Murder, Motherhood, and Miraculous Grace

by Debra Moerke

  I somehow sensed that this role would play a vital part in what was to me a great mystery—that which the apostle Paul describes in Colossians 1:27: “This mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory.” I prayed that Christ in me—a holy mystery still unfolding in my life—would grow deeper roots and that God would use my “jail time” to further change me.

  At 1455, I stood at the control panel watching for my relief. I was grateful when two second-shift officers appeared at the tower door. I popped the security door open from the control panel and spent a few minutes going over the logbook. Before I could head home for the day, I still needed to get names and A numbers from some of the officers who had come to assist. Exhausted, I grabbed my backpack and thermos and headed down the metal stairs. A few inmates watched me leave. Their eyes seemed sad and hollow, and I realized from their faces that they had heard. News had spread as to who had died and how. I gave them a soft smile, hoping to show some compassion.

  Walking the hall to the sergeant’s office, a few first-shift officers joined me. “Hey, Moerke, did you hear what happened in B-Tower today?”

  I nodded sadly, relieved that soon I’d be resting in the comforts of home and my family’s loving arms. But I’d be leaving behind well over a thousand women for whom this tragic place was home. Women like Karen. I was determined to return the next day looking for ways to let each inmate whose path I crossed know that she mattered—that she had value and worth. Hopelessness was one of the enemies I’d been called to fight here.

  The longer I served at Estrella, the more God revealed himself to me, showing me who he was and what he was doing in such a dark place. Unlike my pageant experience, I didn’t have to wonder what God was accomplishing in me through this experience. I was learning to love in new and concrete ways, with a kind tone of voice, eye contact, and carefully chosen words that communicated respect and value. I was doing what I could to bring a touch of Jesus’ love into the lives of these women. Though I wanted to have the heart of Jesus, I was a person in a serious position of authority and responsible to keep order and discipline in a tough jail environment. I was about to discover that balancing compassion and authority could be far more difficult than I expected.

  B-Tower 400 pod housed closed custody (CC) inmates. These women with nothin’-to-lose lives could be dangerous and violent. Some were in for murder or attempted murder. Sadly, many had mental problems, which multiplied the tragedy of their stories. Most CC cells were on the upper tier of the two-tiered pod. No officer was permitted to let any of these special-class inmates out of their cells without a second officer present. Some inmates had stabbed people or attacked them violently with their bare hands. CC inmates could unexpectedly demonstrate out-of-control behavior.

  Before a CC inmate was allowed to be escorted from her pod, guards attached to the prisoner a four-inch-wide leather belly belt with an attached metal ring and a set of handcuffs looped through the ring. In some cases, ankle chains were also required—another reminder of Karen. It didn’t matter if an inmate was being transported to court in a vehicle or walking down the hall to the infirmary. The procedure, policy, and requirements were the same.

  To belly-belt and cuff an inmate, officers used a small drop-door on the individual’s cell door, about waist high, through which food trays were also passed. It opened from the outside. When an officer was ready to take the inmate out of the cell, the inmate would put both hands through the drop-door opening, just past their wrists. Through the drop-door, I had been spit on and had food, drinks, and urine thrown at me. Not the most pleasant conditions.

  I had no problem working with the CC inmates. I was respectful of the dangers. Strangely enough, I never minded guarding them or caring for them. I may not have had issues with B-Tower CC inmates, but A-Tower 400 pod inmates were a different story.

  No, they weren’t dangerous or violent CC inmates—at least not dangerous to the guards. Their crimes had been against children, mostly their own. Physical abuse. Sexual abuse. Some women had pimped their small children, boys and girls, for drugs. Some had locked their children up for days in dark closets or basements with no food or water. Their children were often told they were being punished or “in the way” of the mother’s lifestyle, which often involved drugs, alcohol, and prostitution. In some instances, male family members or live-in boyfriends burned the children with cigarettes if they didn’t listen. Children were whipped with household objects, and babies were thrown against walls like footballs by enraged adults. One woman gave birth to a baby girl who died days later, poisoned by toxic fumes her mother created while making meth in a hotel room.

  It was my job to feed, clothe, inspect, and take care of the needs of these women just like anyone else in the jail. I took my responsibility seriously, and I genuinely wanted to have a Christian attitude toward them. But when assigned to these women, I discovered it was hard—terribly hard—to love them. It was downright painful even to serve them.

  I didn’t want to talk to them or even acknowledge them. I felt they were a species I couldn’t comprehend. Reading some of their intake information cards listing the crimes they had committed, I recoiled over the acts they had done, or allowed to be done, to their children. How could these mothers’ hearts be so disconnected from their children? Did they have no love, compassion, or tenderness? I’d spent eighteen years caring for the children of women like these—nursing their pain, trying to win their trust, yearning to reach their guarded hearts with love—my own, Al’s, our family’s, and Jesus’ love. But their little hearts were all too often deeply, irreparably scarred because of what their mothers had done to them. Mothers like the women in A-400 pod.

  Women I believed were nothing like me at all.

  I didn’t want to love them. I wanted to avoid A-400 pod completely. It brought out the worst in me—a side of myself that I didn’t want to see.

