Deadly Devotion

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Deadly Devotion Page 28

by Alysia Sofios


  Her face was pale and gaunt. She’d lost at least ten pounds since I’d last seen her. I couldn’t let Marcus do this to her any longer.

  “But you said you wanted to go to school,” I said, hoping I could appeal to her sense of logic. “And instead you’re spending all your money on sailing lessons? Listen, you don’t think you’re going to rescue Marcus from the bay, do you?”

  “Alysia!”

  “Be honest. Because I promise, he’s never getting out of there. Does he think he’s going to escape, and you’ll be there waiting?”

  “No. I don’t want to talk about it,” she said firmly.

  The last thing I wanted to do was push her away, so I quickly softened my tone.

  “Fine,” I said, smiling. “Would you please just start doing what you want to do, though? Forget all the crap he tells you to do. Do what you want.”

  “Okay, Alysia.”

  Rosie rolled her eyes at me. I may have sounded like a broken record, but I wanted her to hear it over and over until it sank in. I would never stop fighting my battle of wills against Marcus Wesson.

  IT WAS THE worst possible time for this, but I was the next person in the household to get a jury summons. When I walked through security that morning, the guards at the courthouse got a good laugh out of it.

  Actually, at that point I could have used a day off from work and the drama at home. Sugary snacks and a slew of movies in the jury room sounded pretty good. It was just my luck that the court’s DVD player broke the day I showed up. I knew I was in trouble when a court worker wheeled out a dusty old VHS deck. As I sat for hours with the other potential jurors, I tuned out the 1980s movies with their constant lines of static and mentally prepared a list of reasons I’d be a horrible juror.

  I’m a news reporter. I correspond with a death row inmate. I live with the family of the biggest mass murderer in this city’s history.

  The defendant agreed to a deal before I ever made it into the courtroom, so I never had to try them out.

  I HAD BEGGED Elizabeth to change her ring tone for months. I didn’t know what annoying song it was or what ungodly decibel she had it set to. All I knew was, it was blasting into my eardrum at 4:00 in the morning.

  It was a familiar wake-up call by now.

  “What’s wrong, mi hijo?” Elizabeth asked frantically.

  My feet were hanging off the end of the couch, both of them painfully asleep. I was way too tall for the thing, and it wasn’t even comfortable. Even so, I slept on it sometimes when Elizabeth and I would have late-night talks. One of my coworkers had given me the couch once she learned of my living situation. It was an odd shade of blue, not my style, and matched absolutely nothing else in the room, but none of that mattered anymore. Function had replaced fashion in my world. Plain and simple, we needed more places to sit. Besides, I never had company over anymore. My left foot tingled awake, and I heard Elizabeth turn on the shower.

  From her conversation, I could tell one of the boys in Santa Cruz was going through a crisis. I heard her tell him she’d make the two-and-a-half-hour drive there to help talk him through it.

  The water stopped running, and Elizabeth walked into the kitchen. She jumped, startled to see me on the couch with my eyes open.

  “You scared me, Alysia. Did I wake you? I’m sorry.”

  I was sitting up, so the answer was obvious. We both chuckled.

  It didn’t make sense. This woman was about to drive for hours in the middle of the night to help her son without thinking twice. So how could she have stood by while Marcus physically, mentally, and sexually abused the children?

  “I’ll see you later,” she whispered. “Go back to sleep. Sorry.”

  I listened to the click of the lock behind her, followed by the rhythmic taps of her high heels down the concrete stairs and across the narrow sidewalk toward the parking lot. Each step grew fainter until the sound faded away completely.

  My legs were awake now. I swung them back over the edge of the short couch and lay horizontal again, wondering what time the sun would come up. The apartment was so silent and still, it was a little scary. I didn’t like being alone anymore.

  Twenty-four

  I’d always been an eternal optimist, but my attitude was changing quickly. Watching the Wesson family unravel had had a profound effect on my perspective. Suddenly, everyone else’s problems seemed like a cakewalk in comparison.

