by Lee Barnett
‘Disability?’ I asked. ‘Was he injured?’
‘No,’ Samantha laughed. ‘He can’t work because he’s a heroin addict.’
What the hell? ‘Do you mean I work my three jobs and pay my taxes and you all just get free money to sit back and do heroin?’ I asked.
Becky piped up. ‘What the fuck are you on about, Alex? That’s our money, we’ve earned it.’
‘How?’
‘By being Australian. How else do you expect us to buy designer clothes? If we didn’t have the dole we’d have to steal from people like you.’
It took me a second to realise she wasn’t joking.
At last the documents from Bruce started trickling in. With each bundle I tried to tease out all the evidence and ended up looking deeper than I wanted to. I lay awake in the middle of the night trying to make the many pieces of the puzzle fit together. I was sure the psychological abuse had started when Harris had walked out, but now with the benefit of hindsight, having the distance of twenty years, I knew that the abuse was there all the time. It had just intensified when I refused to do what Harris wanted, which was to terminate the pregnancy.
I sifted through mounds of papers from lawyers, psychiatrists and the guardian ad litem before stumbling upon a very interesting page handwritten by my first lawyer, Lee Robinson. It was dated 8 March 1993, and was from a phone interview she’d had with Dr Bjorksten:
Harris and her mother came to see him before he met Lee. Lee does not know this. Please don’t tell her.
I knew it! I knew it! Things had never made sense with Lee Robinson. But for my own lawyer to have withheld this information from me was simply astonishing.
And not only that, we were in court two days after she had that conversation with Dr Bjorksten! That was the March hearing where Harris countersued me for divorce on the grounds that I had been abusing him. It seemed to me that Robinson knew I was being set up and still she took my money and pretended to care. How could I have thought otherwise?
I called Bruce as soon as I could to tell him this news,
‘Hold on,’ he said flipping through pages to find the document. ‘Well done!’ he shouted down the line.
‘Damn, Bruce, I was so stupid. Lee Robinson was my lawyer and even after I saw Harris’s letter to Mom suggesting she could help him by calling Lee Robinson, I kept her on. Now this!’
Bruce told me to stop beating myself up then he mentioned that Sammy was thinking about doing a TV show about my situation, specifically Today Tonight.
The Christmas holidays came and went and I had been moved from landscaping to the sewing department, though I really was terrible at it. In between doing more and more reading of evidence and my work, I also became focused on exercising, which meant running around the oval and using the rowing machines. I had been issued some new running shoes, actually Cathy Freeman shoes that I believed were sold through Kmart. The only thing I was truly sure about with those shoes, though, was that Cathy Freeman did not win her Olympic gold medal wearing them. It was like having two cement blocks strapped to my feet. But despite that, I was getting fit and eating well, preparing for the huge task ahead of me.
One day after coming in from running, Becky was sitting, laughing with some girls at the bus stop and it was clear that I was the brunt of the joke. I asked them what’s up and they said they were laughing at how I run. ‘Like Mr Burns from The Simpsons,’ said Becky, demonstrating by mock-jogging with her arms at her side and her wrists limp. I roared laughing and admitted it was true, though clearly that wasn’t the response she had been angling for. She had no idea that after being teased and criticised for most of my life, I had a pretty thick skin.
Another sensational development in the prison was when my children and friends were finally approved to visit. The approval process took a long time, as guidelines were taken very seriously and I understood why. Even with being strip searched after each visit, I was surprised at how many drugs were passed to the inmates – and even more surprising was how those inmates would ‘bank’ the drugs before the strip search. There was a lot of rat cunning at play. I would tell the girls that if they just put their effort towards something positive and legal, they would find real success. I think what really stopped them from succeeding was their low-esteem. And interestingly, the most wilful and meanest girls had the lowest self-esteem.
