Silent No More

by Aaron Fisher

  When I waited for Aaron while he was on the stand, I kept thinking about all the reasons that I had been in such denial. I told myself over and over that it was because Jerry was who he was. It wasn’t like Jerry was the strange guy who lives down the road and hangs out in the park. Jerry was the man everyone admired for his work with kids. My God, even my own father thought that Jerry was heaven-sent. Still, I was filled with regret. When Jerry came into my life and Aaron’s, he was like a knight in shining armor, especially given what I’d been through—and yes, what I’d put myself through since I was seventeen. I really thought that Jerry could give Aaron what I couldn’t afford and wasn’t capable of doing for him. I truly thought that Jerry could get him into college. I believed the bill of goods he sold me when he took Aaron on trips to meet pro teams like the Philadelphia Eagles and things like that. I knew they stayed in hotels, but I thought there were other kids, and even when I heard that Jerry and Aaron shared a room, I assumed there were two beds, just like I have when I stay in a hotel room with my own kids. I trusted Jerry in the same way that I trust my own father. To this day, I’ll sleep in the same room as my dad if we’re in a hotel, and so would Aaron. I would never think there was anything wrong with that.

  After all of this came out with Aaron, and as Jerry’s other victims came forward, I was just so sad. I wondered how many more still hadn’t spoken up. I was relieved that Jerry couldn’t hurt any more boys. And to be perfectly honest, I also felt a sense of relief that I wasn’t the only parent who had been fooled by Jerry Sandusky. Knowing that Jerry deceived other parents lifted my burden of feeling at fault, even if just ever so slightly. The fact that I fell for the deception haunted me, but knowing I wasn’t the only parent who fell for Jerry’s con made me feel less gullible. Jerry was too cunning for all of us—not just me.

  I still don’t know how to answer those people who condemn me for not seeing what they say was right before my eyes. The ones who anger me, though, are those who say I “allowed” this to happen. I suppose the only thing I can say is that this could happen to anyone. When someone acts like a savior, you don’t question their intentions. I learned the hard way that you always should, though. Perhaps if Aaron had gone off with some other teacher or a coach, I might have looked at the situation differently, because that person wouldn’t have had the golden reputation that Jerry had. Who would have thought in a million years that Jerry would abuse all those children? How could he pull the wool over so many people’s eyes? Yet he did.

  I am proud of my son, though it pains me to think about what he went through. I wasn’t sure how he would bear up through the trial. I was told he did well on the stand. A part of me felt rejected when he said that he didn’t want me in the courtroom, but I understood his reasons.

  At least, once Aaron’s truth came out, we all kept pushing. Yes, it was after the fact but at least I pushed along with Mike and we went into high gear. And in the end, we exposed Jerry as the traitor he was. He not only abused my child, he abused my trust, our family, the community, and other innocent children. Hindsight is always 20/20.

  Mike

  WHEN AMENDOLA CROSS-EXAMINED AARON, HE WAS BRUTAL. HE employed the old courtroom tactic of asking the same question over and over again in slightly different ways to try to unnerve and fluster the witness. He did this to the other victims as well. I was hoping that objections would be raised but I remembered what McGettigan said when I questioned him about protecting Aaron on the stand. He said that sometimes it’s better not to object and to let someone like Amendola simply show themselves for who they are. In addition, McGettigan said that frequent objections too often result in text that’s struck from the records and is therefore not considered by the jurors—and often that omitted text can be key when it comes to scrutinizing both the facts and nuance of the case. The jury reads transcripts from both sides and McGettigan was certain that the jury would know what’s what. He actually wanted Amendola to show his true colors. As I watched the assault on Aaron, I wished McGettigan’s confidence was contagious.

