A Mother’s Promise

by Lee Barnett

  My next stop was to my late grandmother’s home on the Tea Farm, now inhabitated by my mother. Mom lived there six months of the year after returning from wintering in Belize. Mom wouldn’t be returning for another couple of weeks. I walked up the porch stairs, ignored the locked front door, and turned right on the huge wrap-around verandah to crawl in via the downstairs bathroom window. Once through the window, I landed in the old clawfoot bathtub. Smells of the past enveloped me immediately, conjuring up memories of the place where I had first felt most at home. In the stately living room I peered at the high, cracked walls. I touched the beautiful grandfather clock that was one day meant to be mine. I pulled open the doors to the dining room. I trailed my fingers across the enormous table and checked the sideboard, full of sterling silver. How many days had I spent polishing the silver with Linabell, my grandmother’s maid, I wondered.

  The cosy breakfast room still had a black-and-white TV, and the kitchen hadn’t changed one bit in thirty years. At the kitchen window I looked out to the barn and to the many camellias my grandmother had painstakingly hand-grafted into new and beautiful hybrids.

  Upstairs I passed my grandmother’s room and headed down the hall to my grandfather’s. His room was simpler and sensible, just like the man I remembered. The walls and floor, however, were groaning from stacks of National Geographic magazines, so much so that it caused the room to tilt, giving it a fun-house feel.

  I closed his door and went to my old bedroom, the one I used when I had moved back to Charleston. I loved it because it caught the morning sun, its rays kaleidoscope through the wobbly hand-blown windows, and because (like my grandfather’s room) it had a fireplace. When I passed the bed and turned towards the tiny closet I was shocked to see what could only be described as a shrine. There were old photos, baby clothes and candles, all from when I was a baby! And for just a few seconds I wondered whether this was proof that my mother felt remorse about what she had done – her actions that had helped me lose my baby. I couldn’t be sure.

  At 5.30 p.m. on the dot I pulled up to Aunt Clara’s house.

  ‘Hey darlin’,’ trilled a husky smoke-ladened voice, ‘I’ve been waiting for you, and a totty.’ I laughed and we embraced, Clara holding me a little longer than normal – or was that just me being oversensitive? ‘Let’s get a drink and stroll down to the river to check the crab traps.’ Once we had done that, Clara asked how I was. I told her I was fine but she persisted, and I relented, telling her it was tough. ‘Darlin’, I want you to know I spoke to Arthur Ravenel about you and Savanna and he said he would look into it.’ My heart skipped a beat in hope, but then I knew that even Congressman Ravenell would likely find it difficult to help us. I thanked dear Clara and we hugged.

  Before my psychiatric evaluation with Madelaine Wohlreich I needed to see Dr Folk, just for a minute. In one short year I felt we had been through so much together. He had never doubted me; he had always listened and given Savanna and me his unconditional support. I had to thank him for all of those things and tell him I no longer needed to see him. Naturally, as I did so I started crying. Not once in more than twelve months of counselling had Dr Folk ever touched me, he was the most professional man I knew; however, he walked over and put his arms around me with the words, ‘I understand. You don’t have to say anything more.’

  With my head on his shoulder, I said, ‘I promise I will take good care of her.’

  ‘I know you will, Lee, you always have,’ he said. ‘But there’s one thing I’m worried about.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I mumbled.

  He pulled me off his shoulder and looked me in the eye. ‘You just talk too damn much.’

  We both smiled. ‘You’re right. I’ll work on that.’

  After I left Dr Folk I followed the signs on campus to the Department of Psychiatry and Behavioral Sciences and then to the office door of Madelaine M. Wohlreich, MD. I knew this doctor had no time to get to know me as Dr Folk had, but I still felt she should know as much as I did. Call me mentally ill, psychotic, delusional or paranoid, but I felt duty bound to tell her the whole story, or as much of it as we had time for, even if I wasn’t going to be around for the results. I knocked on her door.