  Young, rich celebrities checking in and out of rehab, the burglary victim I’d interviewed, even my friend who blamed her failed relationships on her parents’ divorce— none of them seemed to have it that bad.

  I was back in L.A. at the end of May in 2006 for the Season 5 finale of Idol. This time, it felt a little different. As I approached the intersection of Hollywood and Highland, I saw hundreds of enthusiastic fans. Making sure my media badge was showing, I pushed my way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd. Reporters and photographers from every major radio and TV market in the country were there. Although we all got along well, we were still competitors in the field. We needed the same interviews at the same time, and sometimes, that didn’t make for a pretty scene.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Randy, Paula, and Simon approaching us. Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one. Like a pack of hyenas, we surrounded the startled trio of celebrities, who were expecting orderly one-on-one interviews, as their PR folks had planned.

  A video camera smacked me in the back of the head. When I turned toward the culprit, another camera struck me on the left side of my face. An elbow to my jaw later, I forced myself toward the center and jabbed my microphone as close to the judges’ mouths as possible. It was too late to turn back now.

  Panicking producers tried to disperse us, yelling, “Back up. You’ll all have a chance for interviews. Get in line.”

  We moved back as a group, and I was still stuck in the rear third. I feared the judges would grow tired and leave before it was my turn. I felt defeated as I watched it play out.

  Our society sure has mixed-up priorities. The Wessons are the ones who should be the focus of so much attention. And even worse, I’m a part of the media madness.

  I wanted to cry.

  My frustration must have been written all over my face. I looked up, and through the waving arms and bobbing heads, I saw Simon staring at me with a compassionate expression, then give me a reassuring wink. I nodded and smiled back. Little did he know, but Simon had become a lifeline out of the emotional muck the Wessons and I had been wading through lately. He was playing the same role for me now as I was engulfed by the madding crowd.

  Simon gave me the boost I needed to brace myself for another body thrashing in the crowd. I pushed forward once again and got my interview. Simon had saved the day.

  I REGROUPED DURING the drive back to Fresno, feeling that everything was going to be all right. On the trek upstairs to my apartment, I sifted through the mail that had collected in the box during my week away: cell phone bill, bank statement, dry cleaning advertisement, letter from a mass murderer.

  I dropped my bags at the doorstep, hearing laughter on the other side of the door and the unmistakable timbre of Kiani’s voice. The girls had come for a visit. I didn’t want to spoil the mood with the letter, so I tiptoed back down the stairs and around the corner, sank onto the dirty pavement, and leaned against the building to read it.

  Dear Alysia:

  Well, I can see that we are somewhat miffed. Realize that misunderstandings initially are the foundations for lasting true friendships. Not with standing the need for a cordial first impression, one should always be honest with a person. … Your first letter conveyed clearly your deep concern for my family and I had already realized; you are the last one who would want to see my family hurt again.

  Marcus told me that he was proud of my relationship with Elizabeth and his children, and that it was “worth bragging about.” I pictured him telling the prison guards that a woman on the outside was taking care of his family. He did want to get s
ome information out there, he said, so I hadn’t been “misinformed” about that.

  Your motives seemed to me of a genuine and sincere nature. … I enjoyed your letter, Alysia. Do not be so sensitive. It seems as though we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. Just as you feel I have some misperceptions about you, I feel you have some misperceptions about me. … Well my friend, I do wish you well. God Bless You, always.

  Your friend, Marcus Wesson

  I sat on the hot concrete for a good five minutes, staring straight ahead. I looked down and saw an ant carrying another ant’s carcass along the middle of the sidewalk. When he got near my leg, he stopped, put down his dead friend, and scurried into the grass. I tried to concentrate on the ants, but I couldn’t block out his closing words.

  Marcus Wesson thinks he is my friend.

  I felt a surge of anger. I suddenly wished I was back at American Idol, fighting for interviews again. This time, I would have been able to push my way into the front from the start. No one would have messed with me.