  Amendola tried every which way to agitate and confuse Aaron. One specific sequence stands out in my memory: He asked if Aaron ever talked to anyone, including his mother, about getting money because of the accusations he made against Jerry Sandusky. I wondered if Amendola was implying extortion. When Aaron replied “no,” Amendola asked the question again, just slightly differently: Is that why you’re here today, because you want to make money? Again Aaron said no. Amendola persisted in asking if Aaron ever said anything to a neighbor about getting money from this. No again. And then, isn’t it true you’re planning to buy a new Jeep when this is all over, if you should win the case? No. Amendola was pounding Aaron. It was like listening to dirty cops beating a confession out of an innocent suspect; my worry was that sometimes that innocent suspect finally admits guilt just so the cops will stop.

  Amendola had to know how desperate Aaron was for him to stop, and I’m certain that he hoped Aaron would finally just cave. His ruthlessness was his way of letting Aaron know that he would only stop once Aaron “cried uncle” and said the accusations were false and retracted them. Aaron remained strong and steadfast, but I could see that he was becoming increasingly upset and hesitant to respond.

  At one point, Aaron looked directly at me and mouthed, “Please make him stop.”

  I can’t begin to explain how my heart broke when he mouthed those words. I wanted to stand up and say that I objected, even though McGettigan was letting Amendola carry on and banking that Aaron would stay the course. It was like I was outside my body. I had to stop myself, holding back what felt almost like a reflex to scream, “I object!” Aaron looked so sad and earnest and there were Amendola’s piercing eyes and I felt so helpless. All I could do was just nod my head at Aaron ever so slightly and hold my hands firm and parallel to one another about a foot apart. I was using sign language. Hold steady and hang on. It’s almost over.

  After Aaron’s testimony, Dawn and Aaron were escorted back to the barracks and Dawn drove Aaron back home. I had to keep my seat in the courtroom until it adjourned for the day. I called Aaron from my car on the way home. He was relieved that the testimony was over. He was also proud of himself for taking the stand, and not breaking under Amendola’s fire. But he was still scared that the jury would not convict Sandusky.

  The proceedings went on for one week. I stayed for a few days to hear major testimony from other victims and witnesses. Even though my presence wasn’t mandatory, I wanted to be there. I needed to hear what the other victims said about Sandusky. I wanted to hear details about the serialized pattern of behavior that I suspected from the beginning—long before I knew who Sandusky was and when I just knew from Aaron’s sordid and heartbreaking tale that his experience could not have been one isolated case.

  I made certain to be there for McGettigan’s closing argument. He asked the jury to consider the lives of the group of victims as they considered the verdict and to find Sandusky guilty of everything. McGettigan’s words were chilling when he referred to the victims as “ten broken souls.”

  30

  The Verdict

  Mike

  AS THE JURY DELIBERATED, I WAS OBLIGATED TO ATTEND THE PENNSYLVANIA Psychological Association convention at the Hilton in Harrisburg—right in Strawberry Square and right near the attorney general’s office. The site was all too coincidental. The association was presenting me with an award titled “Psychology in the Media,” which recognized a body of work in connection with the media for the last fifteen years. The award was decided long before anyone knew about the Sandusky case and my involvement, and now it seemed ironic that the media constituted an entity that I had to elude.

  I was torn as to whether or not to go, but long before this trial was on the horizon, I had promised my seventeen-year-old daughter that we would go together. She was proud and excited for me and I didn’t want to disappoint her. But really, I wanted to be at the courthouse waiting for the verdict.

 
Maybe it was my imagination, but when I arrived at the Hilton, I felt that some of my colleagues were treating me strangely. I had a feeling that a lot of them were either angry or sad—or, perhaps, both—about the ignominious fall of Penn State football and the disgrace levied upon their beloved JoePa. Despite the award, I felt like persona non grata—and knew that I wasn’t mistaken. Just after Sandusky’s arrest back in November, one of the psychologists in the association sent out a message to the members asking them to support me since I was instrumental in Sandusky’s arrest. It generated neither support nor congratulations. Rather, it generated little response except from one psychologist who wrote to me. “I just lost my faith in humanity. JoePa was my idol.” It all went back to Paterno and Penn State despite the victims and regardless of what Sandusky had done.

