Run For The Border II: Canada

After parting ways with my father on our two car road trip in Colorado, I headed North, driving non-stop through Denver then into Wyoming. I didn't stop until I had reached Casper, where I found a public library so I could check the Web for news about the boy (Anthony) I had kidnapped, raped, and murdered in Southern California in early April, several weeks before. I just wanted to make sure I wasn't a named suspect. I wasn't. Then I gassed up --- I spent the night in a mostly empty park near Casper, sleeping in the car, the same car I had used to kidnap Anthony in plain sight of numerous witnesses, mostly children though --- and continued on my trek North for the border. I had told my father I planned to get a new identity in Canada, then find a job and live my life in peace there.

I left the freeway after Missoula and continued North on a State highway that connected several small towns like pearls on a string all the way to a remote border station Northwestern Montana. A state trooper flashed its light and siren behind me at one point, which made me think I was busted. But, when I obediently slowed and pulled to the side of the road he just sped past me, apparently on his way to some other emergency.

At the border I told the Canadian border guard that I was sight-seeing on my way to Seattle. I did not expect any more problem getting into Canada than I had driving into Mexico several months before. But the border guard got suspicious and told me to pull into the inspection station.

For the second time that day I though I was busted. When they searched the car they found several IDs that belonged to other people, camping gear, extra food and clothes that made it obvious I was living in the car, and a book on how to create a false identity in Canada. On top of all that I had given them my real name and driver's license, and the car wasn't registered in my name. (It belonged to a friend of mine who lived in Seattle.)

Obviously they weren't going to let me enter Canada. So after enough time waiting for them to contact the U.S. authorities, on the other side of this border crossing, they showed me what they found in my car, returned it to me (technically, nothing was illegal), then told me I was denied entry an let me return to the U.S..

Of course, the U.S. border guard was waiting for me. He came out of his booth, and seemed about to tell me something, but then the phone rang in his booth and he returned there to answer. After a brief conversation he steppe back out of the booth only to wave me on my way. No questions, no inspection, just, "go!"

So, I went. Fast! As soon as I was out of sight of the border station I floored it. I figured that the border station ha called the police in the nearest town, which was about nine or ten miles from the border crossing, with no turn offs. So the town had to be a trap. Maybe if I got there fast enough, I could take them by surprise, instead of the other way around. So, I drove at over a hundred (MPH) until I reached the first turn off the outskirts of town. The turn off was just one block before the only signal light, which I could see was red, and waiting for me. There was no other road through town, but the turn off gave me access to an alley that ran behind the houses on the main street.

I followed the alley at a crawl until I reached the cross street for the traffic signal. There was no traffic, but I reasoned that if there were a trap, it would be at either the entrance, the light, or the exit to the town. I already skirted the entrance, so now I drove across the road and into another alley, this time running behind a handful of stores that lined main-street. And sure enough, as I drove through the alley I spotted a solitary police cruiser parked between two of the buildings, facing the main intersection, no doubt waiting for me. 

I just kept driving slowly right behind the cruiser, literally less than 50 feet away. He didn't see me. Then I came out at the end of the alley into the town's one and only gas station, which sat right at the edge of town. Because a curve in the road at this juncture, I was able to continue out of town without being seen, by simply driving through the gas station, past the pumps, and then out onto the highway headed South again into the forests.

But now it would be another 20 miles or so until the next town, again with no turn offs, and this time the town was much larger with presumable many more police waiting for me. There seemed no escape. Then worse, I spotted an official Forest Service vehicle apparently coming from the Forest Service Station a few miles South of town on the same road. I watched the driver as she passed, and noticed it was indeed a Forest Service Ranger, mot likely on her way to provide backup for the sole police officer in town, still waiting to make a felony fugitive arrest at the red light.

The Ranger seemed preoccupied with her thoughts as we drove past each other on the highway. But then, at the last moment as our vehicles passed, I saw her do a double take and look right at me, and her jaw dropped. I guessed that she had already been informed of the "suspect and vehicle description", so when she saw me she realized I must have slipped past the trap.

That meant I had only seconds to make my escape good. So, I sped up again, then pulled off the road into the first clearing I came to, and headed for the trees, which happened to line the ridge o a small hill that the car ('87 Cadillac New Yorker) could climb easily enough, even off road through wild grass. I almost didn't slow down when I reached the ridge, but at the last moment I decided it probably wasn't a good idea to go flying over a ridge not knowing what lay on the other side. And that caution saved my life, because there was nothing on the other side but air!

It was a sheer cliff carved out of the hill for a railroad pass. it was a good thing I slowed to look first. I had to back the car back down the hill, and with nowhere else to hide, I got back on the road and sped South again.

Luckily I came to a dirt road turn off with a sign that read, "Public Picnic Area". I slowed and took the turn being careful not to stir up too much dust or leave any skid marks at the entrance. I hoped that with only one car in pursuit I'd have a little time to find some concealment before they could check the side roads like this one.

The dirt road continued for about a half mile until it came to a clearing in the trees by a lake, but I pulled off the dirt road and behind some trees before that. I had only managed to drive the car off road and about 60 feet into the forest. But, the cover was good, and after using a hatchet to make even more cover, and then using dark colored clothes, a sleeping bag, and anything else I could find to cover the white paint on the car, I was sure I was "invisible". So I waited.

After about an hour I heard a small helicopter in the distance, but I ha anticipate that also (I could not be seen from the road or the sky). I heard the chopper pass nearby. It sounded like it was following the highway, once in each direction. Then that was all.

