by Lee Barnett
The date was 28 December 1991 and the spartan ceremony was held at a beautiful plantation in Beaufort, South Carolina. I had made the arrangements and asked a friend I considered to be like a brother to be our Justice of the Peace. He agreed and brought his girlfriend along. That day the heavens opened and a huge thunderstorm ensued. As we were about to recite our simple vows beside a beautiful fireplace, lightning struck so close I felt all the hairs on my arms rise on top of my goosebumps. The electricity went down and the four of us were left temporarily dumbfounded standing in the dark. ‘This is not going to be an omen to our future,’ I declared and went in search of candles.
A few minutes later, I became Mrs Benjamin Harris Todd III.
On learning this news, my friends weren’t happy for me, believing that Harris and I wanted different things. Of course, I felt certain that he would eventually change his mind about children. After all, he did about getting married. But my friends were not so sure.
Harris is the oldest child of four. When he was eight, his father, a doctor, died at home from anaphylactic shock. His mother, who had always struggled emotionally, now struggled financially too, so a school scholarship to the prestigious boarding school of Andover, located in Massachusetts, was a godsend and a way to improve Harris’s fortunes later in life. And because my family was from old money, considered to be aristocratic by Harris, it seemed I was the perfect fit. For Harris, society’s rules were binding and really all that mattered.
It is true that love can be blind, and I stayed blinded, ignoring my natural instincts which were telling me that something wasn’t quite right. Not long after the wedding it started to become clear that Harris had a particular role he wanted me to play. His status in society and his need to conform stemmed from his days at Andover where he had met the children of some of the wealthiest and most influential people in the country.
For a while things were fine as long as I did everything Harris wanted. He expected me at the door each night with a martini in hand, dinner cooked and a smile on my face. I had been on leave from the airlines so this soon became a nightly ritual.
In addition to forbidding friends to drop in, Harris also persuaded me to put $10,000 into a joint Merrill Lynch account along with the same contribution from him that he would then manage. This was for any necessary household maintenance and also when we did anything as a couple. I agreed.
The only true fight I can recall us having around this time was on a trip to Bonaire in the Caribbean. Walking on the beach back to the hotel after dinner, I was pretty animated, sharing a story about being on a sailboat in Belize. I thought it was an exciting story, but Harris spoke over the top of me about something entirely unrelated and using an impossibly complicated vocabulary. I stopped dead in my tracks and asked him why he always did that.
‘Do what?’
‘Always interrupt me when I’m telling a story and then use words that no normal person can understand.’
He laughed, looked at me and said, ‘I have no time for such frivolous stories from such a silly woman who doesn’t have the intelligence to understand what I’m saying.’
‘Why do you have to put me down?’
‘I’m not putting you down. If you can’t understand me then that’s your problem. I have no intention of listening to your stories, it’s a waste of my time.’
We walked the rest of the way to the hotel room in silence.
‘You know, it’s not my fault you aren’t bright,’ he said.
‘I am,’ I insisted. ‘Maybe not in the same way you are but I am.’
He laughed and then told me that I had nobody but him in the world. That no one loved me.
I started to cry and moved towards the bathroom. He followed me and repeated what he’d just said. I asked him to leave me alone. He wouldn’t. I turned and slapped his face then quickly closed the door behind me. That was the one and only time I ever laid a hand on Benjamin Harris Todd III.
6
Brisbane Women’s Correctional Centre
Queensland, Australia
November 2013
THE DRIVE FROM THE WATCH HOUSE TO THE PRISON WAS MEANT TO take around two and a half hours, though the officers appeared in no hurry: first stop was a McDonald’s drive-through. And then instead of getting on the M1 or the Sunshine Motorway, we took the scenic route down Alexandra Parade, following the coast all the way through to Mooloolaba Surf Club where I knew Reece was training. I peered out through the tiny slit of a window, thankful it hid me from anyone I might know, especially my beautiful seventeen-year-old son. After numerous stops picking up other prisoners, our journey finished five hours after it started when we arrived at our destination – Brisbane Women’s Correctional Centre (BWCC), home to several hundred women.
We were taken to reception and then put in holding cells. One officer told me, ‘They must have liked you because they put you in kiddie cuffs.’ My thinking was that they were afraid I would have slid my hands out of regular cuffs, given my wrists are so damn small.
After an hour or so we were released from the cells and asked to sit on plastic chairs that faced a large desk with officers behind it. While sitting there I was assailed by a horrible, disgusting smell. Naturally I thought someone had farted until a girl to the right of me smiled and introduced herself as Cheryl. Oh, dear God, that stench wasn’t from something that had been decomposing in the sun for weeks, it was coming from Cheryl’s mouth. As she spoke I saw her rotten teeth hanging from her equally rotten gums. How could that have happened in this country?
Next, photos were taken and, astonishingly, I was offered coffee or tea. My tea was heavenly, and almost instantly my four-day headache disappeared. Soon after that, I was kitted up with clothing – five pairs of underpants, two bras, socks, two polo shirts, two pairs of shorts, a sweatshirt, tracksuit pants and thongs. Toiletries came next with the information that I would be strip-searched and then allowed to shower. I looked down at the packet and saw a sachet of shampoo and a toothbrush! (After so many days without one, a toothbrush was bliss.)
