I asked Elizabeth about his prison letters, and she reluctantly showed them to me, pulling out a stack of handwritten notes with curlicues and drawings all over the margins.
“What are those pictures?” I asked, looking more closely at one of the pages. “Is that a bumblebee?”
“Yeah, Marcus draws a bee in the parts where I’m supposed to read and a rose in the parts that are for Rosie,” Elizabeth explained. “He’s been doing that all along.”
“Wow! So what were all those things he was drawing in court? Do you know?”
Marcus had spent hours doodling on lined paper during his trial. All the reporters tried to figure out what he was sketching, but we couldn’t tell.
“I have some of them, Alysia. Do you want to see them?” Elizabeth asked.
“You have them here? Please, show me!” I said, realizing the answer to the mystery had been under my nose for months. Some investigative reporter I was! She returned with a stack of white and yellow pages, which included notes and questions Marcus had drafted to help his attorneys. I flipped through them with excitement.
Even his handwriting is creepy. I reached two conclusions after reviewing the documents. First, Marcus was severely disturbed, and second, he loved to write about himself and his bizarre worldviews. It got me thinking. If he liked to talk so much, maybe he’d be up for an interview with a reporter who had a zillion questions for him.
“Do you think Marcus would talk to me?” I asked Elizabeth.
“What do you mean?”
“Would he do an interview with me if I started writing to him?”
“Probably, Alysia. Marcus loves to talk and talk and talk,” Elizabeth said.
I walked into my room, sat at my computer, stared at the blank screen, and began to type:
Dear Marcus,
Then I deleted “Dear.” There was nothing endearing about the man, and I couldn’t make myself be nice. Still, I needed to know more about him. Why were these women I cared so much about still devoted to him?
Before I introduce myself, I want to be completely honest. I’m not sure how I feel about you. From the day of the tragedy until now, I have regarded you in a million different ways. I’ve laughed while listening to funny stories from your family; I’ve cried out of both anger and sympathy listening to stories from the prosecutor; and most of all, I’ve constantly wondered how our paths got so intertwined.
I told him where I was from and that I was a reporter who had covered his case. I didn’t go into much detail but left the door open in case he wanted to “tell his side of the story.” That phrase usually worked.
Frankly, I had forgotten about the letter until I was flipping through the mail a couple of weeks later and saw an envelope from San Quentin, penned by the monster himself.
I almost didn’t want to read it. I carefully tore open the envelope, hoping he hadn’t licked it closed, and pulled out the two pages of scribbles.
Alysia,
This letter is written in appreciation, gratitude and thanks. Thank you. How are you today? I hope fine. I found your letter most intriguing: You have my granddaughter’s name; correctly put, she has yours!
I didn’t even want him thinking about the baby. I read on.
I can only ascertain; My Elizabeth lives in your life and you in hers, possible to the extent of co-habitation? Never the less; I am sure: She is in trusting hands wherever she is.
“My Elizabeth”? Not anymore, I thought. Next, he told me he didn’t want to set the record straight, because doing so would endanger his family; he claimed society lacked “perspicuous views.” I could tell he had a dictionary in his cell.
The only job I could help him with, he said, would be to protect his family from the prosecutors who had sought his “wrongful conviction.”
The man actually believed he was the victim, and the government was to blame? He was delusional.
Do not get me started, I see now; you are also a tactician: A woman-reporter, saying key words and phrases to attract the need to tell the truth—built up within a man of whom has not talked for two years almost, You!
That nonsensical statement was followed by a whole page of ranting about the “entire house of prosecution” that “conjured up stories” and harassed him and his family, as well as tried to “dissimulate all previous known values instilled by the defendant to his family.”
Apparently, he also had a thesaurus. He thought the crazy beliefs that he’d instilled in his family were “values”? He was wrong about the prosecution “dissimulating” what he taught his family. In actuality, it was because the family was being exposed to society—mainly me.
I am afraid to meet you—you might have me talking, while at the same time swearing that I will not. The length of this letter is indicative of my need to talk. Well, Alysia: I did enjoy talking to you. I hope the experience was mutual. … This letter is written with love and appreciation.
He was the last person in the world I could imagine drawing smiley faces. He hoped the experience was mutual? Somehow, everything he said sounded perverse. He was afraid to meet me? How was that for a twist of fate? On second thought, I realized, he should be afraid to meet me.
The intimate tone of his letter creeped me out, and I didn’t feel good about corresponding with him. On the other hand, I didn’t want him to get the last word, so I felt I had to respond. I retracted my proposal to “tell his story” and told him that a local attorney I had talked to must have been mistaken when he said Marcus wanted to set some things straight.
As for my letter, I did not intentionally choose my words carefully. I was very honest about everything and I vow to continue that honesty. I’m certain you will grant me the same courtesy.
I appreciate your confidence in my intentions in regards to your family. I am honored your granddaughter shares my name. She is a bright and beautiful child. As you know, she brought hope to everyone at a time when it wasn’t easy to come by. Your wife and children are amazing people. Anyone would be lucky to know them.