No cars at all came down the dirt road, so after it started getting dark I walked out to the highway and deliberately let myself be seen by a few passing cars. I reasoned that if there was a roadblock then the drivers would probably report seeing me on foot and they'd send a car to look for me. So I scurried up a forested hill on the other side of the highway, and watched the traffic from a safe position. I saw no police or forest service vehicles go by. I reasoned that they must not be looking for me very hard. That didn't mean they wouldn't have another trap waiting at the next town. So I needed to find some other way out of the area, and out of Montana altogether if possible.

I returned to the car and pulled out my maps. One of the maps showed a single line (undeveloped road) that left the small one cap town North of me (where I had eluded the trap before). The line on the map meandered through nothingness (forest) for about 40 miles until it joined up with another highway heading West from the larger town down South where I was sure they'd be waiting for me. I decided the obscure line was my best, if not only, option.

I waited until near midnight before I uncovered the car and returned to the road. I drove cautiously with lights off back North, and found the turn off across from the gas station at the edge of town. I was never certain if I was on the right road or not. It ended up being a graveled road at least. But there were several turn off and intersections that my map didn't show. So I took a compass bearing and used the moon to help decide my way (keeping it in sight and to my right as much as I could).

After what seemed like several hours I came out onto a paved highway running East and West, perfect! I headed West, and came to an all-night gas station at the edge of a mid-sized town. There was a cop car parked near the gas station and facing the road I had just drove in on. But I didn't see the cop car until after I had already pulled into the station for much needed gas. I controlled the impulse to continue driving, and hope I'd be less suspicious if I just stopped for gas right in front of the cop. This must have worked, since I was able to gas up, buy some food, and even another map, before continuing on my way unmolested by the police.

I drove off aways and safely out of town before I stopped to check the new map. As it turned out I was already in Idaho! An not far from the interstate (I-90). I drove on into Coeur d'Alene, the same Coeur d'Alene, Idaho, where I was fated to be arrested eight years later, for the crimes I'm on death row for now. But this time I just drove past the city and stopped at a large rest area near the Washington/Idaho state border, where I parked and slept, relatively safe and sound.

The next day I drove into Spokane, Washington, and called Dee, the owner of the car I was driving, and asked her if she could drive my car (an '87 Buick Skylark) which I'd left in Seattle with her, across the state and meet me in Spokane to swap cars, which she agreed to do. I met her at the bus station in Spokane, then we drove to a cheap motel and spent the night together.

The next day, after transferring all my stuff over to my own car, which was now less "hot" than Dee's car after the incident at the Border, we said our good-byes and I headed directly South from Spokane, taking highways down the "back" of Washington state and then Oregon and into Northern California, farm country. It was Mother's Day, 1997, and I remember crying for miles while I thought about my mom.

Anyway, I stuck to the back roads and highways in California as well, and made my way down to Death Valley, then drove East to Pahrump, Nevada. Not for the brothers, but because that's where my father lived. Since my plan to become a Canadian was bust, I decided to visit my dad while I figured out what to do next.

[J.D. July 28, 2020]     

Sister Sister I

After escaping the pervasive criminal element of Texas, I drove North. I remember being so tired that I must have fallen asleep at the wheel. I saw a large green highway information sign that simply vanished when I got close enough and tried to read it. So I pulled over at the next gas station I saw and feel asleep in the parking lot along the side near the bathrooms without even getting out of the driver's seat.

The next morning, I spent the last of my money gassing up and to get something to eat at the same station, then continued North until I came to a small town. I found the local Western Union office, then called my dad in Pahrump, Nevada, and asked him to wire me some money. He agreed to do so on the condition that I drive to my stepsister's house in Warsaw, Missouri.

My stepsister, Jenny, had visited me several times while I was in prison in Washington state before she moved to Missouri, so we weren't strangers. But, I had never met her three sons, who were teens at this time (13, 15, and 16, if I remember correctly). But the boys knew they had an "Uncle Jet" who had absconded and was wanted. So my stepsister insisted that if I came to her house, I had to use a different name. So, I became "the other uncle", Joshua, or just "Uncle Josh".

The agreement was that I would sleep on her sofa until my dad and stepmother could drive there from Pahrump, and then we'd "figure out" what I should do next. In the meantime I helped out as I could around the house and ended up spending a lot of time with her boys. I helped settle disputes, taught one how to "keep his eye on the ball" so he could bat with confidence, and another how to clean and prepare some fish we caught at the nearby lake. I also did repairs and ran errands.

The stress of having a fugitive living in her house took its toll on my sister. She kept insisting that everything was okay, but it wasn't. One day this stress clashed with the already ongoing stress of raising three teen boys on her own. The boys were fighting and I stepped in to break it up, which I managed to do easily enough. I not only broke up the fight, but I counselled the boys separately afterwards and managed to help them resolve their differences to the point that they were amiable again the next day. Jenny did not even learn about the fight until the next day, and when she did, she became very upset and started yelling at her boys.

At this point I stupidly told her how yelling at them was not necessary because they had already resolved their differences and learned a valuable lesson at the same time. She quieted down, thanked me for helping, then retreated to her bedroom and closed the door.

Later that evening, all three boys came to me and told me they were worried about their mother. They explained to me that she only locks herself in her room when she becomes too upset to deal with things. They said she had threatened suicide in the past under such conditions, and now things seemed worse because he wasn't responding to their knocks and pleas at her door.