Two female officers led me behind a curtain, drawn for privacy, and I removed my clothes. One of the women sported the biggest black eye I had ever seen. I wondered who had beaten her up and resolved to be on my best behaviour.
Only minutes after that, I was showered clean – it felt like a life highlight. Once I was freshly dressed I had my medical history taken down by a nurse who asked questions touching on legal – prescription – and illegal drug use. I answered in the negative to both. When she asked me to remove my false teeth I started laughing but when she didn’t smile I gave my upper teeth a tug to prove that they were mine. She smiled then. She also took my blood pressure which was sky high (something of concern years before but not since); I said that it must have been the stress of my arrest and she agreed.
Next a sweet psychologist briefly let me ring Sammy. ‘I only have a couple of minutes,’ I said after asking how she and Reece were doing.
‘In that case,’ said Sammy, ‘when you put Reece and my phone numbers forward for approval, please add Bruce Michell’s to that list.’
‘Bruce?’ I asked. Bruce was a friend from the Sunshine Coast who would go on to become a tireless supporter of my case.
‘Yes, he has been amazing and he wants to help.’
After that, we walked to the Secure area – apparently all prisoners went here initially but ‘someone like me’, I was told, would soon be moved to Residential. There were three main areas: Secure, Residential and Protection, the last was the smallest of the three and prisoners were sent there on a case-by-case basis. As well as our toiletries, we were given eating utensils: a cup and a plastic fork, spoon and knife.
Cells were grouped into two-storey units. In the centre of the unit were tables and chairs, which formed a common area to have our meals; the rest of the time we were locked in our cell. My cell was within a small unit on the bottom floor. Compared with the watch house my cell was like a five-star hotel: a much bette
r mattress, a toilet, shower, desk, chair and flat-screen TV – all for me! The best things were that the cameras didn’t intrude on the toilet and shower area, and there was a small window I could look out of. And dinner? Chicken and gravy with mashed potatoes and peas!
In prison, everyone wants to know why you’re there. And as soon as we were released into the common area for a meal a huddle soon formed around me. I had decided to tell the truth right from the start; after all, the real reason I was there was for kidnapping my daughter twenty years ago when she was a baby. I told them I was going to be extradited to the US. ‘Shit! You don’t want to go to prison over there,’ they all said, ‘you can’t even get a cup of tea!’
Mental note to self: get off the caffeine before being sent back.
When I told them I was looking at a sentence of around twenty-three years none of them could believe it. ‘You can’t be looking at that long for just taking your own kid. How many people did you murder?’ The incredulous, even indignant questions came thick and fast. One girl piped up, ‘I’m looking at life for murder and that only means fifteen years.’
The room quietened.
‘If it’s called life,’ I asked, ‘why is it only fifteen years?’
‘Oh, yep it’s life but that means once you get out you can never leave your state, not for the rest of your life.’
I chewed on that for a bit.
The nights were quieter than at the watch house; however, some girls were still withdrawing from whatever addictions they had and there was screaming through the darkness. For the first few nights I was beset with nightmares, all to do with my teeth falling out and me crunching on them!
Much of the first few days was spent getting phone numbers onto my approved list in order for me to contact the outside world.
On the third day I had a video link-up to the courtroom to postpone my extradition hearing. A guard and I were walking to the building in which it was scheduled to be held when a supervisor came into view down the other end of the hall.
‘Barnett! Is that prisoner named Barnett?’
We both turned and said yes.
‘Do you have a daughter, Samantha Geldenhuys?’
My legs almost gave out as I leaned against the wall and started crying. ‘Yes! Yes, I do. Is she okay?’
‘What’s wrong with you?’ he shouted in reply. ‘Come to my office.’
We entered the office and he closed the door. I was shaking by now, thinking that something awful must have happened to my children. I was only allowed to make phone calls once my phone list was approved, and I was never permitted to receive calls.
‘I don’t know how,’ the supervisor began, ‘but your daughter persuaded someone very high up in the prison that she was so worried about you she had to speak to you.’
I felt lightheaded with happiness, even if the two officers did listen in on speakerphone. It was then that I heard the wonderful sound of my twenty-year-old daughter’s voice. ‘Mum, are you okay?’ she blurted out.
‘Yes, honey, I’m fine. They’re treating me well. How in the world did you get them to allow a call from you?’ I asked.
‘It wasn’t easy,’ she responded with a giggle. I was so proud of her persistence and resilience.
Sammy told me that everything at home was going okay, that schoolies was about to start for Reece, and that Faye Yager had been announcing her support for us in the media. ‘Who is Faye Yager?’ I asked her. She went on to explain that Faye had hidden us and got us out of the US.
‘Sweetie,’ I said, ‘I’ve never met Faye Yager and the only one who got us out was me.’
‘Weird,’ said Sammy.