Contact visits were twice a week for two hours. The first time I was able to wrap my arms around my kids was unbelievable. Along with my children, I was also able to hug the twenty-four friends on my approved visitors list. This was such an intergral part of my survival. The first visit I had alone with Reece was particularly memorable. Reece is a questions guy and I often think I failed him as a mother because after hours of him asking questions, I would try to get him to stop. And naturally on this visit he had plenty of questions. ‘Were you going to ever tell Dee and me about your past?’
‘Well, yes, I had planned on telling Sammy and Brad when they were home for Christmas this year.’
‘What about me?’
I thought for a minute. ‘No, I wasn’t going to tell you, only Sammy and Brad.’
‘But I’m your son,’ he said indignantly. ‘You were going to tell Brad and not me?’
‘I knew that Brad would never tell anyone and he would be there to help Sammy, but you, my dear, would have run off to find your Uncle Cliff, even if I had told you not to.’
Reece adopted his thinking pose. ‘Well, yeah Mum. I would have gone to Uncle Cliff’s house and told him he was my uncle. But I wouldn’t have got you involved.’
I looked at him and explained that if he had done that he would have got his uncle involved with the FBI, which would have left him with a choice: don’t tell the FBI and face five years in prison or tell the FBI and have me arrested.
‘Oh,’ Reece said quietly.
Samantha and Brad visited as often as they could before heading back to James Cook University some fifteen hours’ drive away. It was amazing to see the actual child become the adult and to have our roles reversed; the grace and dignity in which Sammy handled herself was incredible. After one visit I was strip searched by the officer who had first processed me, the one with the huge black eye. She mentioned that my visitors list was the longest she had ever seen. We chatted a bit and, as I showed her my undies and shook them out, I asked her who had hit her a few months earlier, explaining what I remembered. She looked at me in surprise and said that she and her husband had been out a couple of nights before, and had a little too much to drink and she had slipped on her high heels and fallen into a table.
‘Shit, I thought you’d been in a prison fight!’
We laughed so hard the other girls and officers in the next cubicles asked what was so funny. ‘Nothing,’ said the officer winking at me. It was our little secret.
One afternoon after a run, I was told yet again that I was going to go to another unit, to be moved away from Nancy. I was again assigned the first cell, a double-up. This roommate was a fragile, elderly lady called Stephanie. We hit it off at once and I was grateful to Officer John who had probably planned this pairing for both of our sakes. As rumoured, the food was five star and controlled by a lifer named Julia. Julia was a total control freak who had been inside for thirteen years. Our unit was also a cat unit, meaning we took care of cats sent to the prison from the local RSPCA – one more thing that Julia could control. Julia expected you to kowtow to her and compliment her every move, and if you didn’t you suffered the consequences. I played the game and told her she was the best cook in the prison – it was a small price to pay if I got to eat her cooking. Julia bragged daily about her great knife skills, especially since she had killed a man with a knife. She also bragged about how she had obtained two university degrees and was working on her third while in prison. Julia had probably never touched an illicit drug or robbed anyone, but she was very painful to be around. I did my best to ignore her.
Meantime, Sammy was busy filming for the Today To
night Channel 7 show and Reece was returning from the US. Cliff had insisted on the trip and added he also would have liked Sammy to visit, but she said she was waiting to go back with me. Then Cliff dropped the real bomb: he and Mom would travel to Australia very soon. I tried to talk him out of it, emphasising how long the flight was, especially for Mom who was eighty-five.
‘Do you think I can stop her?’ he asked rhetorically.
It was on.
One day on the phone, apropos of nothing, Samantha asked me, ‘Mum, what would I be worth to you?’
I asked her what she meant.
‘If you were to put a price on me what would you be willing to pay?’
‘Only every penny in my name and any money I could get my hands on. Why?’
She explained that she had found a website for missing children with rewards posted from around the world. Some were for millions, others $500,000 or $25,000. She had found her name listed there. Harris had offered a $5000 reward for her.
‘Wasn’t he supposed to be wealthy?’ she asked.
I laughed and thought about that. ‘Does that mean that the Schofields sold us out for $5000?’