So I knocked on her door also, to which I heard her reply sobbingly, "Just leave me alone, I'm having a migraine." (It seems that migraines are something that run in my step family, so I took it as a further sign of stress.) The boys wanted me to kick in her door to make sure she was not trying to harm herself. (They explained that she may be overdosing on sleeping medicine.) So, after several more failed attempts to get her to talk to me, I decided to call the Warsaw police and ask them to intervene. I remember being afraid that if the local police were aware that her stepbrother (me) was a wanted fugitive, then my presence at her house could trigger some alarms and end with my arrest. But, I was genuinely concerned for my sister's well-being and decided it would be selfish of me not to take the risk. As irrational as that may seem for someone who had just kidnapped, then raped and murdered a ten-year-old boy just weeks before might seem, it is what I actually thought. By way of explanation I might point out that I considered her and her boys to be family, and... well, it is what it was... I'm just not sure what it was. But, the risk of getting discovered and arrested at my stepsister's house seemed worth taking after all she had done to help me.

So, one officer arrived forty minutes later and after I explained the situation to him, he took charge of the situation and convinced my sister to let him in the room just to talk. He spoke to her privately for several minutes (would she tell him the truth?) and then emerged and assured me and the boys that she just wanted to rest and that she was not going to hurt herself. Then he left and the next day things returned to relative normalcy, Jenny even thanking me for being concerned enough to call the police.

My father arrived with my stepmother, Rea, and Rea's mother (my step grandmother), Bubbie. Bubbie also used to come visit me often in prison, but now she had advanced Alzheimer's and couldn't even recognize her own daughter, much less me. Rea and my dad preferred caring for themselves rather than leaving her in a nursing home. So I helped look after her as well while we stayed at my stepsister's house (my father, Rea, and Bubble all shared one of the boy's rooms while he doubled up with another brother). I also ended up helping to look after even more children after my other stepsister, Tammy, showed up with her two grade school children (a boy and girl ages seven and eight), and the frequent visits from a close family friend and young couple with three preschool girls (one, three, and four) who lived nearby. Once, while I was watching Bubbie alone, I got a call from the young mother. She was in a panic over a bees nest (hive) she had just discovered under the trailer the young family had just moved into. Her husband was at work and unreachable, so she called Jenny for help, but I was the only one home. So, I put Bubbie in the car (the same car I used weeks before in California to kidnap ten-year-old Anthony Martinez) and drove over to "rescue" her and her girls by bringing them back to Jenny's until her husband got home from work (this was the days before everyone had cell phones, of course, so we left notes to communicate).

After Tammy showed up with her kids it seemed like I had my pick of almost any age or sex of children I wanted to spend time with. And I ended up spending a lot of alone time with all of them, even baby sitting for hours alone. But, as much as I craved otherwise, I never actually "abused" any of them. I felt trusted and responsible. I even often went out of my way to protect them and keep them safe and healthy, as any "uncle" should. I honestly think I enjoyed playing --- and being accepted as --- the "good uncle" more than I would have enjoyed any sexual pleasure I may have gotten from taking advantage of the circumstances. Not that I didn't think about it or wasn't tempted. I did and I was, a lot! But, I kept my dick in my pants as they say, and my thoughts in check. I felt a genuine emotional need to protect the children at all cost, even if that meant surrendering myself to the police, which I eventually more or less did a few months later. But that's another episode.

In retrospect it seems to me that the desire to be perceived and accepted as a "good person" (whatever that is) by the people I cared about (especially family) was stronger than any sexual interests or desires I had for the children that I had contact with and opportunity to abuse. But, my desire for vengeance (a.k.a. "justice") against society was much stronger than both. I'm not saying this is "right", nor is it some sort of justification for my crimes. It simply is what it was, and that's what we all need to sort out; not just me. I can't do it by myself, which is ultimately the reason for this blog.

After Tammy showed up with her kids, she volunteered to pay everyone's way for a trip to a Christian show in Branson, Missouri. I rode in the back of the family van with her children. I didn't like to be so far away from my own car for this trip, but again I chose family over the risk.

After several weeks in Warsaw, and well after my father's arrival, they found the body of the child I had kidnapped in California and left in a secluded ravine, and it made National news again. I was up late by myself watching T.V. when I first saw the story. Of course the police claimed they were "closing in" on the suspect, and I got so scared that I left the house in the middle of the night and spent hours in the dark hiding on a nearby covered boat dock where I could see and keep an eye on my stepsister's house in case the police showed up.

My step-family heard the news also, but pretended to not pay it much attention (as I did also). But, I could tell they were absorbing and processing every detail they could and comparing it to every little clue they got from me. They'd ask nonchalantly if the car I was driving (a Chevy New Yorker) was considered a "compact", for example. I had seen the news report, so I knew that the police had determined from the tire marks left behind that the kidnapper's car was a "compact" model. Actually, the police made a lot of little mistakes like that, which ultimately led all suspicion away from me as far as my family was concerned, and later even the police themselves let me slip through their fingers, almost literally, when they arrested me months later in Kansas City and took "major case" prints in order to compare my prints with the partial print they found at the crime scene (on a roll of duct tape) after someone in my step-family told them I might have been the Martinez kidnapper. But, apparently, they did not take me seriously as a suspect and no match was made between my prints and the one found.

In the meantime I discussed with my father and step-family what I would do next. I couldn't stay at my stepsister's house indefinitely, so I convinced them that I could drive into Canada, find a job and create a new life and identity there. I even ordered a book from a magazine on exactly how to do that (i.e. create a new identity in Canada). So after several weeks when it was time for my father and Rea to head back to Pahrump, I followed them in the New Yorker to Colorado, then parted ways with a few hundred in cash from my father as I headed North and they South on their way home.

I was on the run my own again and headed for the Great White North exactly as planned. But, I didn't get far. In fact I never even made it into Canada. They stopped me at the border, but I still managed to elude them before they caught me. But that's another part of the story I'll tell another time.