  My daughter and I went home after the ceremony. I was toying with the idea of cruising down to the courthouse and just hanging around while the jurors deliberated. I opted not to go. Everyone’s best guess was that there wouldn’t be a verdict until at least the end of the weekend. Aaron had just started his first real job, as a security guard, and he was working the graveyard shift that night. By nine thirty, we all figured that the jury had retired for the evening. The three of us—Dawn, Aaron, and I—were in constant communication that night, calling and texting.

  I figured that in the unlikely event that a verdict came back that night, McGettigan or someone from the attorney general’s office would call in plenty of time for me to run and pick up Dawn and Aaron so we could all head over to the courthouse. There were no calls and nothing seemed to be happening when Aaron left for work around ten. Dawn was watching the news at her place and I was in my living room with the TV news playing in the background, the volume on low. I was barely paying attention. Then Dawn called: The jury was coming back. I turned up the TV and there was the breaking news. Dawn and I debated whether we should meet down in Bellefonte, but then the newsman said the verdict was expected within twenty minutes. We knew that Bellefonte was shut down to everyone except for the press and officials. Even if we sped over there, the roads were closed and we wouldn’t even get a parking spot within miles of the courthouse. We never expected that jury verdict to come in that night.

  We stayed on the phone, glued to the television. The jury deliberated for twenty-one hours after hearing a week of testimony from ten victims. We were silent as the verdict was announced: The jury found Jerry Sandusky guilty on 45 of 48 counts of child sexual abuse, which could result in a possible maximum of 442 years in prison. Based upon the jury’s findings, the abuse had gone on since 1997, when Sandusky was fifty-one years old—two years before Sandusky “retired” as assistant football coach at Penn State.

  Dawn must have repeated the phrase “Thank God, it’s over” a million times, and then she called Aaron, who was on the road and had to pull over because he was crying so much when he heard the news, he couldn’t see to drive.

  June 22, 2012, was the date stamped on the reward given to me that morning—and the date that the guilty verdict in the trial of Jerry Sandusky was decided. At last, it was over.

  But it wasn’t over for the victims and probably never would be, even though Aaron and all the other victims got the justice they deserved. Of course, for me, it was more about Aaron than anyone else. I thought about how this manipulative son of a bitch Sandusky played games right to the end. Such hubris that he never even took the stand. All along, he thought that he was above the law. But now, finally, Aaron had used the law to take the monster down.

  Epilogue

  Mike

  ON THE DAY AFTER THE VERDICT, AARON AND I MET IN MY LOCK Haven office. We hugged—a “guy hug” that lasted a second, which was the closest we ever came to an embrace. Except for his girlfriend, Aaron still doesn’t like to be touched.

  Now it’s over, and yet I still have trouble sleeping. My insomnia started about six months after I first met Aaron and it continues to this day. I’m not sure if I’ll ever stop thinking about Aaron’s case.

  One Saturday in August, about a month and a half after the verdict was returned, I took an early morning drive with a definite destination and a few planned detours along the way. I wanted to revisit familiar places. I wanted to visit those I’d only seen in photographs at the trial. I wanted to visit some I had merely imagined in my mind’s eye.

  It was a sunny, cloudless days with a perfect turquoise sky. The highway, flanked on either side by the profile of the Nittany Mountains and endless pastures, cuts through beautiful country. Long ago cougars roamed those mountains, and recently I read that those cougars—a species also known as Nittany lions—had suddenly been seen again. I wondered if they were really making a comeback or if this was yet another legend waiting to be debunked.