  I folded the letter and stuffed it into my pocket. With each determined step up the stairs, I cursed Marcus under my breath.

  Your friend? You think you’re my friend? Ha! Giving me advice about my job! Don’t be so sensitive? Me? I’ll show you sensitive.

  I strapped my heavy bags on my shoulder and turned the doorknob. Everyone turned to look at me. The gang was all there.

  “Hi, Alysia,” Elizabeth said, excited to see me. “How was your trip?”

  “Are you surprised we’re here?” Kiani asked, laughing again.

  “Yes! Come here,” I said, dropping my luggage with a loud thump.

  After a round of hugs, I settled onto the couch next to Kiani. Even though I was still irate, I noticed that she was beaming.

  “So, Alysia,” she said, turning toward me with a smile. “I’m pregnant!”

  I abandoned my negative feelings about her father and focused on his beautiful, happy daughter in front of me.

  “Congratulations,” I said, hugging her again. “Tell me more!”

  She said she and her boyfriend were expecting a girl. The father was a friend of Adrian and Dorian. The two had started dating shortly after she moved out of my apartment.

  Kiani grew animated and waved her hands when she talked, especially when she was enthusiastic about a story. I saw a flash of gold and realized that she was still wearing the wedding band Marcus had given her. It seemed odd. Despite that, I could tell she had built some hope for the future. She’d gotten a job at a drugstore in Santa Cruz, and she was enjoying working again. I prayed she finally had the life she deserved.

  MY PARENTS RAISED me to believe that people are inherently good. I started wondering if I was focusing too much on the evil things I knew about Marcus. Beyond his heinous crimes and distorted beliefs, there had to be something good about him. I set out on a mission to find it.

  I didn’t think I could handle too much at once, so I decided to start small. I approached Elizabeth with resolve.

  “Name one good thing about your husband,” I said straightforwardly.

  “Why?” she asked, obviously startled by my question. In the thirty-eight years since she’d met him, no one had ever asked her about Marcus’s good side.

  “Because there’s no way he can really be as bad as I think he is,” I said.

  Lost in thought for a minute, Elizabeth bowed her head.

  “Alysia, you know, I can’t think of anything right now,” she said, clearly saddened that nothing had come to mind.

  “Come on, Elizabeth. You loved him, didn’t you? What did you love?”

  “I don’t know. I think I loved him because he paid attention to me.”

  “But not at the end. At the end, he didn’t pay attention to you.”

  “I know. But I didn’t care at the end. I was so depressed, and I was only there because I knew he would hurt the kids if I left.”

  If only she had known he was going to hurt the kids regardless.

  THE WESSON CHILDREN were all reexamining their beliefs and upbringing now that Marcus was locked away. Religion, especially, had played an important role in their lives growing up, but it had since become a source of confusion.

  Serafino had gotten married since the murders, and he and his new wife decided to explore their faith together at a new, out-of-town church. The anonymity was comforting for the newlyweds, who immersed themselves in Christian teachings there.

  Serafino found a role model in the church’s pastor. He trusted the man of God and respected what he had to say. But things took a turn for the worse one day at Bible study, when the pastor began preaching about people who abused the Lord’s word.

  “Here’s a good example,” he said. “Let’s talk about Marcus Wesson.”

  Sighs and gasps echoed through the room. Serafino held his breath. His wife wanted to speak out to protect her husband’s feelings, but Serafino reached over and put his hand on hers before she had the chance.

  “It’s okay,” he said, whispering. “Let him talk.”

  And talk the pastor did.

  “You guys know of Marcus Wesson, do you?” he said, asking for input from his audience.

  “That man is going to hell,” one of the parishioners said with contempt.

  Serafino sat up straighter in his wooden chair, hearing the elderly lady next to him take a deep breath.

  “He is Satan himself in the flesh,” she said.

  “Yes, he is,” the pastor said. “There is not an iota of Jesus Christ in Marcus Wesson.”

  Serafino began to sweat; he could feel his heart beating faster. He couldn’t believe this was happening in church. It was the one place he had felt safe.