[J.D. Dec. 17, 2019]

Texas Or Bust

After my ill-fated attempt to flee the country into Mexico to evade police I ended up in Tucson, Arizona. After spending the night in a flea-bag motel I decided to continue East on the Interstate. As I entered the freeway I saw a lone hitchhiker with a green army duffel bag with his thumb out on ramp. Thinking I'd be less conspicuous with a passenger in the car I decided to pick him up.

I don't remember his name, so I'll just call him Doug for convenience. I do remember him showing me his driver's license though. He said he had just been released from jail on some misdemeanor charge in Tucson and was now trying to get back home to Houston, Texas. Since I had nowhere else to go I told him that I'd drive him there. That was the reason he ended up showing me his license, so he could take a turn at the wheel while I rested on the long drive, which we made non-stop (except for gas and snack food).

Along the way I started experiencing pain while urinating when we stopped for gas. By the time we reached Houston my urine was dark red. In a panic I asked Doug for directions to the nearest hospital which he provided with no problem. At the hospital I let Doug watch the car, even leaving the keys with him, while I went into the emergency room and registered under a false name.

I remember that the waiting time was not very long, maybe twenty minutes, and then I was escorted to my examination room and interviewed by a male nurse, or physician's assistant. After explaining the problem and even confessing to having had unprotected anal sex a few days earlier (I did not mention that it was with a ten-year-old boy, of course) the young man asked for a urine example, which I provided, then left me in the room for about another twenty minutes or so.

When he returned he explained I had a common urinary-tract infection. He gave me some pills and a milky fluid in a medicine cup to drink (penicillin, I'm sure), then he told me I had to wait at least an hour to make sure the medicine worked. Then he left the room.

After a few moments the pain subsided dramatically, and I started getting paranoid about the fact that I had provided a false name when I checked in with no identification. So I snuck out a side door and returned to the car where I found Doug still dutifully resting in the driver's seat.

We left the hospital and drove to his mother's house where he dropped off his duffel bag and retrieved some buckets, detergent, and squeegees which he said he could use to earn some quick cash washing windows. I doubted his claim but went along with it. I drove him to a small restaurant in an urban area where I watched as he went in, spoke to the owner, then came out and proceeded to wash the large windows fronting the restaurant. It only took him about a half hour to wash the windows, then he went back inside and collected about $40 cash from the owner.

We needed the money because I was nearly out of cash myself. So we gassed the car, then I drove Doug to a metal fabricating shop where he introduced me to some "buddies" of his, and he used some of the money to buy some weed from one of them, which we smoked right there in the shop's break-room.

Then Doug asked me to drive him to a neighborhood South of Houston where his "best friend" lived. When we got there - a low income "black" neighborhood where children played unattended (I noted) in the fields near the rundown houses - he asked me to wait in the car while he went inside the plain house we parked in front of to go get his friend.

He was inside for what seemed like way too long (over thirty minutes, methinks). When he finally came out he brought with him a young black man, who I'll just call Ron here (I don't remember his name either). Ron was obviously a hustler, and it seemed just as obvious to me that he and Doug had worked out some sort of plan while inside the house to hustle me out of the car I was driving, since it was the only thing of any value I had left to my name. Doug knew I was on the lamb by this time so I couldn't go to the police. By himself Doug was harmless, not nearly intelligent enough to be considered a threat. That's what made the conspiracy between him and Ron to jack my car so obvious. Suddenly Doug started acting like he had some objective that required nearly all of his focus and mental capacity. Ron had to actually keep Doug on point with "subtle" hints, that I could see easily. It was like two blind men trying to rob a man who could see them clearly signal intentions to each other by touch or something. Ron was clearly the "intelligent" one, but he wasn't very smart either. He didn't seem to realize that I could figure out what he meant when he told Doug to "chill" for example (i.e. "not yet").

So, I played along by pretending to be dumber than the dumb. There were two of them and only one of me, and Doug was right about one thing, I couldn't expect help from the police. I would just have to outwit them, which turned out to be not very hard.

One thing I learned about surviving in prison is that you never show your cards. On the long drive to Houston at one point Doug asked me as nonchalantly as he could about how I protect myself. He was trying to "peek" at my hand. So I just pointed at my head and said, "with this", to which he replied, "You mean you talk your way out of trouble?" And I said, "Something like that."

What I didn't tell him of course was that he was an idiot and I could see his "hand" (intentions) as easily as you can see a child's cards in a poker game. The two of them (Doug and Ron) thought they could beat me with a pair of jacks. But, they didn't see my small straight until it was too late and I laid it on the table and walked away with the "pot" (which turned out to be worthless, as you'll see).

So we drove to a secluded tavern, which was just a one room shack on a dirt lot with a small bar and one pool table inside. It was early, so the tavern was empty. We turned out to be the only customers as I recall. It seemed clear to me that the woman tending the bar would not raise an eyebrow if anything happened in the tavern. It seemed safe to assume that as long as she herself wasn't in danger then the concealed shotgun (her "trump card") would never come out.

Of course I'm just supposing all this about the bartender and such, but the point is that I knew I couldn't expect any help from her, so I understood the danger I was in even though we were in a "public place".

I pretended I felt safe though, and acted like I was with my "buddies" as we ordered drinks and paid for a game of pool. Ron kept Doug on a tight leash with little high-signs and signals that I pretended not to notice. We played a game of pool for three players, where each of us took turns trying to sink five balls. At one point, and on a cue from Ron, Doug said he needed to use the bathroom after I had just taken a turn. So it was Ron's turn next, then Doug's turn again. Ron shot and scratched. Then he suggested that I go ahead and take my turn since Doug was still in the bathroom. But instead I just started bouncing the cue ball off the rail while we waited for Doug.

