Beginning in the fall of 2003, her diary entries reflected sadness and depression, saying her life “felt like a big, black pit.” At that time, the family was living on the Sudan with no propane or money and little food. After that, Kiani said, the family moved into the Hammond Avenue house and life improved. In the weeks that followed, the prosecutor called Adrian and Dorian to the stand and played their police interview tapes. By that point, I was busy covering other stories, including American Idol in Los Angeles, but I noted that Marcus’s sons stuck up for him, too. I was amazed that, after all these kids had been through, they still showed their allegiance to such a monster.
Twenty
In the weeks after giving their testimony, Elizabeth, Kiani, Rosie, and Gypsy were all very quiet. Elizabeth often looked as if she was about to burst into tears. When I asked Kiani how she was, she just looked at me with a blank stare and nodded, as if to say she was okay. But I knew she wasn’t.
Rosie didn’t play tricks on me anymore, or even laugh much when I tickled her. It was as if they’d gone back to being emotionally and physically numb. The trial had sucked the new life right out of them. Gypsy, who had been visiting quite frequently, brought little Alysia over for only a few minutes every other day, confiding that it was too depressing to be around her relatives any more than that. Having had to sit in front of Marcus and give explicit testimony about their sexual abuse had been debilitating for them. On top of that, the gag order prevented them from talking to one another about their pain, forcing them to keep it bottled up inside.
The Wessons weren’t the only ones having difficulty following the gag order. It was affecting me, too. I was feeling empathy in a way I never had before, only I had no way to process it. I couldn’t share my feelings with the subjects of those emotions, and I didn’t want to worry my mom with them either. This was all foreign to me.
But I soon started to realize what was happening: these women had become so important to me that their feelings were now my feelings. We were connected. They were even more a part of my family and vice versa. Their tragedy was different from anything I’d ever experienced in my own family, yet somehow I still internalized what they’d gone through. I felt used; I resented sex.
That weekend I was at the gas station filling up my car and contemplating the situation. Four guys in a big white truck pulled up next to me and made catcalls about how hot I was. Normally, I’m not the type to get offended by such remarks. But on that day, I was disgusted. When I looked at that truck, all I could see was Marcus’s face. I grew increasingly uncomfortable until the goons finally drove away. I climbed back into my car, where I sank into my seat and cried.
Those children were so damn young and innocent.
I thought of Marcus’s huge belly and his long, dirty dreadlocks, lunging over their tiny bodies while he violated them for his own pleasure. Although I hadn’t even met them at the time, I felt guilty that I hadn’t been there to protect them.
FROM THE GAS station, I drove to the hotel where Juan was staying. I had warned him not to visit that weekend because I was still feeling uncharacteristically somber and standoffish, but he insisted he could cheer me up. He had moved from Michigan to San Diego a few months back so we could be closer, but I didn’t feel particularly close to him or anyone else these days. It had been quite a while since I’d felt like my usual self.
Juan used to stay at my apartment, but I told him it was best if he stayed elsewhere because the girls were so uncomfortable in his presence that they often hid in their bedroom while he was visiting. I knew they didn’t need another ounce of stress during the trial.
I sat in my car in the Piccadilly Inn parking lot, composing my thoughts and touching up the makeup mess my crying spell had caused. Five minutes later, I walked into the hotel, forced a smile for the desk clerk, then walked down the long hallway of floral carpet toward Juan’s room. He greeted me with his usual enthusiastic hug, embracing me in his muscular arms. Sensing I needed the comfort, he held on even longer than he normally did. But when he leaned in to kiss me, I pulled back.
“What’s wrong, babe?” he asked sympathetically, his smile fading.
“I don’t know. Just don’t do that, I can’t breathe,” I said, walking toward the bed and sitting down. He followed, sat next to me, and gently rubbed my back.
“Don’t,” I said, standing up to get some distance. “Don’t touch me right now.”
