Accused: My Fight for Truth, Justice & the Strength to Forgive

by Tonya Craft

  I went to bed believing that missing my son’s birthday would mark the “last of my worst days,” and I sprang out of bed on June 11 with a renewed sense of optimism. Diana, Michael, and even their son, Josh, were taken aback by my confidence that morning. I dressed in a suit that I felt exuded professionalism. When the time came, we rose to exit the front door on the way to the polygraph—and then my cell phone rang. It was my attorney.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “Just leaving,” I said.

  “Don’t. Stay right where you are. They’ve issued a warrant for your arrest.”

  His words completely knocked the wind out of me. I honestly could not breathe. I could feel the color draining from my face as blackness closed in around my eyes. My ears started ringing.

  “What’s wrong?” Diana asked. “Tonya? Tonya, what’s wrong?!”

  My legs gave out. I leaned back against the wall and slid down to the floor as my attorney kept talking. I kept the phone pressed to my ear and listened as best I could. I could see Diana’s face. She looked terrified. She picked up her phone prepared to dial 911 to get an ambulance for me—and she would have, had I not hung up with my attorney and finally acknowledged her.

  “Breathe, Tonya! Breathe. Please.”

  I took a breath. It felt like my body weighed 400 pounds. It was all I could do just to sit up.

  “What happened?” Diana begged.

  Slowly and barely audibly, I told her: “There’s a warrant out for my arrest. The police went to my house last night. They were planning to pull me right out of my house, in the middle of the night.”

  “I don’t understand. What about the polygraph?” Diana asked.

  I stared at her in pure disbelief.

  “There isn’t going to be a polygraph. It was just to get me to come down to the police station so they could arrest me.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what my attorney told me.”

  “Why?”

  “The local media’s all there. They’ve all been alerted that a teacher’s going to be arrested for molesting children. It’s a big story. They apparently wanted to put me in handcuffs and put me on display. A perp walk, he called it.”

  “That’s outrageous! Tonya, that’s not possible. How in the world—what else did he say? What on earth are we supposed to do?”

  I kept talking, but it all felt separated—like the words were just floating around me. My breathing was so shallow that I felt light-headed and dizzy.

  “I need to call my parents,” I said. “We need to post a bond. He said I don’t have a choice in this. I have to turn myself in.”

  “Turn yourself in? To who? The police?”

  “At the jail,” I said. “In Catoosa County. I’m going to jail, Diana. They’re arresting me. I’m going to jail.”

  Chapter 17

  I placed a call to my mom from the floor of Diana’s kitchen. I asked her to sit down, and I told her about the warrant for my arrest. I told her that I was okay and that no one knew where I was, so I was pretty sure I’d be able to turn myself in at the jail without making a big spectacle of myself all over the evening news. But I also told her that the only way I’d be able to come home that night was if we posted a cash bond. A big one.

  My mother agreed to put up whatever money was needed, no questions asked. Thankfully her mother, my grandmother, had been a penny-pincher her whole life. She’d left my mother an inheritance that we would be able to tap into. I hated to use my mother’s inheritance for this awfulness, but I was also thankful that it was there. I’m not sure what I would have done otherwise.

  A whole series of phone calls ensued between my parents and my attorney, and my attorney and the ADA on my case, and a judge apparently, until they finally settled on a prearranged bond. The bond was for $50,000. For $50,000, I would be allowed to turn myself in at the Catoosa County Jail, where I’d be booked and fingerprinted and then released—as long as I followed certain bond conditions. What is a bond condition? What does that even mean?

  Finally it was all arranged. My parents went down to the Catoosa County Courthouse in Ringgold with a cashier’s check and handed it to a secretary in an office on the second floor. My attorney got a call saying everything seemed in order, so he called me up to tell me I should head down to the jail to turn myself in.

  “Will you meet me there? Or should we come to your office and drive over together? How should we do this?”

  “You’ll be fine. You’ll be in and out in a matter of minutes.”

  “Wait, you’re not coming?” I said.

  “It’s just a formality. Everything’s arranged; the bond is set—”

  “Do you really think this is going to be a formality? Look, this may seem like a formality to you, but this is the most awful thing I’ve had to do in my whole life. I’m paying you, and I expect you to be there to make sure everything goes the way it’s supposed to go. So do you want to meet me there, or do you want me to come by your office?”

  That local attorney sighed, audibly, into the telephone. “Well, all right. I don’t think it’s necessary, but I understand why you’re upset. I’ll meet you down there. We should do it soon, though.”

  We settled on a time. I called my parents and they said they would meet me in the parking lot outside the main entrance to the jail—a hulking, modern concrete structure that stands out like a sore thumb on Highway 41 down in Ringgold. Suddenly this whole thing was real. We had plans. In a matter of a half hour, I’d be walking into a jail and getting arrested for a crime I had not committed.

  My well of tears seemed to run dry as I sat in the passenger seat of my Yukon, as Diana took the wheel and pointed us south for the longest twenty-minute drive of my life.