After a few months Doug came back and as soon as he saw me shooting the cue ball he became irate and accused me of going out of turn very aggressively. It was obvious that he was trying to pick a fight, and didn't even listen to anything I said when I tried to explain that it was still his turn and I was just playing around with the scratched cue ball. Fortunately Ron backed me up, and calmed Doug down with more "not yet" high-signs.

So, now the "play" was clear to me. They would start a bar fight, beat me silly, then take my car and leave me to lick my wounds thinking I "deserved" to get jacked or something. Actually, I wasn't 100% clear on the play, but I knew my hand was being called and it was time for me to make my move.

I was still pretending to be "buddies", and so were they, thinly. So I used that as my draw card and got lucky. I pretended to suddenly remember that I had told my girlfriend I would call and needed to use a phone. There was no payphone in the bar, so I needed to make a quick trip to a nearby gas station to call her, and I'd be right back. I made my play fast, so by the time they realized I had just beat them with a small straight I was already out the door and gone. I still remember the look on Doug's face when he realized what was happening too late to do anything about it. I think Ron must have said something to him after I grabbed my car keys (which he had been holding at the time) and walked out the door, because after I got in the car I saw him suddenly come running out of the tavern and in my direction. But I'd already started the car, dropped it into gear and literally pealed out of the parking lot throwing dust and gravel back at the would-be carjacker. I remember wondering if he would realize after that exactly what I meant when I had pointed at my head and said, "with this". Probably not, but it was a nice thought.

I drove a few miles away from the tavern, really not having any idea about where I was, then pulled off the road to take inventory of my situation. I had very little money - less than $50 - but a full tank of gas. I checked a paper map and figured out a route that would get me North and away from the city. I remember a strong sense of just wanting to get far away from Houston as quickly as I could.

But first I got out and checked the trunk where Doug's window washing tools still were. I considered keeping it for a moment, maybe I could use it to earn some quick cash the same way he did. But in the end I decided it would be too risky to expose myself to scrutiny like that, so I just removed all of it and left it there by the side of the road. So much for my "pot" of winnings, and good riddance to Doug and all that was his.

I then drove north on some state highway, but did not get far before I started to fall asleep at the wheel. I actually must have fallen asleep at one point because I saw a large road sign that simply disappeared when I tried to read what it said. The only sleep I had had for the last two days or so was the little I got on the way to Houston while I let Doug drive. So I decided it was too dangerous to drive any further and pulled off behind a gas station and then fell asleep right there behind the wheel of the car. Luckily no one disturbed me or called the police.

After I woke I gassed the car and bought some snack food then continued North. I drove around Dallas on the freeway that circles that city and had to back track when I realized I was going South again. North of Dallas I ran out of gas and money. So I pulled off in some small town and found a Western Union office. Then  I called my dad in Nevada and asked him to wire me enough money for me to drive to my step-sister's house in Warsaw, Missouri, which by now was only six or seven hundred miles away. The money arrived with no problem, then I drive the rest of the day and at my father's urging spent the night at a decent travelers hotel with an indoor pool, which I used gladly. Swimming makes me feel safe and reinvigorated. The next day I drove into Southern Missouri and met my step-sister, Jenny, in town so she could escort me to her house several miles down a long winding access road (maps were no help). I ended up staying with Jenny and her three teen boys for several weeks until my father and step-mother arrived to visit having driven from Nevada. But that's another part of the story, which I will continue soon in the next part of this bizarre saga called, "Sister Sister".

[J.D. June 26, 2019] 

Run For The Border

After kidnapping, raping, and murdering ten-year-old Anthony Martinez in Riverside county, California, I drove South then East into Arizona. I decided to drive into Mexico and take my chances on the streets on some big city down there rather than in the U.S. where I had warrants and a criminal record. I assumed the record and warrants wouldn't follow me or hound me down there, and maybe I could get a job, learn the language, and live my life unmolested and free. But I never got to find out. In fact, I never even got into Mexico, at least not all the way in.

I chose a border crossing that looked inconspicuous on the folding paper map I had. It was at the end of a long straight single-lane highway that ran for several miles (ten at least, as I recall from memory) from the nearest small town on the American side. At the crossing itself, there was a small town, more like a village really, on the Mexican side, and just the border crossing facilities (no town) on the U.S. side. I crossed with no problem and drove to a small convenience store/gas station in the Mexican town. I figured I'd need some Mexican currency and it'd be easiest to exchange the cash I had near the boarder where they'd hopefully be used to exchanging pesos for dollars.

The store was sparsely stocked, and most of the items it sold seemed to be locally produced, things like pork rinds in unlabeled clear plastic bags, sealed with staples. I selected a commercially labeled bag of chips and soda in a bottle, then got in line to check out.

There were several others, all Mexicans, in the store and in line (as I recall it was essentially the only store in town). After waiting my turn I placed the items I had selected on the register counter and handed the cashier a twenty-dollar bill. But he waived it off, saying something in Spanish that I did not understand. A man behind me in line who spoke English told me that the cashier could not make change for the twenty. I told him it was all I had. Then the man behind me said something to the cashier in Spanish that prompted the cashier to quickly accept the bill, and then literally empty all of the Mexican cash (bill only) from the register and give it to me. It seemed everyone was satisfied, though I realized I was probably getting short changed (I only got about eight U.S. dollars worth of pesos back), but I didn't mind.

I then got back in my car (actually, it was the Chrysler New Yorker I had swapped my Buick Skylark for in Seattle with a lady-friend before I absconded from parole) and headed South into the desert on the only road out of town (not going back to the U.S.). I did not get very far before I came across a police checkpoint, or inspection station of some sort, with signs both in English and Spanish that indicated I was required to pull over. So I did.