“Is it me?” he asked, sounding worried and confused. He was working with troubled kids as a school counselor now and always wanted to talk to me about my feelings. Usually, I put up with it, but I wasn’t in the mood that day.
“No, it’s me,” I said.
“Tell me what’s wrong. Please just talk to me. Is it about the girls?”
“Yes, I just hate him for what he did to them. And the things he made them do,” I said, shaking my head. “It makes me sick, and I just don’t want anyone touching me right now.”
“It’s just me,” he said, grasping my hand and stepping up to hug me again.
“I can’t do this,” I said, pulling my hand back. “I need some space right now.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I want to be alone.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. A while. I just need space.”
“Are you ending this, just like that?”
“I can’t do it, Juan. I’m sorry. I don’t know how else to deal with all of this.”
We sat side by side on the bed as I tried to justify my irrational thoughts and behavior. Ten minutes later, I gave up and left the hotel, ending my two-year relationship with the man who had wanted to marry me.
As I drove off, I watched the hotel shrink in my rear-view mirror, wondering if I’d done the right thing. I almost turned around, realizing I was letting Marcus ruin my life, too. I felt unjustified having these emotions, knowing I hadn’t experienced a fraction of the family’s trauma. But, like the girls, I found myself shutting down emotionally. I felt drained and overwhelmed, and knew it would take something major to pull me out of it. Fortunately, my job provided me with that opportunity. By that time I was regularly covering American Idol, so I was able to escape once again into the alternate universe the show had become for me.
* * *
ON THE THREE-AND-A-HALF-HOUR drive to the CBS Studios in Beverly Hills, I pushed all the serious and sad thoughts to the back of my mind and tried to summon some happier ones. As soon as the security guard cleared me and my photographer to drive through the gate, I felt my old vigor and excitement trickling back. I couldn’t help but smile when I saw Bob Barker’s billboard-size grin next to the Price Is Right logo that covered the side of the building. When we walked into the media entrance near the back parking lot, we were smack in the middle of the action, surrounded by fans screaming and holding signs, and Idol contestants running around.
By the time the Wednesday night elimination show started, I had done an arm-in-arm interview with the Season 2 winner, Ruben Studdard, and a dancing-and-singing interview with the Season 3 winner, Fantasia Barrino. The reporters and photographers lingered backstage, hoping for a chance to interview the judges after the show. Most of the media were from L.A. or one of the national entertainment programs, so I was the tiniest fish in the pond. Initially, I didn’t think anyone noticed that I was from a small market, but based on the inquiries from the other stations, I soon realized that I was wrong.
“So, where are you from?” an Entertainment Tonight photographer asked, looking perplexed at the logo on my microphone.
“The Fox affiliate in Fresno,” I said, staring wide-eyed at the sticker on his camera.
“Fresno, Fresno, right. That’s where that guy took out his whole family, huh? Wasn’t that in Fresno? The big guy with the dreadlocks—”
“Marcus Wesson,” I said, cutting him off. “Yep, that’s us.” Before I knew it, the whole group was gathered around asking questions about the crime and the ongoing tri
al.
Just what I need.
The conversation fizzled as the judges started to stroll backstage after the show. The reporters couldn’t wait to get their cameras focused on Simon Cowell, and I understood why. He was the closest I’d ever come to meeting my idol, Frank Sinatra; Simon had the kind of exaggerated swagger, charm, and ego you’d find in the leading men of yesteryear. Wearing his signature V-neck gray sweater and bright white smile, Simon made his way over to my camera.
“Hi, Simon,” I said, taking a good look at his perfectly cropped haircut and guessing it cost more than I had in my savings account. “We’re from Fox in Fresno.”
“Ah yes, I remember. Fresno,” he said in his thick English accent.
Please don’t talk about the Wesson case. Please don’t talk about the Wesson case.
“Where is Fresno again?” he joked, putting his arm around me and setting me at ease. “I’m just kidding. I love Fresno.”