  Any free moments I had over the next couple of days were filled with writing heart-wrenching goodbye letters to all the people I loved. I also wrote a special letter for the media and influential people in the Charleston area as part of my package of evidence, which included my goodbye video, the ‘Good Eating’ video of Harris’s and photocopies of proof to justify my actions. I made twenty copies of this letter, which gave a brief overview of the situation (the greater detail provided by my video explanation) and touched on how scared I had become at the turn of events, for my child’s safety and for mine:

  When I discovered that I was being accused of being mentally ill, I got real scared. See, in this country you’re guilty until you have enough money to prove your innocence …

  Harris Todd never wanted Savanna, he only wanted to hurt and destroy me, while proving to everyone else he was the victim. I alone carried my daughter, delivered her, cared for her, and financially supported her. Harris paid his first bit of child support in November 1993 …

  The following people are professionals who will not only say, I don’t have a mental disorder, [and] do not need to be on medication, but [that] I am doing very well under the circumstances. Dr Folk, my psychiatrist for over a year, Dr Shecut another psychiatrist who I have known for many years, Dr Rumble my ObGyn, Dr Kovacs, Dr Wolfe who is doing a forensic study for Savanna, and my last evaluator Dr Wohlreich a psychiatrist at MUSC. These professionals especially the psychiatrists also explained that there is no such mental illness called Hyperthymic Temperament …

  I’ve never broken the law, always paid my taxes, was a homeowner, and had a job, stable life be damned if all it does is take your most precious possession away.

  It is a travesty that a mother protecting her child has to go to this extreme.

  No one knows of my decision or my whereabouts. I’ve acted alone. God gave me the ability to have Savanna and I’ve given myself the ability to protect her.

  Thursday, 21 April 1994, I was in the car before sunrise. My mind was like a time bomb, ticking madly as I tried to calm down. I kept going through my mental checklist, over and over to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything. After nearly five hours of driving, I pulled into Jacksonville, Florida airport, just off Interstate 95. I went to the car rentals desk and hired a car for four days. They asked for a credit card and I handed them my Mastercard. I checked that when I returned the car I was able to pay in cash instead of card. ‘Of course, no problem.’

  I found the car, transferred all the luggage and gear into it and then parked it in long-term parking, space 23. I placed the car rental details in the glovebox and locked the door. Within minutes I was back in my car heading towards Jacksonville Beach to the little shack that my brother Tommy called home. I had to ask him for a huge favour.

  I told him only some of my plan – the details of the car, where we were to meet and where he was to drive us. He nodded his head in agreement to all I asked of him. ‘Lee, I told you I would do anything to make what has been done to you two right. You belong together and you have to get her away from him. Trust me, I won’t fuck up.’

  I gave him $300 for expenses. He asked me where we were going but for his own sake he wasn’t to know. I also made it clear he couldn’t tell anyone and, most importantly, he was not to drink any alcohol before, during or after; there was too much at stake. This was the first time I had ever felt my big brother had my back, that he was there for me. When I looked into his eyes I believed it could be done. I thanked him and we went through the plan one more time.

  On Friday, 22 April, I stuffed the envelopes with the letter, evidence I’d copied at Gordon’s office and the VHS tape. One by one I double-checked the names that included Oprah Winfrey, Walter Cronkite, the Isle of Palms police, the FBI, Charleston newspaper the Post
and Courier, Channel 4 TV, some clients of Harris’s and others who were not.

  I called Hans Paul, Day 63, for a final time before picking up Savanna. There was still no news on the written court order.

  After Savanna was bathed and in bed, I finished my goodbye letters to my friends.

  Next, I pulled out a wad of cash, money from the tenants renting my house. I had kept this cash separate from my bank accounts, knowing that Harris and Merrill Lynch had all my other information. This money Harris might not know about. Pulling the top off a plastic container of baby wipes, I wrapped nearly $8000 through the moist towelettes.

