At this time, my family and I are financially unable to afford day care on a regular basis. My father has been in poor health for the past few years with several herniated discs in his back, and skin cancer. He works contract labor with no benefits, overtime or retirement. He returned to work as of the 9th to try to make ends meet.
It seems as if I have become a father of two overnight and it would be impossible for me to move the children to my current station in Zapata because it is 450 miles from San Angelo. I cannot raise the kids without the help of my parents and they cannot raise them without me.
Zapata County is my first duty station and officially my two years will be up on June 18th before, in normal circumstances, I could apply for a transfer. I’ve had people tell me that it is my decision to involve myself in this situation with the children, but I feel that it is my duty to care for these kids because I love them very much and because of the loss of their father and the incarceration of their mother, they are now my children to raise.
I have been dedicated to the department working as hard as possible to make strong cases. I have led District III in the number of cases I have filed. I have handled everything from commercial fishing violations, to seizing thousands of pounds of marijuana, and recovering stolen jet skis.
He then expounded on his loyalty to the agency, his commitment to his career, and the distraction to his job performance that would result if the transfer was not granted. He continued on, laying out his plans for the future.
If I am stationed in San Angelo, I plan on moving in with my parents at least for a few months for several reasons. Hopefully, it would help ease the financial strain my family is in because hundreds of dollars that I currently pay in rent and bills could be used to support the current crisis. At the same time, day care expenses would be low, because my mother would be able to watch the children while I return to work except for those days that she is too ill to do so.
I do not want to cause the department any problems or concerns but hope that the department understands the seriousness of my situation. If there is apprehension from the department that I may interfere with the ongoing investigation or impede the investigation in any way, let me assure that I have not and will not do so in any manner.
Marshall wrapped up his request with a final statement of his need and the impact of this request.
I have never been a person that likes to shortcut anything, but I have never been in a situation of this magnitude, nor have any of my peers, that that is why I am officially requesting a hardship transfer. I understand that on paper my situation may not seem as desperate as some other Wardens’ problems, but without relief of a transfer, I feel that my family’s health and the development of my sister’s children will suffer. I have faith that a transfer in this case would help to ease the dilemma I am facing, would not cause the division any undue strain and would be in the best interests of both.
It was a compelling document, but there was a flaw: There was a line between truth and lies, and one between exaggeration and reality. Marshall didn’t seem to recognize either one.
THIRTY-ONE
That evening, Wendi spoke with her father.
“What I want is, I want somebody to try to get the damn bond reduced. I’ll do that stupid house arrest thing . . . I don’t know why they can’t do that . . . it may take a year or two for the police to get all their investigation done.”
“. . . I’ve never heard of anything like that.”
“Well, that’s the kind of impression that [the attorney] gave me, that I may be sitting here a year or two before we find out anything.”
“Yeah, but how can they do that and then, say, you went to trial and they found you innocent and you’ve already served a year?” Lloyd asked.
“I know. I haven’t been convicted of nothing right now and I’m sitting in jail.”
Lloyd listened to Wendi’s complaints for a couple of minutes and then said, “They went out to Terrell’s ranch again today.”
“For what?”
“Looking in the caliche pit.”
“Okay. Hmmm? Oh, because we were out there chopping wood, I guess.”
“No. I don’t know. They said something about there was some carpet in there. They went and looked under the carpet and everything . . . they’re still talking to people and still getting stuff together.”
“And in the meantime,” Wendi whined, “I’m the one that’s in trouble . . . and they don’t even know what’s going on.”
“Well, yeah, you’re in trouble because you’re the one that did something . . .” Lloyd reminded her.
“I’m ready to go to court, and I’ll tell everybody, God, the whole freaking public of San Angelo, what I did, and I’ll do whatever I need to do, but I’m tired of sitting in here wondering every day what they think I might have done, you know?”