  Thankfully there was no media in the parking lot as we pulled in, and I gasped for air. My heart was pounding something fierce, and my dad was crying as I hugged him and my mom. My attorney walked ahead and held the door for us.

  Walking into that lobby, it was clear that everybody knew who I was. The media had been alerted, so I shouldn’t have been surprised that the officers at the jail would be expecting me—and I felt they all looked at me as if I were exactly the monster those detectives made me out to be.

  The officers took me inside. The door slammed shut, and my parents stood there on the other side of the window watching as those officers put me in handcuffs. They read me my rights and walked me back into the part of the jail that no innocent person should ever have to lay eyes on.

  My attorney had already explained to me the basics of what was about to happen. I knew they would show me the warrants for my arrest. I would have to acknowledge that I had read those warrants by signing a piece of paper. I might be asked out loud if I understood the charges against me, and all I was to say was “Yes.” That was it. I wasn’t supposed to engage in conversation, because anything I said “could and would be used against me in a court of law.” I understood that. I also understood that I didn’t want to make anyone mad in there. I thought I ought to be respectful, and I didn’t have a problem with that. The officers in that jail weren’t the ones who had wronged me.

  I’ll never forget the feeling of those handcuffs being closed on my wrists. They were tighter than I imagined they needed to be. The metal was cold, and they hurt something awful. I thought of movies where some cop would twist those cuffs and yank on them to force some perp to the ground, and it made me queasy.

  The cuffs weren’t on for very long—just long enough to walk me back to a holding cell. But I had to rub my wrists when they took them off.

  There were a couple of other women in the cell with me and a whole bunch of men in the cells around us. They all looked tough to me. I tried to avoid eye contact, and I stayed silent when one of the women asked me, “What are you in for?” The holding cells lined the walls on either side of a great big room, with a desk set up on a platform right in the center.

  I’m not sure how long I was in there, but it sure was a lot m
ore than the “few minutes” this whole thing was supposed to take. It was hours. After a while someone came and ushered me and a few others out of our cells to face our charges. They lined us all up against a wall to get our mug shots, where we waited for what felt like another hour.

  Next thing I knew someone pointed a camera at me and snapped my picture without much warning at all. I guess they didn’t want us to smile. I’m sure I couldn’t have mustered one even if they’d forced me to.

  It was a strange feeling standing there after that, waiting to see my arrest warrants. Part of me was scared to death and part of me was chomping at the bit to see them. I’ll finally have some answers! When the arrest warrants were laid before me, I read them as quickly as I could—these black-and-white forms with names and dates and details scribbled on them in someone’s messy handwriting. I wanted to memorize everything I could, to take away any detail that might give me some sense of understanding, or any bit of information I could use to help put an end to this nightmare.

  There were three warrants with Brianna Lamb’s name on them, one with Chloe McDonald’s—and one with Ashley’s. My daughter, Ashley.

  The warrant accused me of committing “an immoral/indecent act in the presence of/with/upon the person of/to Ashley Henkey—”

  It infuriated me that they were charging me with this awful crime and yet they couldn’t even spell her name correctly. Her last name is Henke. Henke!

  “—a child under the age of 16 years, by touching the primary genital area with the intent to arouse/satisfy the sexual desires of said accused/child.”

  I felt nauseated. I’m her mother. It was all I could do not to cry and throw up. How could Ashley possibly think I molested her? Why would my baby ever say such a thing? What have they done to her?

  I read the warrant in Chloe’s name, and it had the exact same wording as Ashley’s.

  Then there were the three warrants under the name Brianna Lamb. One accused me of “touching” her, just like the other warrants did. One said the same thing again, up until the part about her being “under the age of 16,” and then said, “by having said child fondle the defendant’s breast.” And the last warrant accused me of an “aggravated” immoral/indecent act: It said that I, Tonya Craft, “did intentionally penetrate the sex organ of Brianna Lamb with a finger without the consent of said person.” I gagged. I had to close my eyes and catch my balance just to stop myself from making a scene right there in the jail. The thought that anyone would falsely accuse me of something so heinous absolutely terrified me. It didn’t matter what the motive was; it didn’t matter how it had happened. Just the fact that my name was on a piece of paper saying I had done something like that to a child—it took everything I had not to throw up.

  When I opened my eyes again, I saw something that made no sense. All of the warrants said the date of the incidents were “between 12:01 A.M. and 11:59 P.M. on the 1st day of January, 2008.” I wasn’t with Tyler and Ashley on New Year’s. I wasn’t around those other children, either. My children were with Joal and Sarah. To me, that was something. That was proof right there in writing that this whole thing was false. I still felt sick, and I was worried to death about what would happen next, but that one obvious fact stood out like a sore thumb. I can prove I’m innocent, I thought, just like you’d see on TV or in the movies. I was pretty sure it would be just about all we would need to clear this mess up. I could not wait to tell my attorneys about it.

  “Do you understand the charges that have been made against you?” an officer asked.

  “Yes,” I said, just as I’d been told.

