Murder, Motherhood, and Miraculous Grace

by Debra Moerke

  Moments before, Officer Miller had issued a call for assistance over the radio, and a number of us had come running to J-Dorm. The dorms were lower security than the towers. Inmates were housed in large rectangular dorm rooms with bunk beds stacked two high that were bolted to the cement floors, and a large common area with tables in the center was used for dining, card games, reading, and leisure. Sarge arrived first and entered the dorm. I was right behind him, followed by a handful of other officers. Miller, standing in the center of the dorm, was in a screaming match with the inmates.

  Evidently, an inmate who’d been feeling ill had not lined up promptly with the others when Miller had called them to come for chow. A few moments later the inmate made it to the line where her friends were waiting to squeeze her in. Miller was incensed by her tardiness and ordered her to the end of the line. Her friends protested, saying they were more than willing to step back for her, but Miller would have none of it. She heatedly reprimanded the women for disrespecting her, which set off angry responses. Things quickly escalated. Miller insulted them, they yelled louder, and soon the entire dorm had been engulfed in angry screams—all evidence of how severely Miller was disliked and how poorly she managed discord.

  Sarge quickly assessed the situation and ordered all the women into their bunks. Physically they complied, but Miller, nearly hysterical, kept screaming at them so they screamed back. The sergeant turned to calm her down, but the women yelled out their complaints against Miller, attempting to explain the situation, and again the entire room exploded in rage and frustration. We faced a dangerous situation. My mouth went dry, my palms were sweating, and I trembled inside. It would only take one or two angry inmates leaping from their bunks and lunging for Miller for an all-out riot to begin.

  “Miller,” Sarge bellowed. “I want you out of here. Take a walk and don’t return for at least twenty minutes!” The inmates started clapping, so Miller screamed again about their lack of respect for her, forcing the sergeant to repeat himself. “Go! Now!”

  As Miller turned to leave, Sarge addressed the inmates. “I want you all to calm down, or you will be put on lockdown for three days,” he yelled. “No visitations! No classes! You will stay on your bunks for all three days. Do not make me have to come back into this dorm tonight. Do not make me call the special response team. Do you all understand?” As the level of noise reduced to a dull hum of grumbling, simmering females, Sarge looked at me. “Moerke, you have the dorm until I send Miller back. The rest of you officers, out!”

  Did I hear him right? Me? Why me? But there was no mistaking his direct order. “Calm them down, Moerke.”

  Before closing the locked door behind him, Sarge barked his final warning to the inmates, “You give Officer Moerke any problems and you will be on lockdown.”

  The minute the door slammed behind him, the inmates’ fury ignited again, as their adrenaline was still pumping. It didn’t matter that Miller was gone. Now I was the only uniformed person in their territory—representing every authority that had ever wronged them. So they were venting their rage at their jailers, at the system, at life—all at me.

  I knew I couldn’t show my fear though my entire body was flooded with panic responses. I realized they didn’t see Debra, the caring (and frightened) officer desperate to restore peace and order before officers in riot gear stormed the room. They didn’t see my compassionate heart, nor did they know that inside I was far more of a dorm mom than a jail guard, a prayer warrior than a security officer. No. They needed to see Officer Moerke looking cool, calm, confident, in charge.

  I did my best to look in control in every way as I took slow steps through the dorm. Thankfully, they couldn’t hear my desperate silent prayer. Oh God, please give me the wisdom I need to calm them. Give me the words because I haven’t got a clue. Please keep us all safe—them and me. Defuse this ticking time bomb.

  I did the only thing that came to mind—the opposite of what they’d expect. I didn’t bellow orders or threats as I’d seen other officers do. I strolled, silently. Hands clasped behind my back, I took small, rhythmic strides, as if I had all the time in the world—more the pace of a wedding march than a near-riot response. I made eye contact wherever I could—an act of bestowing value, to let them know that I saw them as individual women with names, not voices in a screaming mob. Fortunately, all the women stayed in their bunks.