The uninformed police inside a small building at the station informed me that before I could continue past the "ten-mile border zone", I was required to have my car bonded. They explained that this was necessary in order to prevent car thieves from taking cars stolen from the States into Mexico to be sold. Then they directed me back to the border town where I had come from where I could get my car bonded (they could not do so themselves, their job was only to make sure cars entering Mexico were properly bonded and/or registered).

So I drove back to the border town and quickly found the bonding office, which was one of only a few business buildings there. They looked up the year, make, and model of the car I was driving in a book and told me the bond would be about $1000, as I recall (or some similar amount that I could not afford).

I was thus forced to either abandon the car at the border and take a bus into Mexico, or return to the U.S. I chose the latter, even though I knew it would be more risky trying to re-enter the U.S. than it was leaving.

I had no problem getting back into the States though. The border officer at the crossing just asked what my business was in Mexico, and then waved me through after I told him I was turned around for failing to bond my car at the border zone (which probably happens a lot).

I then drove North on the single-lane highway that headed back toward the interstate, but decided to stop for the night at a state park campground along the highway in the middle of the desert. There were surprisingly (to me) several other campers already there, some families, and all in tents (as I recall it was a tent only campground, no campers). Because it was in the middle of a flat desert area, all the campsites were in plain view of each other. I drove around and picked out a site some distance away from the other campers and pitched my tent, then ate and relaxed until night came.

After dark I tried to sleep inside the tent, but was disturbed by howling coyotes much too close for comfort. So I broke camp in the dark, threw everything back in the trunk of the car, and drove back out to the highway and headed North again planning on finding a cheap motel in the first town I came to.

But, as soon as I got back on the deserted highway, I got pulled over by a border patrol. They asked what I was doing in the area (near the border) after dark, and I explained about the howling coyotes and deciding to look for a motel. After checking my license and registration (it had only been about a week at this point since I absconded, so there was still no warrant for me yet for the parole violation) and the contents of the trunk (looking quickly, I supposed for drugs and/or illegals) they sent me on my way.

I found a run down motel and spent the rest of the night there under my own name. Then the next day I found my way back to the interstate (I-10? I don't recall exactly) and then headed East. I stopped in Tucson and parked the car in a crowded bus station parking lot, packed some suitcases and bags with everything I though I'd need to survive on the streets for a while, and then called a taxi to pick me up in front of the station and asked the driver to take me to an inexpensive hotel or motel. My plan was to abandon the car at this point, making it look like I had perhaps caught a bus to somewhere else. I feared that someone might have already connected me to the Martinez murder, so ditching the car seemed wise.

But, the next day I was able to walk downtown and found the Tucson Public Library, where I checked the Internet (yes, they had the Internet in those days available at most large public libraries) for news about the murder and me. I found no news about me, and all the news about the murder indicated that they were looking for a local suspect. So it felt safe for me to retrieve the car and continue East, which I did.

On my way leaving Tucson, I picked up a hitchhiker who was lugging a green (army type) duffel bag with his thumb out on the Freeway entrance going East. I figured having someone else in the car with me would be less suspicious than driving alone, especially in a white sedan matching the description of the one used to kidnap that boy in Southern California. I was just trying to play it safe.

The hitchhiker turned out to be a moderately dimwitted man who had just been released that day from the jail in Tucson, and he was trying to get home, to Houston, Texas. So I told him I'd drive him all the way, and did so. Then he and a buddy of his tried to rob me in Houston, but that's another story.

[J.D. February 20, 2019]

(Next post in this series: "Texas Or Bust")

April Fools, California

When I lived in Seattle, in 1996 and 97, I was on parole from prison after serving over 14 years inside for putting my dick in a 14-year-old boy's mouth after making him take off all his clothes at the point of an empty gun which I had just stolen from a neighbor's house. In July of 1996, while on parole, I lashed back out at society for depriving me of my youthful prime years (call it naive, but it was what it was) by kidnapping, raping, and murdering two very young (9 and 11) homeless Native American girls. I didn't get caught, but the pressure of not knowing if I'd be caught caused me to start subconsciously undermining my parole status by smoking a lot of marijuana and moving in with a couple of meth-heads (though I never actually used meth myself). And when I pissed dirty on a routine parole office urine test I decided to abscond. That was early 1997 on April 1st, or “April Fools' Day” to be exact. I knew the “dirty U.A.” would get me violated and sent back to prison where I'd have to finish the last three years of my 20-year-sentence. So it appeared to make no sense for me not to abscond, since no matter what I did I'd have to go back inside for three more years. I had “nothing to lose” as they say.

I traded cars with an older woman (“Dee”) who had befriended me for sex (in the hopes of getting pregnant, I later realized, because her husband preferred sex with his own prepubescent daughters instead of her). Then I took the money I had been saving to move (about a thousand dollars) and headed south on interstate five.

I spent that first night on the lam in the first travel hotel I saw as soon as I crossed the state border into Oregon. Crossing the border made me officially a fugitive. I had a full beard at the time (my first, and only recently grown). So, I used my beard trimmers to give myself a buzz-cut haircut, and Van Dyke'd my beard --- which was completely out of character for me (I really didn't like Van Dykes or buzz-cuts). I figured appearing out of character would help as a disguise. The next morning I donned a cotton Nike baseball cap (also out of character) and continued South on I-5. (I'm noting this uncharacteristic change of appearance because it describes how I looked days later when I kidnapped 10-year-old Anthony in front of several other children. Even though I was later incorrectly described in the news as having only a mustache, I actually still had the partial beard at that time. This mistake may have helped me get away, and nevertheless told me that no one had gotten a good look at me, which obviously is what I wanted.)