“Well, you pretty much know that what they think you’ve done. They think you did something to Mike, and they know what you did at the tank . . . so they’re just trying to prove everything that they think. I mean, you know that.”
“No, not really.”
“Okay. What do you think? That you ran a stop sign or something? . . . You’ve got to look at it from their perspective. You know you’re the one that did something with him, so they’re trying to figure out why.”
“I already told everybody why.”
“Okay. Well, that’s true, but . . . they probably think there’s a lot more to it and they’re going to try to prove there’s a lot more to it than that,” Lloyd said.
“. . . If they think I’m such an evil, bad person, why don’t they have me out there making a living, taking care of my kids and not going anywhere and staying there at the clinic? And then I won’t be eating up taxpayers’ dollars.”
“Well, one thing is, that’s not how the system works either. Why would they even have jails if the system worked that way?”
“I don’t know, but there’s a lot of people on house arrest.”
Lloyd attempted to get his daughter to accept the reality of her situation: “Yeah, but it’s usually for little dinky things, not for serious stuff.”
“I don’t know . . . I’m trying not to be bitchy but . . . most of the reason I’m in here is because, one, Marshall called the police, all right, so he’s the one that did it. Then . . .”
“No!” Lloyd interrupted. “You’re the one that did it.”
“All right. So part of this is my fault,” Wendi grudgingly conceded. “But thanks to my brother, I’m here because he told . . . them to keep a close eye on me, so they put me on suicide watch . . . and three . . .
“You’re not on suicide watch anymore.”
“You’re right. I finally got out of that, but forever I had to deal with that. And then, three, the attorney’s secretary said that it may be possible the reason why my bond is so high . . . is because somebody might have said I was a flight risk.” With dripping sarcasm, Wendi added, “I can’t imagine who that somebody might be.”
“I don’t know of anybody ever saying that, other than you said something about it one time . . . nobody else ever repeated it.”
“I think you might want to talk to your son and ask if he said anything, because I . . .”
Lloyd cut her off again. “Wendi, you’re trying to blame everybody but yourself.”
“No. I’m just saying, dang it, I’m ready to go to court and I’ll take whatever punishment they deal out for me for what I did, but this is not fair, Daddy, not to know . . .”
“Life is not fair . . . Do you think all this that’s going on is fair to any of us? . . . We’ve got to go down to the other attorney tomorrow because Mike’s grandmother or something is going to try to get Shane . . . We’re fighting battles left and right,” Lloyd said in obvious confusion about Leslie Severance’s custody filing.
“Daddy, they can’t . . .”
“And you keep blaming us,” Lloyd added.
“They can’t take Shane, Daddy.”
“Well, why do you keep trying to turn things around and blame everybody but yourself?”
“I’m not, Daddy.”
“I mean, you act like . . . we’re not doing anything out here, and there’s not a day goes by that we don’t do something, either go to the lawyers or make phone calls . . . and fight. We’re fighting battles every day, and then . . .”
“I know. It’s hard,” Wendi interjected.
“. . . And then, you try to always turn it around. And as far as Marshall calling them out there, they was already on to you. You told on yourself. You went out to the ranch . . . and they was waiting for you . . . You already did it to yourself right there.”
“I know, Dad. I know it. Okay. It’s just very, very hard.”
“So don’t be blaming Marshall for something you did,” Lloyd continued. “I know it’s got to be miserable in there, but we’re not the ones that did all this, and we’re trying to get you out of there, if possible, and if we don’t do anything, it’s going to be a lot worse.”
Wendi changed the subject. “How can they get Shane? Because, they can’t, right?”
“I don’t know . . . she filed for custody or temporary custody or something. We’re supposed to go down there tomorrow.”
“Oh, my God,” Wendi exclaimed.
Lloyd was exasperated. “Well, you knew that they would try. I mean, you always act like everything is a surprise, but you knew they’d try to get the baby.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Well, you should have,” Lloyd admonished.