As for your case, I realize the appeals process can be long, convoluted and frustrating. I get plenty of letters from inmates describing the injustices. It’s true, having an unlimited supply of money can only help one’s prospects when faced with the legal system.
I can not pretend to know what it’s like, because I’ve never been incarcerated. I can only relay information I’ve learned from others.… With that, Marcus, I will wrap up this letter. I am a bit stubborn, so I feel the need to defend my previous statements. Thank you again for your time.
Best, Alysia
I sealed the envelope, then copied down his inmate number and San Quentin’s address.
“Elizabeth, do you have any stamps?” I asked, carrying the letter into the living room.
“Sure, how many do you need?”
“I don’t know. How many stamps does it take to make it to death row?”
“Alysia!”
“I’m sorry. I’m serious, though. I’m sending this to your husband.”
“What does it say?”
I wanted to respond with something sarcastic, but I restrained myself. “I just told him that I thought he wanted to talk, but I guess he doesn’t after all.”
“No, Alysia, he does want to talk.”
“Well, he’ll do it only on his own terms, I’m sure. Just like everything else in his life.”
Twenty-three
I might have joked around about my new death row pen pal, but it wasn’t so funny when his frightening image made its way into my dreams. Even though I didn’t think I was afraid of him, I felt vulnerable and unsafe now that Marcus knew my name and address. The fear led to consistent nightmares about him. For a week straight, he became my personal Freddy Krueger, sadistically sneaking into my mind after I’d drift off to sleep. I stayed up late, turned on both lights in my bedroom, and kept my door open.
When I mentioned it to the others, they confessed they, too, were suffering from violent nightmares. In our own se
parate ways, we were all working through the damage that Marcus had caused. Talking about the dreams helped us process our complicated emotions.
My nightmares were similar to Gypsy’s, in that they always involved Marcus coming after me somehow, whether in a room or on a deserted road. In Dorian’s, Marcus was chasing him in the heavy black combat boots that he used to wear. Dorian was so afraid, he never broke his pace; he just ran and ran, his fear escalating. Adrian described his nightmares as savage. Marcus tore after him with a large machete, mowing down everything in his path as he closed in on his son.
GYPSY HAD BEEN talking more often and more freely about Sebhrenah and Lise, so I figured she must be hurting less these days. One day she told me a story that changed my image of her older sister for good.
Shortly before Gypsy had run away, Sebhrenah had been going through a rough time with her health. Sebhrenah had a history of stomach problems, but during that period, she was in severe pain. She would hide in the girls’ room, curled up in the fetal position. Then, clumps of her hair began falling out. Some of her siblings knew about the ailments, but none of them risked telling Marcus about them.
“There’s something very wrong with me,” she told Gypsy.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m not going to say. But it’s really bad. You’ll be able to really tell in about eight months.”
“Sebhrenah, what are you talking about?”
The murders came eerily close to that eight-month mark. I wondered what had been wrong with her. The coroner mentioned no sign of disease in her autopsy.
Even though the defense had painted Sebhrenah as a tough, gun-obsessed soldier, Gypsy was telling me about the softer side of her sister, a young woman who had dreamed of going to school, sharing an apartment with Kiani, and getting married someday. She had even summoned up the courage to tell Marcus of her plans, for which she was scolded and beaten for weeks. Gypsy said Sebhrenah finally told him she’d changed her mind and wanted to stay.
I kept trying to picture Sebhrenah pulling the trigger, but the image I had of her now was inconsistent with a killer. I still wasn’t satisfied that she did it. On the other hand, Marcus fit the mold to a T.
I’D HEARD PLENTY of bad things about Marcus so far, and I hated him a little bit more with each new story. I could barely contain my anger at the man, but it was about to get even stronger.
Rosie had been acting strangely anxious and depressed for the past week, and I couldn’t understand the sudden shift in her mood. She’d been making such strides, talking optimistically about going to school so she could work with animals someday. Something must have happened to bring her down; I immediately suspected Marcus.
I walked into her room and noticed that some of her clothes were neatly folded on the floor.
“What’s going on?” I asked, pointing to the pile of clothing. “Where are you going?”
“San Francisco.”
She didn’t know a single person in that city. “Why San Francis—” I started.
Then it dawned on me. Marcus was in prison near San Francisco. She wanted to be closer to him. I was enraged. I wanted to scream. I wanted to give up. Rosie looked up at me apologetically with deep brown, lost eyes. Both of us were on the verge of tears.
“You’re not going because of him, are you?” I asked, needing to hear the answer from Rosie.
“Alysia, I just need to go there.”
“What do you mean need? Did he tell you to move there?”
She looked down but said nothing.
“Where will you live?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Rosie, you don’t have to listen to him anymore. He’s never getting out,” I said, feeling my anger take over. “You never have to see him again.”
She turned her back to me and stared at Cosmo in his cage. I could tell she didn’t want to face the reality of what I was saying.