I warned my lovely daughter to stay away from publicity-seeking quacks and then our call was terminated.
After the link-up the supervisor told the guard and I that I was to be moved into Residential and that my stuff was already there. As my guard escorted me he pointed out the different buildings. ‘One area is Detention, a place you will never see; it’s housed in Protection.’
‘Protection from what?’
‘Protection houses the truly dangerous prisoners like paedophiles or serial killers.’
We strolled in the afternoon sun past the gym, library, kitchen, reception, medical and sewing rooms to the other side of the prison. We were buzzed in at another gate and approached a small building to the right of what looked like two-storey apartments. The officers in that building had me sign for a key. Why would I have a key to my cell? I wondered.
We passed a bank of telephones, a Coke machine and some benches. I watched the people loitering around here, smoking and waiting to use the phones, and they watched me. This general area was called the bus stop, and it was also where the mail was handed out.
We climbed the stairs to a unit. On opening the door I caught the eye of one lady cooking in a well-appointed stainless steel kitchen, while three others were seated at a large, round dining-room table playing cards. I said hi with a big smile and they returned the greeting. This might not be so bad, I thought to myself.
With help I finally got the hang of how things worked in Residential. In our unit there were six cells that were only shared when there was overcrowding. When that happened we doubled up, with one person on the floor. There were shelves on one wall for our clothes, a plastic chair, a table with a flat-screen TV on it and, above that, a corkboard to display our photos. At the rear of the cell was a big window where, just past the razor wire and fenceline, I would watch a mob of kangaroos and their joeys play in a field. The unit itself had a kitchen and a common room with the dining table and chairs; in the bathroom there was an industrial-sized washing machine and clothes dryer along with three toilets (with doors!) and two showers (also with doors!). Tampons, sanitary napkins and washing detergent were provided.
Each night after waiting in line to receive medication, we returned to our units where we would be locked inside for the night. We ate as a family – dinner was cooked by one of the eager prisoners and for the most part it was very good cooking. The knives, which hung from chains, were locked away each night around 4.30 p.m. so dinner would be ready at lock-up at 5.30. By 7 p.m. I was usually the last person awake, largely because I was one of the few prisoners who did not receive medication at night.
Nearly ten days after my arrival I was able to use the telephone. My first call was to Samantha. We squealed like little girls when we finally connected and we had permission to talk for a full fifteen minutes.
Sammy told me there had been conversations with the FBI, the US Embassy and a federal MP, Mal Brough. She went on to tell me that Keri, the AFP lead investigator Pedr and Bruce had been a huge help and that Bruce needed to speak to me.
Sammy explained that Ed and Mike the FBI agents had spoken with an employee at the US Embassy in Sydney, a woman called Mary, who wanted her to meet with Harris.
‘He’s here in Australia by the way,’ Sammy said.
I asked her how she felt about meeting him.
‘I don’t know, Mum. I don’t think I’m ready. Besides, my priority is taking care of you, Reece, the house, work and I still have my final exams.’
‘Sweetie, you do what’s right for you, but a word of warning: don’t see him alone. Just make sure you have an adult there with you, someone you can trust.’
‘I don’t think I can deal with that right now and, to make things worse, Mary keeps referring to Harris as my dad. I had to tell her my dad died three weeks ago!’
Sammy was also concerned that Mary hadn’t yet arranged for someone to visit me to make sure I was okay, and that if she didn’t do so soon she was going to lodge a complaint.
‘It’s wrong, Mum. She’s doing everything she can to force me to see Harris but her job is to check on US citizens in foreign prisons.’
I told her I that would write to the ambassador the next day to ask why there had been no representative sent to visit me in prison.
Samantha then said that while searching online she came across an Uns
olved Mysteries show that Harris did about me after we left. From it she had good and bad news. Apparently it was a ‘re-enactment’, with me so out of control I was beating my head against a wall with such force that the lights in the house flickered on and off.
I heard the rumble of laughter in Samantha’s voice.
‘Great,’ I said, deadpan. ‘So what’s the good news?’
‘Well, the lady who they got to play you was really beautiful!’
At that we both burst out laughing.
How I missed my girl!
7
Charleston, South Carolina, US
August 1992
I PULLED OUT THE DEAD FLOWERS FROM THE LARGE PLANTERS ON the porch.
There it is again, I said to myself. That queasy, lightheaded feeling I’d had for a couple of days. Was it the intense heat or had we over-indulged last night? I sat down and a thought popped into my head: could I be pregnant? If that were true, it would be disastrous. Harris and I had only been married seven months and he needed to be slowly brought around to the idea of children. He would be absolutely furious with me if I was pregnant.
I started to fix dinner and Harris offered me a drink.
I declined, saying I was feeling kind of queasy. He looked at me with concern and asked what was wrong.
I hesitated before responding. ‘I … I don’t know, but I might be pregnant.’
Harris picked up his glass and walked out onto the porch without a word. A couple of minutes later I joined him and put my arm around his waist. ‘Don’t worry, it will be okay. I’ll go to Dr Rumble tomorrow and have a test.’