  I wanted to shake them, scream at them, and even worse, hurt them with the same objects they had used on their children. Never in my life had I even considered being violent with anyone, but there was no question that desire in me was strong toward them. I didn’t want to touch them or their belongings. A creepy crawling chill shivered through my body whenever I had to look at them face-to-face. When I’d come home and look in the mirror, I was incredibly disappointed in the woman looking back at me.

  I wasn’t alone in my feelings. I watched other officers assigned to A-Tower do their security walks in A-400 pod. In other pods, officers often took their time—visiting with inmates while doing cell checks, telling women to clean up their cells, or pulling contraband such as leftover food or too many books. But when officers came to A-400, their eyes looked everywhere except at the women. They walked more quickly and placed only one foot in each cell, gave it a quick glance, then hurried to the next cell. A few female officers talked to the inmates as they did their walk, but they were the exception to the rule. Most officers ignored the women and spoke only when they had to. These officers were parents and grandparents who, like me, could not imagine intentionally hurting their children, selling them for drugs, or watching boyfriends sexually abuse them.

  The inmates as well as the officers were silent during the security walks. The women quietly shuffled cards, wrote letters, rested their heads on the metal tables, or flipped through tattered paperbacks. Conversation and eye contact were avoided. With folded arms and locked jaws, a few of the inmates would lean against open cell doors watching the officers. They all knew that officers, as well as other inmates in the jail, saw them as the lowest of the low, less than human—scum.

  I watched the women in A-400 pod through the tower windows and couldn’t escape the obvious comparison—Karen, back at Lusk, would be watched the same way. I remembered the reaction of the guard at Casper that first night I went to see her—that look that said, Are you sure you want to see that inmate? But I had greeted her with an embrace and begun a relationship with her. And she had murdered precious Hannah. Why, then, my issue with A
-400 pod?

  I had decided long ago I would choose to love and forgive whenever given the opportunity. It was a commitment I made to God. Now, when faced with a pod full of “Karens,” torrid emotions enveloped my chest. I pictured what these women had done to their children—the images nagged at my spirit and twisted my heart and called me to hate. They told me that I’d never do the crimes these women had done.

  Al and I had cared for children who had been abused or neglected by adults. For us to intentionally hurt our own children was unthinkable. No. Not me. I love children. I want to protect them from such people. But my controlled rage now showed me that without God, without the Holy Spirit working in me, I am no better, no different. I wanted to violently hurt these women. My sins didn’t stink any less than what these women had done.

  I hated A-400 pod. It showed me who I really am without Christ.

  I needed to find a flicker of love and hope in my heart for these inmates. Some people might argue that even God didn’t love them. How could he if he is a good God and loves children? Others might justify my disgust and my avoidance. But I didn’t answer to others. I knew I couldn’t love these women on my own. I was an ordinary person, with a fallen, sinful heart. It would take God moving in me to have a heart for them.

  One morning as I walked A-400 pod, an old saying came to mind: “We like someone because. We love someone although.”

  I meditated all day on that thought. If true love is unconditional, then we must love although. Isn’t although how God loves us? When I can’t seem to find love in my own heart, I need to ask God to give me his heart for the unlovable. That day God reminded me of times when I was unlovable and when my slate was not so clean. When my sin was disgusting. When I wanted to lash out and hurt these women.

  God, I know you could not look on me if not for your Son taking my sin and cleaning me up. They need someone to care about them as you do. They need someone to show them who you are.

  I felt led that the next time I was working in A-400 pod, I should say, “Good morning” to the women. I said it to all the other inmates. I would start to say it to these women as well. That was all. Just “Good morning.” And yet . . . I found it uncomfortable. I balked and squirmed at the very thought of it. But I would be obedient and do it. Or, at least, give it a shot. Almost immediately, I was surprised and disappointed when I had to admit to myself that I believed if I let God change my heart toward these inmates, other officers would ridicule me. I knew the ugly truth that I’d rather shun the women than face that ridicule.

  I didn’t have to wait very long for my new resolve to be tested. The very next morning I was assigned meal service duty for all pods in A-Tower. My partner in the tower announced over the speaker that chow was going to be served, and all inmates were to be dressed and lined up at the sliders. (Here in A pod, unlike the CC cells, food was served through the open slider doors with the assistance of inmate trustees.) I left the tower to meet the trustees who would help serve.

  “I will start at 100 pod first,” I told them. As the slider to 100 pod opened, I hollered across the dayroom, “Line up, ladies, and have your IDs ready for chow.” I pulled my pen from my uniform pocket, ready to mark the roster. Lunch bags were handed out. As I finished up pods 100, 200, and 300, my stomach started to get queasy. I knew the last pod would be where my test awaited me.

  I reached the slider to 400 pod, but it didn’t open. Why? I want to get this over with. I looked up at the tower window and could see that the tower officer was sidetracked by an inmate in 200 pod. I stood at the slider impatiently and waited for the officer’s attention.

  Minutes passed. I had hoped to get my test over with quickly, and these minutes of standing face-to-face with these particular inmates were making me squirm all the more. “Moerke to A-Tower,” I said into my radio. “Chow in 400 pod. Open slider, please.”