Father and daughter talked a bit more about the custody situation and then Lloyd returned the conversation to his daughter’s attitude. “Everything is serious and you keep acting like it’s running a stop sign or something. But, you know, this is serious stuff, and you act like we’re not doing anything for you, and we’re doing continuously . . . You sit in there and you think that nobody else is doing a thing, and everybody is out here fighting like hell.”
“I know, and if I could be out there, I could fight, too.”
“Well that’s the whole thing,” Lloyd said. “The person that does something is the one that’s in jail, and the people that didn’t is the ones that’s out.”
Wendi returned the conversation to the issue of Shane’s future, wanting to know exactly which grandmother had applied for custody.
“I don’t know yet. Guess we’ll find out tomorrow when we go down there.”
“Idiots. Well, oh my gosh. I know I screwed up, but I had good intentions,” Wendi said.
“Hunh?”
“I know I screwed up, but I had good intentions,” she repeated.
“Well, you know, everybody knows you screwed up, too, and, you know, nobody can figure out why. But . . .”
“I tried to tell y’all why,” Wendi objected.
“. . . People just make different choices, and I guess that’s the one you made.”
“This sucks,” Wendi complained.
When the phone call ended, nobody said “I love you.” It was apparent that Lloyd was losing patience with his daughter for refusing to see the gravity of the situation and avoiding responsibility for her own actions. But still, Lloyd was in this fight for the long haul. She was his daughter, and he was not ready to give up yet.
THIRTY-TWO
After the tense conversation between Lloyd and Wendi, Judy reached out to her daughter in a letter. She shared updates about the two boys and then wrote:
I am so very sorry for this big mess you are in, honey—but we are all trying so hard—please believe that. I want you outta there so we can be a family again. No matter what (as Dad says) when it comes “Right Down To It” Family is all that really matters. So hold onto that thought.
Preparations for Michael’s funeral began in Maine. In a strange coincidence, the first fundraising event, planned to help finance Leslie’s custody fight for Shane, was scheduled for the day after they’d learned Mike was finally coming home.
More than two hundred tickets had already been sold for the event on Friday, March 18. They sold even more at the door. Before the night was over, a crowd exceeding 250 people had filled the Knights of Columbus Hall in Lincoln that evening. A D.J. filled the room with the thumping rhythm of dance tunes. The centerpiece was a large photo collage put together by stepsister Nicole and friend Heather Whitney. The event was an amalgam of grief-filled remembrance and a rousing good time.
“It was a strange situation,” Leslie said. “We had a funeral planned for the next Thursday, but I kept remembering how much Michael loved to dance. It was scary at first, but then I relaxed and enjoyed the celebration of Michael’s life with his friends and the community. I’ve never been hugged so many times in my life. It was good for me to see the support that I have, and that Michael had. It was overwhelming.”
Wendi’s timing was off when she called home on Saturday afternoon. Shane was crying, a dog was barking and Tristan was still sniffling from a fall from his little wagon. The little boy was not in the mood to talk, and soon abandoned his mother to her brother. Marshall sounded testy when he came to the phone.
Wendi asked him about her dogs and then moved to questions about her brother’s job. “When will you know if they transfer you or not?”
“Around April, but, you know, I’m not holding my breath. Somebody else put in for it, too, so . . .”
“Yeah, but isn’t yours kind of an . . . emergency thing?”
“Well, theirs is a hardship, too, so . . .”
“You know what it’s about?” Wendi asked.
“Some sort of medical thing for his wife . . .”
“Well, crap.”
“So I don’t know. Hopefully, it won’t end up costing me the job, but, well, we do what we have to do,” Marshall said.
“What do you mean? You’re not going to quit.”
“Well, no, but if I run out of leave and still have to come up here for all the hearings and trial, and all that, I guess I’ll do what I have to do . . .”
