In this effort to present the truth to the public, I felt it was important to present facts first, leaving emotional context for last. I imagine a courtroom - a good one - cares more about proof and evidence than the tears of either side. But now that I have shown you a great deal of information, I would like to step back and breathe a heavy sigh. I'd like to talk on a more personal level.
George and I met online in 2010 through a mutual friend who introduced us. I was living in Texas, about five miles away from family members who sought to control my every move. My family harbors dark secrets of abuse and neglect, and I was always the "loudmouth" - the one who never took it lying down, never accepted bribes, never allowed threats to sway me. I grew up rich, and my refusal to hide the family secret meant being thrown out into the ghetto and having to claw my way out day by day. Now I was 22 and had carved myself a slice of Texas that I could be proud of - renting a humble room in a beautiful house with a sprawling kitchen, leather furniture, gleaming hard wood floors, and a perfect neatly-mowed lawn. Despite it all I was not doing well. Money wasn't coming in fast enough to keep up with money going out, and my family was a constant crushing influence. My resolve was beginning to give way. I didn't see any hope of finding a life on my own, escaping the lingering threats and control. After things got dark enough, I resolved to just exist, nothing more, until it was my time to go.
Over time, we fell in love. But he didn't want to let a beautiful thing stagnate with distance. I was terrified - I knew my family would never let me out of their sight. I knew they'd do anything they could to stop me, and I didn't know how far they'd go this time. Over several months, George held my hand - a comforting voice on the phone, a word of advice, and lots and lots of careful planning. While they worked to keep me within their reach, with bribes and manipulation and efforts to ruin my every step, he assured me there was still hope, that he would be there every step of the way. I can say without a doubt that he saved me from a terrifying situation. In the end, I fled my family on the heels of threats and outrage, stuffing my tiny car full of what possessions I could and driving for 24 hours straight in the middle of one of the worst winters I'd ever seen.
Since then, he has always been there for me, and I for him. He has held my hand as I lay in a hospital bed on the brink of death, held me in his arms through countless good and bad times. We've faced fraudsters, lived in little holes in the wall trying to get by, woken up to the ceiling leaking onto our bed, always glad to have each other above all else. He's watched me collapse into seizures countless times for the last year, argued with small town doctors in a small town hospital where the sick go to die, and through it all we have managed to survive. In the midst of the destroyed economy of one of the poorest states in America, we managed to find a cozy, beautiful little house we could rent with the help of a roomie or two and call home.
Then came the phone call from his mother in late January. "It's about your step sister," she said, her voice trembling and tearful. "She's saying you did something to her."
Since that day, I have forgotten what it is to really sleep. We have tossed and turned on the living room couches, scared out of our minds that we might wake to the sound of another pounding knock at the door. We've been followed by police officers in unmarked cars and uniforms riding my bumper before they turn down a tiny road along the way and disappear. They've sat just yards away from our house, watching, waiting. They've cruised by our house slowly. We have heard the words "That's him!", gasps, giggles, angry growls, from a public that has been told only that he is a pedophile. And we have forgotten what it was like to feel safe.
During George's time in jail, he called me every day. He could say nothing of real value to me. Only that he loved me. That he was safe - for now. That he just wanted to go home. I didn't know what was going on, but I knew it was bad. Every time I tried to ask, I heard distant sounds of clanging metal and George, suddenly quiet and shaking, said "I ...I have to go." He had bought me a Valentine's day present early this year, knowing every day might be the last chance; I clung to the soft stuffed toy every night, wondering whether I would ever hear his voice again. For days I struggled to raise money, and after selling our truck and begging everywhere, I raised about $2100. His mother reluctantly gave the rest. "Betty," I told her, "If you get here in time and we get George out today, I swear, I will buy you Burger King from the money I was going to use for his calls from jail. We'll all go together. I bet he'll want some real food."
The jail was cold and dead. There were screams and clanging metal echoing behind the walls of the grey lobby. Officers walked back and forth across the window, quiet grins on their faces, heads down. The bondsman was a gruff old man struggling to walk and squinting to see. To us he might as well have been Jesus. We scribbled on papers and handed over a plastic bag full of mixed bills. He shuffled to the glass and handed everything in. A few agonizing minutes later, he was turned away outright by a woman with a stern tone. Betty and I broke down, clinging to each other in desperation - the bondsman heaved a sigh and sat down. "I've done bonds of 500,000 dollars and I have never seen anything like it," he muttered. "...like they just don't want to let him go." He was ready to give up. We pleaded with him to try one more time. "They can't just ignore a judge's orders," I said. He gave me a look, a wry smile that seemed to say, "You don't know these people, kid."
In the end, I was right. The jail couldn't ignore the judge's orders, although they did everything in their power to stall the process. Hours passed while we waited and wept. Finally, George stumbled out into the snow and stood pale and sickly, looking like a wayward breeze could blow him over to his grave. We hugged him tight, ushering him to the car as fast as we could. He whispered, trembling, "Let's just get the f*** out of here."
Later on, clinging to me that night, he told me about his time in jail. Cells infested with roaches and mites, waking him up in the middle of the night crawling over his face. Cell mates threatening him, jeering him, saying they knew what he had done. Screams, day and night. Lights that never go off. The sound of the wind the only piece of the outside world he clung to, pressing his ear to the window. Razors brought to the cells for shaving, and left for hours at a time. The sounds of men in nearby cells engaging in sex acts loudly. Three days in holding, one wall a giant mirror, officers walking by laughing and taunting. He shook and stuttered, his stroke symptoms in full swing - and they smirked and jeered, "Don't play games, we know you're faking." Hours turning into days, and a loss of time. A loss of his sanity, slowly eating him away.
George's sense of safety is forever shattered. Every time blue and red lights flash on TV, his eyes glaze over and he starts to rock back and forth, frozen in terror. I hold him tight every time. "It's okay, honey, shhh - you're here. You're safe now." He becomes like a statue every time he sees the officer who arrested him. "Is that him?" he asks me, his eyes wide and desperate. "Is that him right there?" I squeeze his hand and try to assure him, but it doesn't go far. At night he curls up and whimpers, shakes and jolts suddenly. As I whisper his name, he begins to relax, and my heart melts inside.
I have tried every day to comfort him. "We can fight this," I tell him. "We can make it through. We can make them see the truth if we just keep at it. Just stay strong, honey, we can do this."
But I know the truth. The truth is, there is no going back now. No returning to the innocence of a happy couple ready to start a life together.
Even if we win, we will never be the same.
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