Steve was great. He commented occasionally, and sometimes he asked probing questions, but mostly he listened. I don’t remember how long I went on, or even everything I said. All I know is that I felt as if someone had lanced a boil that had been poisoning me. When I left Steve’s office that day, I could honestly say that I felt better for the first time since the murders. I was still a long way from recovery, but as I read Job and met with Steve, God allowed a little light to shine through the dark clouds that had covered my life.
Chapter 13
The Elephant in the Room
Just as a father has compassion on his children,
So the LORD has compassion on those who fear Him.
—PSALM IO3:I3
EVEN AFTER PENNY’S and the boys’ funeral, I couldn’t really begin to move on or to adjust to a new life because the story was a long way from finished. During the first two weeks after the murders, I hadn’t given much thought to Erin’s legal situation. While I was in the hospital, I was so wrapped up in my own grief and pain that it was easy to give in to tunnel vision and focus on my own problems and needs. And after I was discharged, keeping myself doped up with medications made it easier to remain in denial. The thought of my daughter being involved in the murders was simply inconceivable to me.
Erin faced three counts of capital murder. Her grandmother Virginia went with her for her first court appearance because I was still in the hospital. The judge set Erin’s bond at 1.5 million dollars, which guaranteed she would remain in jail until the trial. Because she was only sixteen, she was held in the Hunt County Juvenile Detention Center in Greenville. I was glad for that, at least. Erin was little more than a child herself. I didn’t want her locked up with hardened criminals.
The judge appointed William Howard McDowell, a third-generation attorney, to represent Erin. But even though he was court appointed, I was told that he was the best in the area. I still wasn’t able to drive, so Mary took me to his office in Sulphur Springs so I could meet with him and find out about the case against Erin.
When I arrived at his office and his receptionist let him know I was there, Mr. McDowell came out to the waiting area and greeted me. I liked him instantly.
His office wasn’t at all what I had expected. Instead of a dark, austere room lined with shelves of law books, the office was filled with NBA memorabilia. Quite the basketball fan, Mr. McDowell had team jerseys, balls signed by players, and even a life-size cardboard cutout of an NBA player. The casual atmosphere initially helped to put me at ease, but that didn’t last very long.
When we had sat down, I asked, “What are they saying about Erin’s involvement? And what are her chances?”
Mr. McDowell told me that it didn’t look good but he would hire a good investigator.
“Erin couldn’t have masterminded this,” I said. “I know my daughter. She loved her family. She wouldn’t have wanted us dead.”
Then Mr. McDowell began to review the evidence against Erin.
Charlie Wilkinson, Charles Waid, and Bobbi Johnson had all identified Erin as the mastermind behind the killings. They said that she had been talking about killing us for at least a month and that she was angry because Penny and I were interfering in her relationship with Charlie. The only way to solve the problem was to get rid of us.
Even worse, all three said that they had tried to talk Erin out of it and had encouraged her to just run away. But according to their statements, Erin had rejected that idea. They said that she wanted her brothers killed because the older one would talk and she just didn’t like the younger one.
This was not the Erin I knew.
I knew that she had begun to change over the few months she had been going with Charlie. And things had become tense at times. But I didn’t believe for a minute that Erin was behind the attack on our family.
As Mr. McDowell continued to lay out the evidence against Erin, the room began to spin, and I felt as if I were going to vomit. Everything he said after that was a blur. I was still trying to come to grips with losing my wife and two sons. And now this attorney was asking me to face the possibility that my daughter not only was involved in the murders but also had instigated them. It was just too much to take in. When I left his office, I felt as confused as I had when I first arrived.
Mr. McDowell offered a final word of caution for when I went to visit Erin: “Don’t discuss the case with her,” he said.
THE FIRST VISIT
The Hunt County Juvenile Detention Center permitted three visits and two fifteen-minute phone calls per week. Larry and Virginia had already gone to see Erin a few times. But it was several weeks before I was well enough to go for a visit.
Finally, I was able to make the forty-minute trip to Greenville to visit my daughter. Initially, I had to wait outside with a group of other parents who had come to visit their children. But eventually the authorities unlocked the building and allowed us into the waiting room.
I wasn’t sure what to expect. What would it be like? Would Erin even want to see me? What would we say to each other? Finally they called my name and ushered me into the visiting area.
When I saw where we would be visiting, my heart sank. Before me was a long row of stools facing a thick Plexiglas barrier. In front of each stool was a telephone receiver. Erin and I would be only inches apart, but we would not be able to physically touch each other. I desperately longed to hug her and hold her hand, but that would not be possible. Worse, I wouldn’t be able to talk to her about the things that were really on my mind.
There was so much I wanted to ask her: What do you know? Were you a part of all this? Did you really plan it? Did you know what they were going to do? But I couldn’t ask any of those questions. They would be like the proverbial elephant in the room—impossible to ignore and so much in the way that we would tiptoe around them the whole time we were together. It would have to remain that way until her case was completely decided, one way or the other.