  I was on stage in the heart of the room. My audience was angry beyond words. I pressed forward thinking, If I perish, I perish.

  What a bizarre contrast to when I had glided across the pageant stage in my elegant gown and three-inch heels. That audience had been dressed in stylish attire, admiring the contestants, politely applauding. All the men in black-and-white tuxedos and women dressed to the nines. This audience was decked out in black-and-white striped scrubs, and they were anything but polite—they were spewing venom, and I was the handy target.

  Still, it was an audience, and my job was to win them over before conditions escalated and people got hurt or, worse yet, lives were lost. The stakes were high. So I didn’t focus on their words or threatening gestures. I focused on their faces, their eyes, one woman at a time.

  Finally, one woman held my gaze.

  “I have a question to ask,” I said to her quietly. So quietly that I could barely hear myself. How could she possibly hear me? But she was curious to know what I’d said. I was curious, too—why had I said that? I’d just said what popped into my mind. God, what’s my question? I shot my prayer heavenward with no small amount of desperation.

  “What?” she yelled.

  “I have a question to ask,” I repeated, no louder, still clueless as to what question I had for her. Now several of the women noticed our dialogue and were tuning in. Several others stopped yelling and turned to each other.

  “What’d she say?”

  “Couldn’t hear her.”

  “I said, ‘I have a question to ask,’” I repeated a tad louder, searching for eyes to meet.

  “I think she said she has a question,” I heard one say to another.

  “What’s going on? What does she want?” The curiosity was spreading until a small group of them started shouting to the others, “Shut up. Moerke wants to ask us a question.” It had taken many months, but I had managed to gain some respect from many of the inmates. They were willing to hear me out.

  My stomach tightened, and my knees felt like Jell-O. No question was coming to mind.

  I prayed again, feeling more than a little anxious that my mind was still a complete blank, yet as I prayed I watched with amazement as the screaming mob of inmates began to slowly transform into an attentive audience. I resumed my rhythmic pacing, looking to my left and right, making eye contact and pausing with each connection, willing each woman to simmer down and listen. The silence was spreading.

  “Shhhh,” I heard all around me. “Quiet. Moerke’s gonna ask something. Go ahead, Moerke. What’s the question?” But they weren’t all quiet yet.

  “No, I’m not asking . . .” I drew out a long pause—I was buying more time, waiting on God for the question, right along with my audience. I decided to look casual, so in spite of my quivering muscles I hopped up to sit on one of the metal tables in the center of the room. “I am not asking you the question until it’s completely quiet.” Another pause. “It’s a very important question, by the way.”

  My heart was rising in my throat. A very important question? What am I saying? Hello, God! What’s your plan here? That’s my question to you! I felt the pressure in me build. Lord, I haven’t got a clue what question to ask.

  That’s what was happening internally, while on the outside I scanned the room and nodded, trying to look every bit like the all-knowing schoolmarm who had total control and all the time in the world. “This place has got to be quiet,” I said softly. God, you are so clever! The unspoken question is working. They’ve calmed down. Please . . . fill me in on the question to ask! I started swinging my legs as if I were relaxed and pa
tient.

  A few voices spoke out, “Okay Moerke, okay. We’re quiet now. Everyone’s quiet.” Some of them were still whispering, “Be quiet!” The miracle was we could all hear the whispers.

  Okay, God. Any time now. We’ve got their attention. I felt like John Wayne whose grand entrance into the rowdy saloon made the room fall silent, but I was still wondering, What’s the question?

  “Okay. This is the question . . .” I was afraid my stalling technique was looking too transparent. “This is my question to all of you.” A thought came to mind, and immediately I heard myself saying, “How many of you are mothers?”

  As soon as it came out of my mouth I thought, That’s it? What? Where do I take this line? But I just sat there, still acting like I had a clue.

  “What did you say, Moerke?” a few voices called out.