“You have to do what’s best for you now,” I said to the back of her head. “He doesn’t have a say in your life anymore!”
Grasping the thin, black metal bars of the cage, she looked over her shoulder at me with a trapped expression, almost as if she felt caged herself.
“I just have to do this, Alysia. I have to.”
A WEEK LATER, she was gone. I called Elizabeth, who had driven Rosie to San Francisco, to find out the real reason behind the move. She promised to explain everything to me when she came home in a few days.
There was something different about Elizabeth when she returned to Fresno. She was distracted, jumpy, and wouldn’t answer my questions about Rosie directly.
“I need to know, Elizabeth,” I said. “He had something to do with this, didn’t he?”
“I tried to get her to stay, but she doesn’t want to listen,” Elizabeth said, crying.
“What did he say to her? I won’t get mad. Just tell me.”
Elizabeth broke down and told me the truth. Rosie had asked her not to, but my constant badgering made it impossible for Elizabeth to keep her word. I was worried about Rosie, and I wasn’t about to let Marcus take her away from me.
As I suspected, he was behind it all. Elizabeth said Marcus had sent Rosie a letter saying that the Lord told him she was on the wrong path and needed to be by herself, away from the negative influences. I was fairly certain I was the negative influence to which he was referring. Marcus had been sentenced to a lifetime of isolation, and now he wanted Rosie to live in solitary confinement as well.
Maybe it was a mistake to write him after all.
Marcus told Rosie to pack some clothes in a backpack, then ask Elizabeth to drive her to San Francisco and drop her at a random spot at the side of the road. From there, Rosie was supposed to find a boat to live on, enroll in sailing lessons, and wait for further instructions. He told Rosie to use the money from the sale of the Hammond house, money the family had planned to use to buy a new house, for her living expenses.
At first, Elizabeth told Rosie she wouldn’t go along with the new plan, but Rosie said she would do it with or without her aunt’s help. She would hitchhike if she had to. Whatever it took to follow Marcus’s orders.
“I’m not going to drop you off in the middle of nowhere in a strange city,” Elizabeth replied.
The two fought privately for days while I was at work until they reached a compromise. Elizabeth would take Rosie to San Francisco, but she would not leave her there alone. They would find a boat together, and as soon as Rosie was settled, Elizabeth would leave her there. So that’s what they did.
Elizabeth couldn’t keep up her entire end of the bargain, though, because she was too worried about Rosie being on her own for the first time. So she would stay with me a few days, then return to San Francisco for a few days. This went on for months.
Unfortunately, Marcus wasn’t finished handing out orders to his faithful wives. He put Elizabeth in charge of bringing the family back together. He told her she needed to get another “trailer,” which was his code word for “boat.” He wrote that he’d had visions of the “trailer,” saying it was “what the Lord wanted for the family.” Once she bought the new boat, he said, the “children would flock back to her.” He told her to find a fifty-foot trailer space—big enough for the whole family—but to hold on to the old car.
It is perfect, it loves you. It will run forever for you. Please keep faith in our expectations. God reminds me everyday.… Once you accomplish the trailer spot, then the trailer will come automatically. God promised that you already have it and do not even know it.… Once you accomplish everything, then I have a letter for you already written. Give it to Adrian. I feel that he wants to purchase another car for himself and give his old one to his brothers. God said mail it to you. Be ready!
It was even worse than I thought.
When would this stop? Why is he allowed to continue his abuse from behind bars?
I didn’t feel like justice was being served. Apparently, the First Amendment rights of a mass murderer or chil
d rapist outweighed the health and well-being of his surviving family members.
Elizabeth left the letter on the table, knowing I would read it.
“What is all this?” I said, waving the letter at her. “Why are you letting him do this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you going to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants?”
“No, Alysia. I just ignore this stuff.”
“But Rosie doesn’t. Do you tell him you’re not following his orders?”
“He knows,” she said unconvincingly.
“Apparently he doesn’t.”
IT HAD BEEN months since Rosie moved onto an old houseboat that didn’t run. She also had enrolled in sailing classes, just as she was told.
Why did he want her in sailing classes anyway?
I called my mom to vent and told her about Rosie’s latest living arrangement.
“Do you think he wants Rosie to sail to San Quentin and pick him up or something?” Mom asked.
My stomach dropped. I knew instantly that she was right. Marcus had the deluded idea that he would get out of prison soon—and he wanted Rosie to come rescue him.
* * *
AFTER A FEW months, Rosie came to visit. She had been avoiding me, knowing I didn’t approve of what she was doing. I tried to keep my opinions to myself and just enjoy her company, but she seemed distant, as if she was under his influence again. I couldn’t stay silent, so I confronted her about it.
“Rosie, why are you taking sailing lessons?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, surprised that I knew about the classes.
“Why do you want to learn how to sail all of a sudden? I’ve never even heard you mention sailing before.”
“I just want to, Alysia.”
Deadly Devotion Page 27