  “Then sign here, acknowledging that you’ve read the warrants.”

  I signed my name. Then they moved me into a room to get fingerprinted.

  As I stood there waiting and waiting—again—I thought about what I’d heard from both of my attorneys. Ashley hadn’t accused me of anything “criminal” during her interview with DFACS. So where did this charge come from? Did they interview her again? God, please let her be okay.

  I felt that Joal was involved. I felt it. I felt it when Ashley left me that hushed message on May 30. But why? How did this happen? When did this all get started? Was it his idea? Is he doing this just to hurt me? Have he and Sandra and Kelly been talking? Did all three of them put the girls up to this? Or did the girls even say these things? Could a warrant be written on the basis of something a parent said? How do I not know these answers?

  “Step forward.”

  The female officer manning the fingerprint machine motioned to me. I remember she had brown hair. She was chatty. She started talking about her dogs and asked me if I had any pets. I wanted to be polite, so I answered, very succinctly.

  “My kids have two dogs,” I said.

  “What kind?” she asked.

  “Miniature Schnauzers.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Buddy and Candy Cane.”

  Given the seriousness of what was going on, it struck me as odd that an officer would be trying to carry on conversations like that.

  They don’t use ink in this day and age. It’s more like a scanner that they press your fingers into. It records your fingerprints into a computer system. For some reason it wasn’t working right. It took her forever. When she finally got it working again, she looked at my charges, and then she looked up at me.

  “These are some pretty serious charges,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered.

  “I have to ask you: Did you do this?”

  “No, I did not,” I said.

  She looked into my eyes and said, “Well, I tend to believe you.”

  That was what finally broke me. I started squalling right there. Tears came raining down my face. To have somebody with a badge on give me a little bit of encouragement simply meant the world to me. I didn’t belong there and I thanked God that at least one person seemed to see through the mistake of it all.

  They put me back in the holding cell for a while longer, and then finally they put me back into handcuffs and escorted me out, right back to that area in front of the door where I could see my parents still waiting, patiently, in the cold, stark lobby. The officer who took my fingerprints happened to walk into the hallway just as I was being uncuffed.

  “Good luck to you,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  With that, they opened the door and I fell into the arms of my mom and dad. I cried to the point of shaking.

  My parents told me that my attorney had gone back to his office and asked that we come see him as soon as I was released. Diana had left, too. Apparently some media outlets showed up and were asking around trying to catch a glimpse of me at the jail. Quick-thinking Diana ran out to my Yukon, started it up, drove it right up to the front door of the jail, waited until the media people spotted her, and then took off. She led them away on a wild goose chase so they wouldn’t be there when I came out that door. God bless Diana. And God bless my parents for their patience and kindness.

  We got into their car and drove straight over to my attorney’s office. He and I sat down and went over everything. I brought up the discrepancy in the reports concerning the timing on New Year’s Day, hoping that would be a huge step toward getting these charges dismissed so I could move on with my life. But he burst that bubble in an instant.

  “The time and date is just a formality. No one really pays attention to that stuff. If a child says someone touched them, the expectation that they’ll get all the details right doesn’t matter. It’s a violation, and that’s all that counts,” he said.

  The details don’t matter?

  “Also, the digital penetration charge—that’s serious. That’s aggravated,” he said. “That’s bad.”

  “What does that even mean?” I asked.

  “A conviction on aggravated sexual assault of a child could mean life in prison.”

  I went cold. It honestly felt like my heart stopped beating. Not just from the words themselves, but the way he
delivered them. I didn’t even really know what the word “aggravated” meant in a case like this, and suddenly he was talking about convictions and life in prison. And it sounded as though he were saying it like it was a foregone conclusion.

  At some point in that blurry, awful aftermath of the arrest, the attorney showed me the actual bond that had allowed me to leave the jail. It was the first time I saw the conditions of my release in print:15

  “What does that mean, ‘directly or indirectly’?” I asked my lawyer. “And what is this ‘Four Points’?”

  “It means that you can’t have any contact with children,” he said.

  “Okay, but what is ‘indirect’ contact?”

  He seemed baffled. He read it over again and said he wasn’t exactly sure.

  “Is this normal? Is this what normally happens to people when they’re accused of something?”

  “I can’t say it is, no,” he told me. “The ‘indirect contact’ part of it is very unusual. But look, we’ll go back to court as soon as we can and get it all sorted out. It may take a couple of weeks, but it won’t be a problem.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

  It suddenly struck me that Diana’s son, Josh, was only sixteen. Does this mean I can’t legally stay at her house anymore?

  “What the heck is indirect contact?” I asked again. It was so vague it was terrifying. “Does that mean if I call my friend Tammy and her son picks up the phone and says something to me, is that indirect contact? Does that mean I’d go to jail? Is this their way of setting me up so they can throw me behind bars no matter what?”

  My attorney thought I was being paranoid and asked me to keep calm. He legitimately seemed to think this would all get worked out in a quick hearing. I tried to take his word for it, but the longer we sat there, the more I panicked.