  My first stop was Bellefonte. The steep hill on the street leading to the rear entrance where we were covertly escorted through the tent and past the steel barricades was now returned to unoccupied territory. The barricades were gone; the media had retreated. The courthouse in Diamond Square could not have looked more staid, its scrolled Ionic columns symbolizing strength, surrounded by potted plants with blossoming red and yellow flowers. In the square, there was a wrought-iron bench and an old-fashioned water fountain evocative of simpler times. The businesses housed in Victorian buildings and the small private homes with their front porches lining the streets were restored to tranquility. The trial of Jerry Sandusky would forever alter the town’s history, but the perceptible debris was swept away.

  From Bellefonte, I took Interstate 99 southwest and headed to State College. On the right, in low-lying land marked only by an American flag, was the Centre County Correctional Facility: the temporary home of Jerry Sandusky until he is moved to a permanent state prison. I thought how fitting it was that on a clear day like this, Sandusky could probably see Beaver Stadium only six miles away as he stood in the prison yard.

  It had been several years since I was on the Penn State campus. As I drove inside the gates, the grounds were lush and green. I envisioned summers at the Second Mile, and the children who otherwise would have spent days such as this one playing in concrete schoolyards. Here was a world filled with manicured playing fields, all kinds of sporting equipment at their fingertips, and yet it was a false paradise for far too many of them.

  I walked the main street of the campus and noted the high-end clothing shops, the playhouse, the bookstores, several jewelers, and I had no question as to why the area was dubbed the Happy Valley. It was surely an Eden before the fall and I wondered how long it would be until all of this was forgotten and drifted back into the manicured landscape. I came to a shop filled with Penn State souvenirs—one of which was a newly created T-shirt printed on the front with “NCAA” but the “C” was, instead, a hammer and sickle. Underneath the logo, it read “National Communist Athletic Association.” On the back it read “Overstepping their bounds and punishing the innocent since 1906.” The shirt was not university-approved, but I can’t say that I disagreed with the content.

  After the “greatest scandal in the history of sports,” as it came to be known, the school was punished by the NCAA with unprecedented sanctions against the football program and a $60 million fine levied against the university—an endowment to be established and used around the nation to serve victims of child abuse. Penn State players were banned from bowl games and postseason for four years; scholarships were reduced from twenty-five to fifteen annually; returning athletes were able to transfer and immediately compete; the football program itself was on a five-year probation; the NCAA would vacate all wins of the Nittany Lions football team from 1998 to 2011. I have a problem with a lot of that. Yes, fine the university and make it pay, but why punish the players and students who were innocents in all this? As for the NCAA’s right to investigate and impose sanctions on individuals—I agree with that, but it should have happened years ago, when everyone knew but turned a blind eye.

  My next stop was the “Pattee Library and Paterno Lib
rary.” There was Joe Paterno’s name carved in stone. JoePa’s statue had already been removed from Beaver Stadium but the library would keep his name. The library was dedicated in 1997 with fundraising efforts by Paterno and his wife, Sue. JoePa once said that you can’t have a great university without a great library. That’s the kind of guy we thought he was.

  I got back in my car and drove down College Avenue for about three miles. If I made a left turn, I would drive right into Beaver Stadium, which was across from the turn I made instead onto Grandview Avenue, where Sandusky lived. I was struck by the fact that Sandusky’s little private Idaho was exactly between the county correctional facility and the Penn State campus.

  Grandview is windy and narrow and forks at one point, where you can take either an upper or lower road. I wasn’t sure which way to go, but I took the low one. A sign informed me there was no outlet; another advised to slow down for children. Although I’d seen the house in photographs, this was quite different. Sandusky’s house stood at the end of the cul-de-sac. Two cars, sporting Penn State vanity plates, were parked in the driveway outside the two-car garage. The house is pink and brown, appearing to be gingerbread, with a pristine green velvet lawn rolling down the front yard. It could have been a painting in a child’s storybook. The house looked like the safest place in the world, nestled in this quintessential suburban neighborhood. I stared at it for quite a while thinking about that windowless basement room in its bowels. When I looked up, I saw—not thirty feet beyond the fence of Sandusky’s backyard—the tops of playground equipment for the district’s elementary school.