And so the interview began. I wished I could have stayed longer backstage, flirting with Simon, but I knew I needed to get my video on the air, and drive back to Fresno so I could be at the trial the next morning. As we drove out the gated lot, I turned around to look at Bob Barker’s giant face and sighed.
Back to reality.
The next morning, I’d be staring down the dreadlock once again.
* * *
I WENT BACK to L.A. nearly every week for the rest of the season. The girls and I may not have been allowed to talk about Marcus, but we could talk about Simon all we wanted.
“Is he really mean like he is on TV?” Rosie asked. “Not at all,” I said, explaining that he was actually nicer to reporters than the other two judges were.
“I think he likes you,” Elizabeth said, giggling, referring to the flirtatious comments he made during our interview.
“I think he likes all the female reporters,” I said, laughing.
The girls paid close attention to the show each week and picked their favorites to win. It was refreshing to discuss something carefree and fun for a change. I was happy to hear the girls giggling again and not crying as much. It also helped that Gypsy had been coming by more often with little Alysia, which definitely lightened the mood.
Meanwhile, the cruel case of incest and murder continued to unfold in the courtroom, where I recognized a familiar look of desperation on the jurors’ faces. It seemed like they, too, wanted to forget about the dark testimony and resume their normal routines, but it wouldn’t be long now. The prosecutor had finally wrapped up her case, and the defense team was poised to take center stage.
I knew Marcus’s attorneys had an uphill battle; their own client wasn’t even cooperating with them. Before the trial began, Pete Jones told Elizabeth that Marcus had refused to submit to psychological testing, which could have been used to quantify his mental instability. To make up for his lack of cooperation, Elizabeth, Kiani, and Rosie met with the defense team at least a dozen times, trying to help in any way they could. When they visited Marcus in jail during the trial, he told them he was unhappy with the way Jones and Ralph Torres were portraying him in court. He thought they were doing a bad job all around.
Focusing on the evidence that pointed to Sebhrenah as the killer, Torres called the forensic pathologist Venu Gopal to the stand and questioned him about a bruise under her eye near her gunshot wound. Gopal said the mark could have been caused by the sight on the Ruger pistol if the weapon had been fired while upside down, all of which was consistent with a suicidal shooting.
Gopal also testified that Sebhrenah and Lise had died an hour or two after the younger victims, which supported the defense’s theory that Marcus was not in the room when the other seven victims were killed.
As the last defense witness, Torres called the firearms expert and crime scene specialist Allen Boudreau, who said the black mark found on Sebhrenah’s bloodstained right hand could have been caused by her firing the Ruger.
To help the jury visualize how the victims were stacked in the corner of the bedroom, Torres played a graphic slide show of their bodies, including close-ups of Sebhrenah’s wounds. Marcus kept his head down the entire time.
THE DEFENSE WAS wrapping up its case just as the finale of American Idol, Season 4, was about to begin. I was ready to get out of town; I didn’t want to see, hear, or think anything more about Marcus Wesson. I made a deal with myself to think only about the Idol finalists Carrie Underwood and Bo Bice for the next few days.
At the Kodak Theatre, I had one of the best seats in the house, in an opera box on the left side of the stage. From my red-cushioned chair, I had an amazing panoramic view of the theater and the thirty-five hundred people packed inside, cheering for the finale to begin.
I looked down onto the stage where the Academy Awards had been held for the past five times, and thought about all of Lise’s favorite Hollywood stars who had stood there. Every few seconds, a series of brightly colored spotlights flashed over my face. As I sat in a trance, listening to the loud music and the roar of the crowd, I felt Lise’s spirit was there with me.
When Carrie and Bo waltzed onto the stage, the enormous room of fans erupted into applause, drowning out my thoughts. I finally let the stresses of the trial go and soaked up the positive energy.
I had to duck out of the finale early to get my stories edited in time for my live reports that night. Thousands of Idol fans gathered in the outdoor courtyard of the five-story Hollywood and Highland shopping center, gazing down at us working in a roped-off circle, surrounded by security, while more than a hundred reporters and photographers jockeyed for the best positions. When the show ended, the contestants and judges joined us, eliciting screams of excitement from the men, women, and children in the audience.