Sammy wasn’t so sure. ‘Everyone has seen them driving around in a gold BMW SUV.’
So perhaps they got more money out of Harris after all.
14
Charleston, South Carolina, US
23 April 1994
AT LAST, I RECOGNISED THE FOUR-DOOR SEDAN AND, AT ITS WHEEL, the long-haired, bearded man in a cap and dark sunglasses. ‘Quick!’ urged Tommy. ‘Get in and lie on the floor. Cover up with the blanket. Don’t take any chances until we’re out of town.’
I wanted to argue the importance of the baby seat, but knew our lives depended on getting out of town without being seen. We sped out of the car park and, holding Savanna close, I soon felt the bumpiness of the cobblestone streets. And soon after that I heard the noises of Charleston – the traffic, including the clip-clop of horse-drawn carriages and even the chatter of tourists and businessmen.
After what seemed like an age, Tommy told me it was safe to get up. I busied myself in the back seat with Savanna for a couple of hours until I looked up and saw the ‘Welcome to Georgia’ sign. My memories of this drive are of a strange tumult of emotions – strong, wildly different feelings that pulled me in so many directions. And I vividly remember that as we crossed the state line, part of me expected a convoy of law enforcement agencies giving chase. I was now officially a fugitive.
The drive to Atlanta was about another two hours. Savanna was fast asleep. Tommy and I spoke to each other fitfully, each dreading our final goodbyes. We both knew that if everything went well, we would never see each other again. I wanted to mark this freighted moment – to take something with me. I asked him what his favourite memory from our childhood was. He didn’t hesitate for a moment. It was when he was four, and I was three months old. Our dad had come home from work with a big yellow digger for him, and the two of them played with it in the backyard for the remainder of the evening. I pictured my father, known to me only from a few snapshots, his handsome face and tall, lean frame, playing with my brother, filling the digger with sand and pine cones, and pushing it around, laughing and smiling together. A few hours of pure, innocent happiness. It was probably one of the last memories Tommy had of our dad before he was killed.
Tommy then asked me about mine. Mine was easy to recall too. It was at Christmas and I was about four or five. Tommy and Cliff had received a tape recorder from Santa but when we pushed the play button, Santa spoke directly to me. ‘Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas, Lee! Your friend Abby got a pony for Christmas!’ I was so excited at this news that I ran all the way to Abby’s house to find that she had indeed been given a little brown pony with a huge red bow around its neck. That indelible memory kept me believing in Santa for many years that followed.
We stopped at a motel close to Atlanta airport. It was busy enough for a young couple and a baby to go unnoticed. But the motel was full. Panic filled my blood. The first failure on this day of escape. Now where was I going to cut and dye my hair in time to make it to the airport?
Returning to the car I saw that below the motel was a wooded park with a stream flowing through it. Next to the park was a public toilet block. I had to act. Grabbing a bag and Savanna, I told Tommy to bring the scissors. The three of us scrambled down the embankment to the river, and I told him to cut off my long blonde ponytail. He did, and held it like a prizefighter with his trophy, saying he was going to keep it. Savanna smiled, sensing her uncle’s excitement.
‘Over my dead body!’ I said. ‘Throw it in the river! We can’t leave anything behind.’ Time was running out.
With Tommy as lookout, I headed inside the toilet block with Savanna and a baby blanket which I promptly placed on the bathroom floor for Savanna to play on. Once settled, I began the process to dye my now shoulder-length hair black. Once the dye was rinsed off, I reached into the baby bag for my dark brown contact lenses, then finally added the horn-rimmed glasses. The person looking back at me was a perfect stranger.
Savanna was next. I saw her uncertainty as I reached down to her. She was confused, but only for a moment. As soon as her face snuggled into my neck, she knew that I was still her mommy. A baby boy’s sailor outfit replaced her pink dress, and to cover her nearly bald head she had a cap with an anchor and ‘Captain’ embroidered on the front. We were ready.