  “10-12, Moerke. Dealing with inmate in 200.”

  The tower officer was telling me to “hold on a second” in radio terms, and I knew there was no rushing her. She didn’t want to open another pod until she could have her full attention on me, nor should she. It was a protective policy all officers must adhere to.

  As I waited, I shifted from foot to foot, avoiding looking at the women visible through the window by pretending to look over the roster. The delay seemed to be taking forever, and I could feel the inmates almost breathing down my neck. I knew they were staring at me. I could feel it. I could see it in the eyes of my trustees as they looked at me.

  “Moerke to A-Tower. Do you need me to check on something in 200 pod?” Maybe there was an issue going on that needed an officer to physically go in and take care of. That would be a relief.

  “Negative, Moerke. All is 10-4.”

  Finally, the officer up in the tower turned toward me, and the 400 pod slider opened. Seventeen women faced the security slider, lined up, waiting for their meal. This was it. I made myself look each of them in the eye as they stepped up to me with their ID. As the trustee handed each woman her lunch bag, I marked the inmate’s name on the roster and gave her a friendly, “Good morning.”

  Most of them immediately looked down at the ground after flashing their ID, taking the food and walking off. Others, however, looked up at me in surprise, but said nothing. Two said “Good morning” back.

  To my amazement, I could feel my natural smile begin to come through, and a strange connection engaged us. I even saw one woman return the slightest smile when we made eye contact.

  “Officer Moerke to A-Tower,” I radioed, keeping my professional composure in spite of the tears I wanted to shed.

  “Go ahead, Moerke.”

  “Chow is completed. Starting security walk in 400 pod.”

  “10-4.”

  I stepped fully into the pod and the slider closed behind me. I quickly scanned the pod as I moved to each cell on the bottom floor. Inmates filled the seats at the metal tables, digging into their lunch bags, putting lunchmeats and cheese on their bread slices, and opening pint-size milk cartons. I could hear whispers as I crossed the dayroom. I made myself cover the distance more slowly than usual. Scanning the dayroom, I caught sight of a few of the women looking up and then quickly dropping their heads. Two women leaned against their cell doors and tracked me as they chewed their food. Only the clomping from my regulation boots broke the near-silence.

  As I climbed the stairs to the upper tier, I felt eyes watching me from below. Glancing down, I saw that most of the women were observing me as I walked. I stopped and smiled—yes smiled—down at them. I surprised myself more than them. Then, unlocking the dividing security door to the next pod, I stepped across the threshold into 100 pod and locked the door behind me. Resting my ear to the door, I could hear the women start up their chatter.

  As I walked to my next duties, my mind wrestled with my spirit over 400 pod. Lord, why was that so hard? And what are they thinking and saying?

  It’s not for you to be concerned with. Just obey. I could hear God speaking to my spirit. I wasn’t showing the love of Christ just for them. God was changing my heart—softening it toward these women just as he’d been softening my heart toward Karen.

  Chapter 25Ticking Time Bomb

  STEPPING IN AND OUT OF Estrella jail on a near-daily basis was like stepping in and out of a time warp. Even how I thought about time had to change as the prison used military time. Inside, time seemed to stand still. There was an oppressive sameness to the days. At 0700 the lights went from the dim sleeping setting to full daytime brightness. ID head count was taken, then inmates showered, cleaned their living areas, and those with court dates, visitation, or medical visits were escorted to and from their appointments. Lunch was served around 1000 and dinner at 1730. The only things that would change from day to day might be who won a card game, or the swapping of paperbacks, or an occasional inmate fight. Monotony is a curse of the imprisoned.

  Unlike the inmates, I’d step out of the jail and back into my fast-paced but rich life as a wife, m
anager of my household, and mother of Courtney and two teens. I worked a five-day week—weekends and three school days, usually from 7:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., so I only needed childcare for Courtney three school days per week. Al worked very long hours as a general manager of food and beverages at the Peoria Sports Complex, but fortunately was home in the mornings to take Courtney to childcare. Somehow, Charles and Helen gave Courtney ample care amidst the whirlwind of their comings and goings. Even though they were teens, they often showed more maturity than some of the officers with whom I worked.

  At Estrella there were officers who just did their job, some who genuinely cared about the inmates, and sadly, a few who treated inmates terribly. One of those officers was . . . well . . . I’ll call her Miller. She enjoyed throwing her weight around, insulting the inmates, and reminding them of their powerlessness. Thankfully, officers like Miller were not plentiful in my experience. I was grateful for that because one bad seed like her could sow enough dissension to spark some potentially explosive situations—like one I remember all too well. It took place after I’d been working at the prison for just over a year.

  I can’t quite describe the sound of approximately 150 women all screaming at once, but even above the deafening din I could hear the hammering of my heart in my ears. I’d never seen or heard anything like it. I felt as if I were stepping into the Red Sea, surrounded not by tumultuous walls of water but by waves of explosive female prisoners—all angry and about to pounce. I was determined not to let them see my fear. Showing fear in the world behind the razor wire results in a loss of respect—something I couldn’t risk when walking into a life-threatening situation.