By midnight, the fans had gone and we West Coast reporters had filed our final reports. Exhausted from the long day but still basking in the afterglow of the glamorous evening, I gathered my belongings and pulled out my cell phone to listen to my messages. I had two from a crying Elizabeth, who said she was afraid to face the upcoming verdict, and just like that, my other life came flooding back to me. Even though I was three and a half hours away, I couldn’t seem to escape the reach of Marcus Wesson.
THE JURY BEGAN deliberating on June 2. I half-expected the panel to tell the judge, “We don’t need time to deliberate. He’s guilty!” But, of course, that didn’t happen.
With each hour the jurors were out, I grew more agitated; with each day, more anxious. I knew the sex charges were in the bag, but were they going to let him off on the murder charges?
One day. Two days. Three days.
I had a vision of Elizabeth and Rosie waiting for him—each with the intensity of a proud wife longing for her brave soldier husband to return from the war.
Four days. Five days. Six days.
I showed up at court each morning, hours before my shift was supposed to start, so I wouldn’t miss the big moment. I was confident the jury would come back any minute. Each time I saw a bailiff saunter down the hallway, I’d search his expression for the slightest hint that the jurors were close to reaching a verdict. A few dozen blank expressions and courtesy smiles later, I stopped looking up.
Marcus Wesson’s fate consumed every second of my day. I spent my time at work listening to people at bus stops and malls wonder aloud why the jurors were taking so long to find him guilty; then I came home to find Marcus’s surviving victims praying on my couch for the jury to find him innocent.
Seven days. Eight days. Nine days.
The girls sat on the couch looking more distraught each night and wondering the same thing I was. What was taking the jury so long?
The night before the tenth day of deliberations, I made myself stop thinking about the verdict. I was burned out, and I hadn’t had more than a couple of hours’ sleep a night in weeks. I didn’t set my alarm clock and decided to arrive in court whenever I got there. I wasn’t going to let Marcus control my life anymore.
The next morning, I stubbornly sta
yed in bed for an extra hour before I got up, and casually sipped my coffee while watching TV. I took a long shower, letting the hot water soothe my tired and tense neck muscles. When I got out, my phone was ringing and I ran into the bedroom to answer it.
It was Rosie. Her voice was shaky, so I thought she was laughing.
“What’s so funny?” I asked, laughing myself.
“Nothing’s funny,” she said. “Alysia, the verdict is in. The jury is back.”
Remembering I’d told her about my plan to sleep in and not worry about the verdict coming in, I still thought she was kidding. “Ha ha, Rosie,” I said.
“No, the jury is back. Come here now. I have to go,” she said abruptly, hanging up.
She must be kidding. It couldn’t be in now… could it?
My phone rang again. It was my assignment editor.
“They’re reading the verdict in thirty minutes. Get there!” she said, her voice edgy with deadline pressure.
The adrenaline rush was overwhelming and paralyzing. I stood naked, clutching my cell phone, wondering how I was going to get ready in just a few minutes when I normally needed an hour and a half to do my hair and makeup. The courthouse was at least twenty minutes away, and my station expected me to look like I was ready to go on the air at any moment.
That gives me five minutes.
I blow-dried my hair with one hand, using the other to pack a bag with makeup, my earpiece, and high heels.
Should I wear my red suit? The skirt could get in the way when I’m running. Why couldn’t they have waited one more hour? God, please let me make it on time.
I pulled on the red suit and sped to the courthouse, where I sprinted from the parking garage, cut through the side door to save time with the security check, and pushed my way onto the elevator. Feeling like Superman, I used the ride to the fifth floor to finish getting dressed. Luckily, the elevator stopped on every floor, giving me a few extra moments to pull myself together. As I fished behind my back for the left armhole of my jacket, someone guided it around to me.
Deadly Devotion Page 24