My intent was to drive into California and then start looking for another child to kidnap, rape, and murder. Even though rape and murder are clearly very emotionally motivated crimes, and NOT “cold-blooded” the way they are so commonly portrayed and promoted, the rationale I invented at the time to justify my intent (everything had to be “rational” and “make sense” to me, just like most people) was that if I was going to have to go back to prison, possibly for the rest of my life (if I ever got found out for killing those two girls in Seattle), then I wanted it to be for something “worth” going to prison for.

On the deeper emotional level I just wanted revenge. I needed to take power back from those who had taken power (over my own life) away from me. When we take power back from someone who took power away from us in a socially acceptable way, we call it “justice”. But because what I was doing was against society, even though it's the same thing, we call it “vengence”, and “criminal”.

The next couple of nights I slept in the car in order to be as incognito as possible as I hunted for a child to kidnap. The sex and age of the child was not nearly as important as the mere vulnerability of the victim. I wanted the crime to be shocking and bold in order to show the desperation I felt. So I targeted almost every child I spotted out in the open, and passed over many after stalking them briefly when I determined they were not quite vulnerable enough, because there were too many people around, too many threats, or just too difficult for me to get control over them.

I spotted the group of boys that Anthony was with in an alley that ran behind several lower-middle class houses on a residential block in Beaumont, California. I circled the block then drove into the alley from the other side. I saw four or five boys, aged maybe seven to ten, talking to two girls over a low chain link fence. The girls were “safe” in their own backyard, but the boys were exposed and very vulnerable.

I stopped near them and asked from the car if any of them had seen my cat, proffering a photo of one of my pet cats that I had left behind in Seattle to lure the boys closer. I suppose they may have wanted to appear brave in front of the girls, but for whatever reason, at least two of the boys approached in order to look at the picture, while both girls quickly vanished into the house.

The boys seemed wary and cautious, and I sensed that if I so much as tried to get out of the car, much less get them in, they'd run away. So I thanked them cordially and asked them to keep an eye out for my lost cat. Then I drove out of the alley.

I drove around the immediate neighborhood to get a better “feel” for the area and to devise a strategy to get the boys --- or at least one of them --- in my car and under my control (“control” was very important). I decided to drive back into the alley, this time from the direction I had left the first time. The boys were still there, but no longer were the girls. I stopped a “safe” (non-threatening) distance away from them then got out of the car and began pretending to look around for my cat in the bushes and such. I used this ruse to move a little toward the boys, but they kept their distance. So I hollered over to them and pleaded that if they just helped me look I'd pay them each a dollar, and I pulled out my wallet to produce the cash to show them. They agreed to look, but still kept their distance. Then after they looked around a bit (less than a minute later) I thanked them and held out the cash for them to come collect. This was my move. I gave two of the boys a dollar to get the rest as close and together as possible, and then I pulled a folding knife from my shirt pocket, opened it, and told them to do what I said or I'd stab them!

I expected them to freeze with fright, but instead they scattered. I made a grab for the youngest and most vulnerable one, but Anthony stepped in between us and pushed the younger boy away. I did not realize it at the time, but he was protecting the smaller boy, who happened to be his brother. So, I grabbed Anthony instead, and quickly pushed him into the backseat of the car, hitting him once on the back of the head and telling him to stay down on the floor or I'd kill him. Then I looked around hoping to maybe chase down and grab another boy, but they were gone. So I got in the car, backed quickly out of the alley, spraying gravel, and sped off with my prize.

I drove straight to the interstate and headed South again, speeding at close to a hundred as I went. I figured, correctly as it turned out, that I'd be pulled over if I was spotted whether I was speeding or not. So the best strategy was to get as far away, and out of sight completely, as quickly as possible.

I estimated I had less than an hour before the police would have enough information to begin any kind of organized search. So after about 40 minutes or so of flying down the interstate I decided to pull off and get out of sight.

My first stop was a shopping center parking lot, where I could blend in with all the other parked cars while I took inventory of the situation. I spoke to Anthony only periodically, to threaten him and keep him scared and under control. In the parking lot I pulled out my beard trimmers and shaved off the rest of my beard and mustache, and doffed the hat. Then I drove off, away from the freeway and other traffic to look for a secluded spot. Instinct led me out to a desert ravine road that used to be an access road to a national park, but was now out of service and washed out in spots. I got around the washed out areas with some difficulty, and drove until the road itself could no longer be traveled at all. Then I puled off and slightly up into a side gully where I could park and be out of sight.

It turned out to be the perfect place to hide out for the night and take my vengeance upon the boy. The police, I learned much later, convinced themselves that the man who kidnapped Anthony had to be from the local area because only a local could have known about that ravine. We were hidden not only from sight, but also sound. If the boy screamed, and he did, no one would hear.

I made the boy undress in the front seat and fondled him while I waited for night to come, which it did shortly. I spent the night in the ravine having my way with Anthony, orally, anally, and otherwise. I did things to deliberately humiliate him, like telling him to stand in front of the car in the cold desert night, naked in the beams of the headlights, while I sat in the warm car and masturbated. I also took some pictures of him in various states of undress with the Polaroid camera I had bought just for that purpose. Between episodes I talked with him. I told him that I had to kill him because if I didn't then I'd go to prison for the rest of my life, or worse. He told me he loved Jesus, so he'd go to heaven. He also told me that his only regret would be not being able to say goodbye to his mother. He seemed more worried for her than he was for himself.

At one point lights from another vehicle flashed over us as we sat in the car. I panicked thinking it was police spotlight. But it turned out to be just some men in an off-road pick up equip with lots of bright lights. I didn't know if they'd spotted my car or not, but they drove a little ways off and began firing guns at targets they set up in their lights. After a short time they left the way they came.