  My final task before bed was to try and wrongfoot my future pursuers. I opened my world atlas and carefully marked a spot in Columbia, South America. I called an international chain hotel for the number of their hotel in Columbia. Once I had the number I called it, thus adding to my trail of breadcrumbs, and possibly buying me a little more time.

  13

  Brisbane Women’s Correctional Centre

  Queensland, Australia

  2013–14

  MY NEW UNIT WAS DIFFERENT. SOON AFTER MOVING THERE I SAW MY first fight. Well, perhaps that’s stretching things a bit. I was down at the bus stop waiting to call Samantha when I glanced up at onlookers gawking by the railings, shouting, ‘Fight, fight, fight!’ Not far from me, two women were standing in the middle of a circle of prisoners performing a synchronised dance. As much as I hated violence, I thought it might be interesting to see these girls who backstabbed each other on a daily basis box it out and get it over with. What I saw instead were two hardened criminals mimicking the kangaroos outside. They both had their fists in front of their faces, their knuckles white, and they danced around and around until they seemed to get dizzy. And that was it, all hot air.

  But don’t get me wrong, there were very real dangers in prison. Not long after I moved, there was a raid on my old unit. The girls were herded outside onto the balcony. There was a lot of crying and hysterics and finally, after what seemed like hours, the two troublemakers from that unit were led out in handcuffs. The next day we learned they had been charged with raping the girl who had taken my place. She was understandably in a bad way both emotionally and physically. The girls in prison referred to the same-sex relationships as SIDS (Sudden Inmate Dyke Syndrome). This, however, was rape, not sex.

  My relationship with the officers was great from the beginning and not just because I refused to call them ‘screws’ like the other inmates. My feeling was that we had an understanding that although I was guilty of my crime – indeed, I was the only person I ever knew in prison who was guilty! – I was somehow different from most of the prisoners. And then there was my future – extradition to the US and a possible 23-year prison term – which surely gained me some sympathy.

  But when I asked the officers why they treated me and other inmates so respectfully, the answer was always the same: ‘If we treat inmates like animals we will release animals; if we treat inmates like humans we release humans.’ This attitude was on display daily, even when there were times I know I would have struggled to have been as generous or patient.

  Bruce and Samantha were still working closely together, gathering all the evidence. They had organised an A Team that included myself, Sammy, Bruce, his wife Judy, my friend Keri who came to the house when I was arrested, Sharon and her husband Jim in Australia, and Cliff, Gordon and Hawk in the US. ‘Who the heck is Hawk?’ I asked, then laughed when Sammy explained it was my cousin Chris. I suspected the nickname had something to do with his military service.

  Sammy asked me how things were with me and I told her about something that had happened a couple of days earlier. ‘The unit across the way decided to have a little party and they all got naked and covered the floor with dishwashing detergent and made a naked slip and slide.’

  ‘Yuck,’ said Sammy.

  ‘Well, it was really funny to watch. They were far enough away we didn’t see all the intricate details, but it was damn funny watching them slide into each other and the plastic chairs, and the soap suds were everywhere! We have a skinny old lady who’s an alcoholic and a regular to the prison staying with us and she decided to flash her boobs to the girls and then with the help of a couple of unit mates she stood on a chair and mooned the whole place. It wasn’t pretty but it was funny.’

  ‘Mum, it sounds more like a high school than a prison.’

  I agreed with her but also said there were darker times, too, when the threat of violence was very real.

  ‘What do you do when that happens?’

  ‘I usually go to my cell and close the door, let them bash each other and act like idiots. That same little old lady has a terrible temper and once she was playing cards with this sweet Aboriginal girl and they started fighting. The old lady went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle, planning to douse the Aboriginal girl with boiling water when I said aloud, ‘Okay, goodnight everyone,’ and went to my room and closed the door. About fifteen minutes later there was a knock on my door and all seven of them were standing there looking very guilty. “We’re sorry for acting like cunts, Alex,” they said. And that was it.’