  The outbursts continued as other parishioners joined in. Serafino’s skin grew hotter and hotter, until he couldn’t take it anymore. He jumped up and ran out of the building.

  His wife was overcome with empathy. “Do you guys realize that was Marcus Wesson’s son sitting with you?” she asked before running outside to comfort her husband.

  Everyone in the small church gasped again as the pastor followed the couple out, concerned.

  He approached Serafino, his face pale and his hands outstretched. “I’m sorry, son. I didn’t realize—”

  “It’s okay. I’m used to it,” Serafino said, interrupting. “I have to go.”

  Even in jail, Marcus was still all too close. From then on, the youngest Wesson son continued his spiritual journey at a different church.

  GYPSY’S RELATIONSHIP WITH God was always somewhat of a struggle, because she couldn’t disassociate God from thoughts of her father. God reminded her of Marcus, praying reminded her of Marcus, and the Bible reminded her of Marcus.

  “After all those years of preaching, my dad managed to make me less religious,” she said. “Everything he did to us, telling us it was for God. I just kept thinking that God is not ugly, this is not the way it should be.”

  “Do you pray anymore?” I asked.

  “Not really. I love God and I want to go to heaven. But when I think about religion, I get a bad feeling. I should get a warm feeling, but instead I associate it with his teachings.”

  It bothered me that God had never answered her prayers while Gypsy was growing up. She wasn’t asking for a new PlayStation or an A in trigonometry, she just wanted her family to be safe from Marcus. But God had done nothing to stop nine of her brothers and sisters from being murdered, and she was left wondering why. Religion had brought only death and destruction to her family, and I felt she had every right to lose her faith.

  OVER THE NEXT few months, Rosie came to visit more frequently. Now that she had her own car, she was able to drive to Fresno without Elizabeth’s help. Rosie looked healthier, and I almost believed her when she told me she was okay.

  Adrian’s girlfriend had set her up with a full-time job selling sunglasses at the Port of San Francisco, and although she was socializing occasionally with her coworkers, I didn’t like her living alone on the run-d
own boat. That said, I knew her job forced her to interact with people, which was exactly what she needed to break Marcus’s spell over her.

  “I’m so proud of you, Rosie,” I said. “Are you still thinking about going to school?”

  “Yes. I just want to save some money first.”

  “You know you’re always welcome to come back here. We miss you.”

  “I miss you, too,” Rosie said sadly. “I miss going swimming.”

  Now that the cool December weather had arrived, the pools at my apartment complex were tucked in for winter under a thick plastic blanket. It was even colder in San Francisco, and I hoped Rosie’s boat had a heater.

  NEW YEAR’S EVE had always been a big thing for Marcus. He believed the family’s home for the coming year should be wherever the family was at midnight. If he wanted the family to live on the boat the following year, he would round up the children and drive them there before the clock struck twelve. He believed this would bring good luck.

  I had my own beliefs about celebrating the new year. I advocated using the holiday to let go of all the bad stuff that had accumulated over the past 365 days. The Wessons and I had plenty of negativity to get rid of, and I hoped we could do it together as we welcomed in 2007.

  Rosie couldn’t get off work, so Elizabeth decided to drive to San Francisco to be with her. I went to a crowded party, where I drank champagne and vowed to start anew. For one night, I released my anger toward Marcus, my sadness over the murdered children, and my worry for the Wessons’ future. Just before midnight, I thought of Elizabeth and Rosie, picturing them inside the cramped, dark boat, watching the glowing ball drop on TV. I hoped they were warm enough and having fun.

  Maybe this is the year when everything will get better.

  At the time, I knew nothing about Marcus’s tradition, and it would be several years before I learned where Rosie and Elizabeth had spent their special night, holding to their family’s old routine—for the second year in a row.

  FIVE … FOUR … THREE… two … one ….

  “Happy New Year,” Elizabeth said quietly, adjusting her seat belt as she glanced up at Rosie.

 

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