I sat down at the stool and waited for them to bring Erin in.
A few seconds later she came up to her side of the partition. I couldn’t believe my eyes. On the other side of the Plexiglas window was my daughter, but she didn’t even look like the same person. She looked awful. Erin had always been meticulous about her appearance. Her hair, makeup, and clothes had to be just so. Even when she was going with Charlie and let her appearance slip, she hadn’t looked this bad.
She was wearing an orange jumpsuit. Her hair was oily and matted, almost like straw. She looked as if she had just gotten out of bed. Erin had always had clear, smooth skin. Now her face was dotted with acne.
But those things weren’t what struck me the most. It was her eyes, her expression. Erin had always had a bright smile and a vivacious personality. Now her eyes looked dead, emotionless. There was no smile. She looked like a zombie.
We picked up our telephone receivers.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
“How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
“Are they treating you all right?”
“Yes.”
“Are you eating okay?”
She nodded.
“Do you have anything to read?”
This elicited a shrug.
This was killing me. My daughter was sitting not three feet away from me, and she was in as much pain as I was. I wanted to tear that window out of the way and get in there with her. We needed to be together. I wanted to comfort her. Tell her everything was going to be okay.
The longer we engaged in that meaningless conversation, the worse I felt. A host of questions roiled inside me, and I had to find a way to get them out without getting Erin or myself in trouble.
Finally I asked her, “Were we bad parents? Did we go wrong somewhere?”
Tears filled her eyes, and she shook her head. “No, you and Mama did a great job raising us. It wasn’t your fault. Don’t ever blame yourself for this.”
I needed to know more, so I decided to risk usi
ng sign language.
Erin had been studying sign language with her aunt Mandy, and she’d picked it up pretty quickly. She and Mandy had done some sign interpretation for songs in church, and Erin had begun to teach a little to Penny and me. I didn’t know much, but I knew enough to ask her, “Did you do this? Did you plan this?” I mouthed the words at the same time so she could read my lips, even if she couldn’t understand my signs.
I expected Erin to respond the same way, but instead she just blurted out her answer: “No, Daddy. I tried to stop it, but it got out of hand.” She was going to continue, but I motioned to her to stop. We had already said more than we should have.
That was the last time we even came close to addressing my most burning questions—Was Erin involved? And if so, how deeply? Early in April the judge issued a gag order. Any discussion of the case would put us both in contempt of court. So from week to week and month to month, our visits focused on the weather, jail food, reading material, general health issues, and other small talk. Our conversations were so limited and routine that I felt as if I could have missed a month of visits and we still could have picked up right where we left off.
One thing was certain: It didn’t matter how Erin’s trial played out. Her life would never be the same.
Chapter 14
Larry and Virginia’s
The Lord will not reject forever,
For if He causes grief,
Then He will have compassion
According to His abundant lovingkindness.
—LAMENTATIONS 3:3I-32
I HAD BEEN STAYING at Mary’s house for about three weeks, but I was becoming restless. For one thing, I felt as if I were imposing on Mary and Mike. They were so gracious and supportive that I have no doubt they would have let me stay with them as long as I needed to. But because my bedroom was also their living room, I really felt underfoot. They needed to be able to get back to a normal family life, and that would never happen as long as I was camping out on their sofa. Mary was instrumental in my surviving the first month after I lost my family, but it was time for me to get on with my life and let Mary and her family get on with theirs.
Another, more compelling, reason for my restlessness was distance. It was almost an hour’s drive from Mary’s place in Leonard down to Emory, where Penny’s parents lived. It took even longer to get to the cemetery in Wills Point. With Erin’s ongoing legal problems, I felt I needed to be closer to her and to the law-enforcement people in Rains County. Mostly, though, I just wanted to be nearer to Penny and the boys. If I was going to try to put the broken pieces of my life back together again, I wanted to be as close to home as possible.
Larry and Virginia had already invited me to stay with them, so I asked them whether the invitation was still good. It was. And so, on April 1, one month after Penny and the boys were murdered, I took my little box of personal belongings and moved back to Emory.
Larry and Virginia lived in a three-bedroom, two-bath double-wide with a wood deck across the front. I felt especially at home there because their living-room furniture had once belonged to Penny and me. We had given it to Larry and Virginia when we bought new furniture some years before. I found it comforting to sit on something that had once been in our home.
I also had my own bedroom at Larry and Virginia’s. It was small, only about 10 x 11, but I wouldn’t be in anybody’s way. It had a twin bed, a dresser, and a small desk in one corner where I could sit and read the hundreds of sympathy cards that had come from people all over the world. It was overwhelming to think that so many people cared enough to take the time to write and encourage me.
The bedroom even had a small TV so I could watch The Discovery Channel.
It was also good for me to be with Larry and Virginia for another reason. All three of us had suffered a devastating loss. When I lost my wife and sons, they lost their daughter and grandsons. Now that I was living with them, we were able to comfort one another. Often we sat around and talked about how much we loved and missed them. Sometimes Virginia and I would just sit and hug and cry.