  My name had been placed on the list for visitation rights, but I had no idea who my first visitor would be. I knew it wasn’t Samantha, Reece or Bruce, so who else was likely? I stood in line with the rest of the girls and asked my usual never-ending questions to learn how personal visits went. One girl told me that you ‘first buy snacks out of the vending machines then you go into a big room, grab a table and wait for your visitor’. Outside the visiting area we were patted down, names were checked and our IDs were taken. Then we were moved to the holding area where the vending machines were located. I used my two tokens from our weekly buy-ups where we are allowed to purchase anything from shampoo to diaries and bought some peanut M&M’s, opened the packet and started eating. Everyone stared at me.

  ‘What?’ I asked with a full mouth.

  ‘You’re supposed to be buying snacks for you and your visitors,’ one lifer told me.

  I laughed. ‘Hell no, I don’t think so. Whoever’s coming to visit me can buy their own stuff when they leave.’ I did, however, grab two plastic cups and fill them with water when we entered the visiting area – after all, I’m a Southern girl and I do know how to entertain.

  The tables and chairs were all bolted to the floor. I picked a table as far away from the officers as I could get, knowing they would listen in to all the conversations – we had been warned beforehand and there were mics in the ceilings. Nevertheless, I sat eager as a puppy. The doors opened and people flooded in looking for their loved ones. I was taken aback at the number of children and babies here to visit mothers and grandmothers. And then I saw the familiar face of my good friend Charlotte. Neither of us could figure out how she got to see me so soon, but we spent two glorious hours together, speaking about everyone and everything, especially our children. I learned that she and many other friends had been helping Samantha and Reece at home with food and cleaning, which filled me with gratitude. I leaned towards her and whispered that I wanted to ask a favour, but to whisper back because we were being monitored.

  ‘Tell Sammy that up in the attic to the left, hidden under insulation is a small purse-like bag. In it is a diary I kept for her. It’s hers. There’s also the original passport from when Sammy was a boy. I don’t think they know about that. And a letter from Juan detailing his affair. When you get the letter please burn it – I don’t want either of the kids to ever read it, but I want Sammy to have the diary.’

  ‘Okay,’ whispered Charlotte.

  Also among the stuff I had hidden from Sammy was a videotape of my wedding to Juan, which she was in. That was something I was now keen for the kids to see.

  ‘One minute, ladies!’

  A bell rang and startled Charlotte.

  We stood and I hugged her tight. ‘Please pass this hug onto Sammy and Reece.’

  We held each other and wiped tears from our faces.
It was only then that I realised I had not touched another human for weeks. But within moments another ruder reality hit as we had to line up in the hall. ‘Okay, girls, time for a strip search.’

  A week before Christmas I had more news.

  ‘Barnett, you’re moving again. This time to the back units, which is a privilege.’

  The new unit was very similar to the old one. I was in Cell 1. It was a double-up and I had a mattress on the floor. My roommate was a beautiful twenty-year-old named Samantha. The irony of it, rooming with a girl who shared my daughter’s name and age. Samantha was easy to double up with and I had the flat screen TV all to myself each night from 7.30 p.m., as by then Samantha was fast asleep like the rest of the girls.

  There were some characters in here: one girl who had been beaten and taken too many drugs spent a lot of time speaking to herself. When it was just the two of us, at first I kept answering her, before I realised she was talking to herself. We made a deal that if she wanted to speak to me she would get my attention so I would know. Another girl, Nancy, took an instant dislike to me. She was in for stabbing and killing her partner, though she said it was an accident. One girl Becky I liked quite a bit but she was a tough nut who tried to be more of a bad ass than she was.

  One day at dinner I asked Samantha what her boyfriend did for work. I had assumed he was a tattooist as Samantha had a sleeve of very good artwork she had said her boyfriend had done. Her answer, though, was that he didn’t work and that he was on a disability pension.