Wendi bristled at the thought. “You just can’t lose your job . . . That’s what you wanted to do your entire life, and this is my fault. If I lose my job, that’s one thing, but you’re not going to lose your job over this.”
“Well, trust me,” Marshall said, “I’m trying to work it out.”
Wendi told him to go back to Zapata the next day if he needed to be there. Then she said, “I don’t know what’s going to happen with the kids, but they’re my kids. I mean, you don’t have to deal with it.”
“Yeah I do. They’re not just your kids.”
“Well, I know, but I don’t want you to lose your entire life over . . . some petty mistake that I made.” Marshall then turned the conversation to the impending custody hearing between the Davidsons and Leslie Severance.
Wendi said, with callow indifference toward her grieving father-in-law, “Well, all you have to do is, once he comes down for court, just ask for a continuance, and then that just means he has to go back to Maine and they have to reset a trial date. And then, when he comes back down, ask for a continuance.” She moved to outlining her goal to get out of jail by April 1.
“If I were you,” Marshall said, “I’d look at the worst—that it’s murder—and then you’re going to have to come up with a defense against it. And then, even if not, if they never go there, then it’s tampering with evidence right now, and chances are you’re still going to be convicted of a felony.”
“Yeah, maybe so, but . . . my guess is, I’ll probably get probation over it.” She talked about her plans to keep the clinic open as its business manager if she temporarily lost her license. She demonstrated a firm conviction that she would get out of jail and, after overcoming a few minor obstacles, her life would continue on as if nothing had ever happened—as if the world would set aside Mike’s death as irrelevant. Obviously, she had already done just that.
THIRTY-THREE
Michael’s fellow staff sergeant, Randy Pelfrey, served as the
official military escort from Dyess Air Force Base when Mike’s body made its journey from Texas to Maine on Monday, March 21, 2005. Maine Governor John Baldacci called Leslie Severance to express his condolences to the family.
That same day, Wendi filed a grievance with her jailers. She wrote:
Last week I filled out a non-emergency to Captain Burns + have not received a response, but now I am forced to take further action. I am a model citizen and not a trouble-maker at all. Ever since I have been here, I have been treated poorly by some guards + denied certain privileges.
First of all, I was placed on suicide watch for no reason whatsoever. I was told because the arresting officer requested it. I assure you I was not suicidal + he had no reason, other than to degrade me. So I was stripped of all privacy, including my panties. It took 4 days before I was allowed to brush my teeth. It took 8 days before I was allowed my contact case + saline so I could remove my contacts—in the meantime, my eyes got infected. (My parents brought new solution + case two days after I came in.) It took 11 days before I got my glasses, which I brought with me to jail! It took MHMR 6 days to get here + “clear me.” During this time, I spent in “suicide watch”, a trustee dropped my tray as I was trying to get it through the bars—the guard saw it and would not bring me another one. So I ate what I could off the floor.
Second, the whole 2 weeks I have been locked up in J-Block, even after being cleared. I think y’all may have me in there for “my protection.” There are a lot of problems w/ J-Block. There is no TV and mentally incapacitated people in there. They rant + rave + threaten each other + the firewatchers all the time. It is dangerous. I do nothing to be in “lockdown” or be on “suicide watch” + am being denied TV + being placed in danger.
Third, today I got moved to I-Block which is even worse. The reason being that another inmate was supposed to move to barracks, but she threw a big fit+ refused. So they decided to move her to I Block. They don’t want her to be by herself because she goes crazy—starts beating her head on the wall—threatening to kick people’s ass. So they moved me with her to babysit her. I don’t remember being moved to trustee position and getting trustee privileges. I dang sure ain’t receiving a salary for this. I don’t care if she beats her head—she can beat it until she’s unconscious + until I am a trustee I will not do anything about it. And if she beats the snot out of me—that’s an easy lawsuit. And still I want to reiterate that there is no TV in here. Other prisoners have TV privileges—why do I not?
A Poisoned Passion Page 14