Larry and Virginia and I understood one another and shared that grief. Virginia, especially, could understand the double sense of loss I felt where Erin was concerned. When Erin was first held in juvenile detention, the judge had to hold a hearing every ten days to decide whether or not Erin’s incarceration should continue. Erin’s lawyer was going to ask that she be released into my custody. He had told me there wasn’t much chance of that happening but also that there was no harm in asking. Virginia hoped the judge would agree, and she fixed up a room just for Erin. Virginia was devastated when the judge decided to keep Erin locked up. She, too, had almost had Erin back and then lost her again.
Moving in with Larry and Virginia also represented some progress on my part. Once I was at their house, I didn’t feel the need to barricade the door anymore. I’m not sure why. Maybe I didn’t hear as many noises. Maybe it was the counseling. Maybe it was a result of reading Job. Whatever the reason, my nightly routine changed. I still didn’t get much sleep. I still doped myself up during the day, although not as heavily.
But there were still things that bothered me.
I was sitting with Virginia in her living room one day, and as we were talking, Virginia noticed that I kept glancing over at one wall. She was puzzled at first, and then she realized that I was looking at Larry’s gun cabinet.
“Oh, Terry, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Does that bother you?”
I nodded.
A little later I went out for a while, and when I came back, I saw that Virginia had put a blanket over the cabinet.
The next day, she and Larry moved it into their bedroom.
SAN ANTONIO
When you’re not sleeping at night, you have a lot of time for reflection. Of course, I thought a lot about the last moments I had with my family on that Friday evening. But sometimes I’d find myself remembering other times—times when, much to Penny’s chagrin, the children and I would unexpectedly find an opportunity to indulge our taste for adventure.
One such adventure had happened about four years earlier, on a family trip to San Antonio. We were driving south on I-35 when it began to rain so hard I decided it would be safer to get off the highway. We pulled into a deserted truck stop that had a large canopy where the big rigs could park. It was a perfect place for us to eat the lunch we’d brought while we waited for the storm to pass.
While Penny, Erin, and I were getting lunch ready, the boys went exploring. A few minutes later, they came running back shouting, “It’s unlocked! It’s unlocked!”
Sure enough, one of the doors to the café was unlocked. It was so clean inside that it looked as if the employees had just stepped out and never come back. We found a booth and ate our lunch inside the café.
When we had finished eating, Penny said, “We’d better get out of here.”
But by then, the mischievous boy in me had awakened. “Let’s look around first,” I said.
We wandered around the café and the kitchen and worked our way through the rest of the building. Not one for adventure, Penny kept telling us that we should leave. The kids and I wanted to keep exploring. In the back, we found a door that led into a big area with large overhead doors. It must have been the shop for the big trucks. As we continued to explore, a cat came up to welcome us, so the kids shared some of their leftover lunch with him.
Suddenly I stopped and cocked my head. “I think I hear someone,” I said. I hadn’t really heard anything; I just wanted to frighten the kids—and I was successful. They got scared, and then Penny insisted that we get out of there.
I was just about to laugh and tell them it was only me joking around, but then I heard a noise and got scared too. We picked up our belongings and got out of there in no time.
We had a lot of fun on that trip and saw many of the sights of San Antonio, but the one thing the kids remembered the most, and talked about for years, was our thunderstorm picnic in that abandoned truck stop.
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ERIN’S MARBLE
Now that I was living close to home, I started going back to my property whenever I could. I never went alone but usually would tag along with Tommy Gaston. As horrible as the memories were, I felt strangely pulled to the place where my family and I had lived. I made several trips with Tommy to look around and dig through the debris in hopes of finding something else to remember them by.
Tommy and others were working hard to clear away the remnants of the house and the other debris, so each time I went, the place was a little cleaner. On this particular day, portions of the subfloor still remained, but Tommy had hauled a good portion to the back of the property to be burned.
I stepped onto the ashes where the house had been and looked around. In the past I had had to get down on my knees and dig through the rubble, and whenever I found something, it was always damaged and blackened with soot. But this time I saw something gleaming in the sunlight. I walked over for a closer look, and there in the ashes lay a bright green marble. It was perfect. It looked as if someone might have just dropped it there. It certainly didn’t look as if it had gone through a fire. It was so clean that I didn’t even need to wipe it off when I picked it up.
As I looked at that marble and turned it over in my hand, my mind went back to a time many years ago, just after Penny and I had married. Her father, Larry, was the song leader at the church we attended in Garland. One Sunday he brought a basketful of marbles and told each of us to take a marble and to let it represent someone we wanted to pray for. Maybe it was an unsaved friend or relative, or someone who was sick. It didn’t really matter, Larry said, but he told us to carry the marbles in our pockets or purses. Then, every time we reached for some change, we would feel our marbles and be reminded to pray for that person.
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