  I repeated myself. “How many of you are mothers?” My confidence began to build. They were as surprised by my question as I was, but I was far more surprised by the response. First a few hands went up, then more, and as I sat, astounded, about 90 percent raised their hands. I’d had no idea. And as they raised their hands, their faces softened, for in that act they were remembering their own identities before they were prisoners. My heart stirred for them.

  “Okay,” I said, and I raised my hand with them. “I’m a mother too.”

  At that moment, an unspeakable bond was formed.

  “Why are you asking us that?” one girl asked softly. And from that point on, God gave me all the words.

  “The reason I’m asking is this. Do you see all those windows?” I pointed to the wall of security windows through which we could see the pale-yellow cinder block wall of the hallway. “Look at the windows.” (And they did!) “What if your kids were standing right now behind those windows, watching what was going on in this dorm?”

  You have to understand. When God is giving you a word-for-word message, he’s teaching you something. I thought of Courtney at home and her imprisoned birth mom back in Wyoming. I sensed God’s presence, the importance of this moment for myself as well as for them, and my heart leapt. I was deeply moved by this common bond. Motherhood united us. They were dead silent. Then, to my amazement, some of them started weeping.

  “If your children were standing there watching, who would they see? I think many of you know me. I call you ladies, do I not? I don’t call you sluts or other vulgar names. I say, ‘Ladies, time to lock down.’ ‘Ladies, time for chow.’ Because you are ladies first. God has created you to be that. So, if your kids were looking in here, who would they be seeing? What kind of mom would they see? What are you demonstrating? You know what you were demonstrating a few minutes ago? You were demonstrating that you were allowing yourselves to be provoked and put on temporary lockdown tonight. You nearly let Miller get you to start a riot. You allowed another person to do that to you.

  “So what kind of message do you want to teach your children? You have an opportunity, right now, that when that officer comes back in, you can choose to be who she thinks you are or who you really are. Don’t let her dictate who you are! Don’t let anyone determine that for you. You choose. You can choose to be respectful and self-controlled.” I paused again, not because the words weren’t coming, but for effect. I was on a roll and could now see clearly where God was taking this.

  “I want you to do something with me. Everybody sit up on your bunks.” Nearly all the inmates began sitting up! I was amazed.

  “What now, Moerke?”

  “I want everybody to do this with me.” I jumped off the table and took in a big exaggerated breath, then slowly blew it out. “Come on! Do this with me!” I coaxed. I smiled and saw smiles in return. I took another exaggerated deep breath, and now nearly the whole dorm of women was breathing in sync with me.

  “I want you to breathe deeply. That reminds you that you are in control of yourselves. Now when Miller comes back in, I’m going to leave. You ladies can have self-control. And if you have self-control, you will not get out of control. You will not let some officer get you in a riotous state and unleash consequences on you. Therefore, you will not miss visitations, because remember, ladies, that tomorrow is women’s visitation day.”

  I paused to let them think about the loved ones they’d be seeing the next day if they stayed self-controlled. “You will not miss your visits. Are we good?”

  “We’re good, Moerke. We’re good.”

  Suddenly, I could see their eyes shifting to look behind me. I followed their gazes to see Miller through the windows marching toward the door. As she stepped inside the dorm, I backed up. We could all see the shock and confusion on her face, my fellow mothers and I. They remained quiet as she looked slowly around the room. I watched little smiles appear on many faces. Miller didn’t know why they were smiling, but they knew, and I knew with them. God, in his wisdom and through the words he had given me, had given them peace.

  I confess, it was funny to watch the expression on Miller’s face. She turned to me and said, “What did you do to them?”

  I said, “Nothing. We just had a little talk about respect—right, ladies?”

  “Right, Moerke,” many answered.

  “And with that respect you’ll all be fine.”

  Miller kept looking at me quizzically, then looking at them, and looking back at me. Her expression clearly asking, What did you do?

  As I walked out, I went slowly by the windows and saw Miller staring at me. I stood in the hallway for a few moments, looking at 150 calm, smiling women who were looking back at me. I took a few deep, exaggerated breaths, and they all started laughing. Miller was clearly baffled. It was awesome! Minutes before I’d stepped through that door thinking, If I perish, I perish. I had never seen them so out of control.

