the empty hallway, wondering if I had done the right thing.
“Excuse me, miss?” a female court employee said, peeking out of the second courtroom. “The young man in here is asking for you.”
I walked in and saw the two young men sitting in the back row, looking traumatized.
“Hey,” I said, joining them.
“I shouldn’t have yelled out like that,” Almae said without looking up.
“How many cameras are out there?” Serafino asked.
“None when I was out there, but there will probably be about fifteen soon,” I said, lowballing the number to make them feel more at ease.
They looked at me directly for the first time. I would never forget their disillusioned expressions when they asked why people were saying such mean things about their father.
Then it hit me.
They actually don’t know their father has done anything wrong.
I didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth. The DNA evidence was back, and Marcus was the father of all nine dead kids—two by his wife, three by his daughters, and four by his nieces.
At this time, everyone assumed he had pulled the trigger, but I still remembered the first lesson of my Journalism 101 course: There are two sides to every story.
“Is there anything you guys want the public to know about your dad?” I asked.
That got them talking. I didn’t want this to feel like an interview, so I never pulled out my notebook, taking a mental log of their dialogue instead. I could tell they still weren’t quite ready for a taped interview, and I didn’t want to spook them.
They gave me plenty of good stuff. I would own the story that night.
After eliciting a promise to talk exclusively to me in the future, I handed them my cell number and shook their hands. The boys were wearing two layers of shirts, so they pulled the top ones up to hide their faces, and the three of us left the room together.
I searched the sea of flashbulbs and microphones in the hallway for my photographer.
“How did you score that one, Alysia?” he yelled over the crowd.
I shook my head to signal that we could talk about that later, saying, “That was a quick arraignment.”
“Not really. It never happened,” he said. “The judge postponed it until tomorrow.”
So, I hadn’t missed a thing. Ultimately, the arraignment was delayed another week, at which time Marcus pleaded not guilty to the nine first-degree murder charges. Bail was set at $9 million, $1 million for each murdered child.
I had twisted my ankle running in high heels that Sunday, so today I’d worn flats. But this time, it proved unnecessary. The boys were soon driving away in their blue car—without talking to anyone else—so the other reporters gathered in a semicircle around me.
“What did they say?” one of them asked.
“Did they talk to you?”
I was vague. A newspaper reporter asked if he could paraphrase what the boys said to me if he mentioned they’d spoken to our station exclusively. I knew my boss would like the plug, so I agreed.
It wouldn’t be published until the next morning, so I would still have the information out there first. The national reporters would read the article after they checked out of their hotels. They were done here in Fresno, but for me, the story was just beginning.
WITH ONE MORE week of filling in at the radio station to go, I got my first phone call from the Wesson boys.
“Is this Al-iss-ah?” the nervous boy said, mispronouncing my name. “It’s Serafino Wesson.”
“Hi, Serafino. Thanks for calling,” I said, getting the attention of Adam, my radio boss, who was sitting nearby. “How are you guys doing?”
The question sounded just as stupid this time as the last, and I was mad at myself for making the same mistake.
Ignoring my question, Serafino began asking me about the charges against his father. He was still confused about the legal proceedings, not to mention the details about Marcus trickling out in the media. He and his brothers needed to talk to someone, and I had landed the job.
A few minutes into the conversation, I noticed my coworkers inching toward me.
“She’s talking to the family,” one of them said.
“No way. They called you?” another said loudly, standing uncomfortably close to me.
I had to shush them and turn to face the corner of the cramped radio newsroom for some privacy. It sounded like Serafino was finally ready for an interview.
“So, can I meet you guys somewhere?” I asked, crossing my fingers.
“We’ll call you back,” he said before hanging up abruptly.
Maybe I pushed too hard.
“What did they say?” my coworkers asked.
“They’re going to call me back,” I answered, only half-believing it.
My phone rang again. It was them.
“We’ll meet you behind the house. Please don’t bring anyone else.”
“See you then,” I said without thinking.
Wait a minute. I’m meeting a mass murderer’s sons in a secluded area by myself?
I announced my rendezvous, and my coworkers thought I was crazy, too, but this wasn’t the time to play it safe. I had a chance to get an exclusive story with the survivors of a family torn apart by incest, polygamy, and murder. I grabbed my tape recorder and went to tell Adam the good news.
“I’m not so sure about this, Alysia,” he said. “But if you insist on going, I can’t stop you.”
I smiled at him. We both knew he was only saying that because he was my boss and he was supposed to put my safety before a story. But we both felt the story was more important. It was all part of the job.
“If I’m not back in an hour, come after me,” I said, laughing.
But I wasn’t kidding.
I SPED TOWARD the Hammond Avenue house, pulled into the burger joint behind it, and waited in the parking lot for them. I could see other reporters’ news vans parked in front of the house. If only they knew they were in the wrong place to get the story.
The Wesson crew pulled up beside me in a gold Saturn. This time, they had several girls in the car with them.
Are
those Marcus’s daughters? Oh my God.
There was an SUV parked between us, and I couldn’t get a good look at the girls without blatantly staring, so I didn’t. Almae and Serafino got out and met me near my car.
“I’m glad you guys called,” I said, trying to sound reassuring, my recorder tucked under my arm.
I didn’t see any evidence that they planned to kidnap me, and I felt silly for having worried. In fact, they seemed more nervous than I was.
“We want people to know some things about our dad,” Almae said.
“I think that’s a good idea. What do you want them to know?”
I glanced down at my watch and realized it was very close to my 4:00 P.M. deadline. I needed to move this along. I pulled out the recorder while they were talking and hoped they wouldn’t clam up. They didn’t react, so I turned it on and held it up near their faces.
“My dad is a good father,” Serafino said. “He taught us many things and took us many places.”
Marcus’s two sons proceeded to paint a portrait of a loving father who would do anything for his children, a stark contrast to the mental image I—and probably most every other citizen in Fresno—had of him.
I’d already learned from the police about the physical and sexual abuse he’d inflicted on his daughters, sons, and nieces. I had also observed his overweight and sloppy appearance for myself. Suffice it to say the man repulsed me. And yet, I would be on the air in twenty minutes with a story saying what a great guy he was.
I consoled myself with the thought that at least his children, not I, would be putting that message out on the airwaves. Unbelievable but true, this was the other side to the Marcus Wesson story.
Five
Elizabeth, Rosie, and Kiani hadn’t gotten a good night’s sleep since the murders, and the night before their children’s funerals was even worse. Kiani and Rosie had never been to a funeral before, so they were apprehensive about the ceremony.
On the morning of March 24, the three women dressed in what was a common outfit for them—black blouses and skirts with heels—then waited for the rest of the Wessons to meet them at their motel so they could ride together in the black Lincoln Town Cars the mortuary sent to pick them up. Elizabeth’s sister Rosemary and Marcus’s sister Cheryl came along, too.
Deadly Devotion Page 6