I opened the public restroom door in relief. But there was no sign of Tommy. How could I have come so far just to have it end? As I hastily ran through alternative scenarios in my head, I heard, ‘Wow, I didn’t recognise you two!’ There he was, wearing a sheepish grin, with a six-pack of beer dangling from one hand, two cans of which were missing. I was so furious with him! His response was to shrug and indicate that only two beers were missing.
I had no time to argue with him. On the freeway we missed the airport exit and had to stop for directions on how to get back on it. The minutes kept ticking by. At last there was a service road turnoff but we were still a long way from Delta’s international terminal. Fifty minutes until take-off and we were still not at the terminal! I looked back to Savanna who smiled – her eyes had the light and confidence of an old soul, as if to say she knew it would all work out. We reached the terminal with forty minutes left. I leaped out of the car and grabbed Savanna, the baby seat, baby bag and stroller. Tommy unloaded the luggage and handed it to the outside baggage man. I gave him my flight details, indicating my anxiety, and he promised to run all our belongings down to the tarmac personally before telling me to check-in ‘Now!’ Tommy parked the car and said he would meet us inside. Savanna and I dashed inside towards the check-in counter. A Delta agent recognised my last-minute panic and asked me what flight I was on. I told her.
‘Run!’ she said as she lifted the phone to her ear. ‘You might be able to make it!’
I started running through the cavernous space and saw someone racing towards me. It was Tommy. I stopped and we hugged and swapped I love you’s and I told him that if I felt safe I would try to contact him in ten years. Tommy reached into his backpack and pulled out a box. ‘It’s not much, but I hope it brings the two of you much happiness.’ I thanked him, shoved it into Savanna’s baby bag and we hugged a final time. That was the last physical contact from my past. Thirty-three years of a life that once was, gone in a brief hug.
As I bolted through the airport with the stroller, looking extremely harried, I realised that the Delta agent hadn’t looked at my passport. And for whatever reason – maybe the pathetic nature of my appearance – the gate agents also waved me through and pointed to where I needed to be. These were only two of so many miracles in our new lives.
As we scrambled to the gate, I saw that the door to the jetway was closed and the waiting area empty. My heart plummeted. Desperation flooded my body and I pounded on the door. Suddenly it swung open and a young blonde agent shook her head at me. ‘Y’all just about missed your flight, ma’am. Com
e on!’ she said with a generous Southern smile.
All along the aisle, row after row of passengers stared at me from head to toe. Surely they would remember the unkempt mother who had delayed their flight? I wondered how many noticed that my colouring didn’t look right, or that my hair was poorly cut.
At last the two of us settled in a centre seat, squished between two individuals whose exasperation was tempered only by the quiet sweetness of the baby in my arms. Once they saw that there would be no tantrums or rambunctious seat-kicking, the mood immediately lightened.
The fear that clenched my heart eased just a little when I heard the cabin door close and saw the jet-bridge pull away. And when we were finally high above the clouds, I exhaled a small sigh of relief. After hugging Savanna, I reached into the baby bag and pulled out Tommy’s gift. Savanna watched me carefully as I opened it. Inside was a little ceramic pig sitting on a pillow. ‘It’s a music box,’ I told Savanna and her eyes lit up. And its tune? ‘Happy Days Are Here Again’.
The flight itself was uneventful, until the attendant announced that we would soon land. Custom forms were then handed out for us to complete. I raised my seat and lowered the tray table, careful so it didn’t catch on Savanna’s head. Thick drool and baby sweat had pooled on my jeans. The man in seat C saw me struggle to find a pen and offered his. I thanked him then took out my passports, making a mental note to hold onto them so I didn’t leave them on the plane. There could be no mistakes. I copied the unfamiliar names and birthdates onto the forms slowly, then checked them to discover my new birthdate didn’t match the passport; my dyslexia becomes even more pronounced when I am stressed. I buzzed the flight attendant for another form. Finally, as the wheels were lowered, I tucked the completed forms into the passports.