  Now look at them, Lord. I’ve never seen them all laughing. I’ve never seen them as a room full of mothers.

  Chapter 26Roots

  LIFE IN THE DESERT, we discovered over time, could be as rich and filled with meaning as our life in Casper had been. I could see how God was using our time in this new place to bring some rest to our souls. As always, my roles of wife and mother brought me deep satisfaction. We could see that we were thriving as a family. My role at Estrella kept me focused on watching God at work in mysterious ways, much as my ministries at the crisis pregnancy center and rescue mission had done. I was exercising my gifts and growing in my comprehension of God’s boundless grace. And Al and I found that in spite of our very full schedules, we were at a place in life when we could focus more intently on each other, especially as Helen and Charles grew more independent. Yet, as rich as all of these blessings were, we couldn’t deny the simple fact that we missed home in Wyoming.

  So, each summer the five of us returned to Wyoming for a week. Al, Courtney, and I went to Pathfinder Ranch during branding season where Al and I worked as cooks with John and Chris. Helen and Charles stayed in Casper visiting friends. It was great fun and a highlight of our summers. While there, I would always take a day to visit Karen. She and I talked about the Lord together. We prayed together. Both of us grew in our faith, trusting the Lord for our futures. We talked about our children and how and what they were doing in life. I shared what Courtney was doing and funny stories that would make Karen laugh. We never talked about Hannah. Never. Her name was not mentioned. The crime was not discussed. Only the consequences.

  One of the saddest consequences is that, at times, Karen didn’t see that she had much of a future. I reminded her that she did. As long as she was still breathing, God had a plan for her life, even in prison. Karen brought up what she had been learning in her Bible study group and I marveled at the miracle of her spiritual growth. We talked about her life in prison. She shared how some of the women who knew her crime could be very cruel.

  Each time I visited, we shared tears. Our tears said more than our words ever could. It was as if we both wanted to talk about Hannah, but neither of us brought her up. Would we ever? The prison visitation room didn’t seem li
ke the best place to talk about her. We spoke about what was comfortable and left our tears and ending prayers to speak our hearts.

  In June 2004, the cool Rocky Mountain temperatures in Wyoming welcomed us back to another Pathfinder Ranch branding. We had arrived at John and Chris’s home and stayed the night before heading to the ranch the next day.

  In the morning, Chris made an announcement.

  “I heard that the Natrona County Sheriff’s office is hiring. Just sayin’,” she added with a big smile. “Deb, you could call for an interview while you’re here.”

  Al and I looked at each other. “That might be a way back to Casper. Should I call?”

  Al raised his eyebrows and said, “Sure. Can’t hurt.”

  I made the call and set up an interview for the middle of the week. I would be elbow deep in cooking at the ranch, but Al, John, and Chris said they would cover for me. Chris and John wanted us to move back to Casper as much as we wanted to make the move.

  On Wednesday I made the familiar drive to town on Highway 220 for the interview. After an hour and a half interview, I was asked how soon I could move back to Casper and step into a position at the jail!

  When I returned to the ranch and shared the good news, there were cheers and tears of joy. Chris and John invited Courtney and me to stay with them until we found a place to live.

  Our family returned to Surprise, and I gave my notice with the Maricopa County sheriff’s office. Within days I packed our van, and then six-year-old Courtney and I headed for Wyoming. Al would put the Arizona house on the market and planned to join Courtney and me in Casper as soon as it sold. Then he’d hunt for a job in Casper.

  Charles had just graduated high school and was planning to stay in Phoenix with a friend. Helen and her best friend, Tricia, were living in a two-bedroom apartment in Casper while they attended the local college together. But Tricia had plans to move to her aunt’s home to save money, so Helen, Courtney, and I would live together in her apartment until our Arizona house sold and we found a place to live in Casper.