At sunrise I drove back down the ravine a ways looking for a place to kill the boy and then hide his body. I settled on a location near the ravine wall, where there was a rock slide that I could use to help cover his body. I told Anthony to take all his clothes off again, and used duct tape to bind his hands and feet, with a piece of tape over his mouth as well. Then I made him kneel, and began throwing large rocks aimed at the back of the head (I threw rocks in order to avoid getting blood splashed back on myself). He fell over as I continued throwing rocks until I thought he was dead, all of them aimed at his head. Then I positioned his body at the base of the ravine wall under the rock slide, and began pushing rocks from the slide down on top of him. As I did so I noticed his eyes were open and tracking me, watching me. I was being methodical and not enjoying the chore. I said, sardonically, “Aren't you dead yet?” Then I picked up in even larger rock and threw it down on his head, and finished burying him convinced he was dead at least, so could no longer feel any pain.

But he still wasn't dead. After I left he managed to unbury himself and somehow pull the tape down off his mouth, but that was all. He died some time later. At least that's how it appeared in the “crime scene” photos I was shown years later after I had confessed.

Before leaving the ravine after I tried to hide Anthony's body I had also hidden a small “souvenir” package that contained the Polaroid pictures I took of Anthony, his jockey underpants, and the folding knife I used to threaten the boys with in Beaumont, all wrapped in a plastic bag and then with duct tape. I placed it under some rocks away from the washed out road near the entrance to the ravine. The police never found it, not even after they discovered Anthony's body a couple of weeks later. So I went back and retrieved it a couple of months later after I had switched cars again with Dee in Spokane.

I then drove back toward the freeway and the small city (Indio, it would seem) where I had pulled off the night before to get out of sight. I knew I was still well within the police “search” area, so I needed to find some place to hole up during the day (I reasoned I could be too easily spotted from the air during the day if I stayed in the ravine, not to mention by more off-road traffic). I stopped at the first cheap motel I came to, and after parking the car out of sight, I registered under a made up name for a room, telling the clerk that my I.D. was in my luggage and I'd bring it by the office after I got settled; which, of course, I never did.

When I got to my room I turned on the T.V. and saw reports on several channels about the kidnapping, complete with a preliminary sketch of the suspect, which fortunately did not look anything like me. They described the car as a white sedan with California plates. Again a stroke of luck; I had Washington plates. Anthony himself told me he had noticed my plates were from Washington, which worried me. But now it seemed he was the only one that noticed the out of state plates.

I slept the day away at the motel. I hung a suit jacket and shirt on the clothes hanger hook in the car in plain sight so it'd look like I was travelling on business. I don't know if any of my many little ruses like that worked or not, but I did see a very suspicious car behind the motel with two white men in it... extremely unusual. Might they have been plain clothed cops checking out a “supicious person” call from the motel clerk? Perhaps, but I'll never know.

At dusk I left the motel without checking out and drove further South on local roads in order to avoid the interstate around a heavily populated area, which I knew would be under the watch and eye of local police. Along the way I discarded the rest of Anthony's clothes and other potential evidence in a dumpster behind a fast food restaurant. I eventually re-entered the interstate and continued South, this time obeying the speed limit. At one point I spotted a state trooper who appeared to be watching the South bound lanes from a “trap” position in an old abandoned gas station. It was night now, and this stretch of the freeway was lit up by the lights from the station so he could see the cars passing more clearly. It was a good “choke point” for traffic leaving the Riverside valley where the kidnapping took place. After I passed I saw the cruiser pull out toward the freeway entrance where he could enter the freeway and get behind me easily. So I pulled off the freeway directly in front of him; another ruse. I was hoping to appear like “local traffic” to the cop. I then turned North and followed a frontage road back in the opposite direction, which I knew the cop could also see and perhaps not bother pursuing me since it would no longer appear as though I was trying to “leave the area” like a “fleeing suspect”. It must have worked because I saw the cop turn around and (presumably) return to his “trap” position.

After consulting my map, which wasn't detailed enough to show local roads, I realized that I couldn't get past the cop without risking getting lost and possibly potted on the local roads. So I waited for a truck going South (of which there are many at night) then drove next to it in the passing lane past the “check point” so the cop couldn't see me. It worked like a charm, I got past the cop and continued on out of the state and into Arizona.

During this drive, on my way out of California and to “freedom” beyond, I remember a poem coming to me almost entirely in one piece. I called it “An Ode To The Killer”. I had little trouble remembering it, and even wrote it down in a little black book I had with me. I did not realize until after my arrest many years later, in 2005, how deep and prophetic it was.

“An Ode To The Killer”

I know the reason why.

I know the reason for your hate.

And, I know the reason for your pain.

I know the reason for my love.

And, I know the reason we're not the same.

God's Love.

God's Love is the reason.

And, God's Love will bring you down.

Note: Even back then I understood “God's Love” as a reference to the Universal Will and Intelligence behind everything we experience. Since then I have further realized that the word “God” is nothing more than a metaphor for something far greater, and loving, than any “God” of religious imagination ever was or will ever be.

Earliest Memories: Ft. Ord, California (1967-1968)

I remember living in a house with a hill in the backyard that had curved sidewalk that disappeared up over the crest. I remember always wondering where the sidewalk went. I was only four or five at the time, so the yard itself was the extent of my world, or at least the world I was able to explore by myself.

I remember feeling alone in my world, even though I know now that I had three older sisters and a younger brother, all roughly two years apart in age. I have few early memories of my siblings. I later --- much later --- came to realize that my older sisters never liked me because of how my mother, who dominated my family, favored and doted on me. As I grew older, they resorted to doing everything they could to make me look "bad", and even convinced me I was "bad", either intentionally or unintentionally. I grew up believing I was "ugly" (I wasn't), "stupid" (not at all), and "worthless" (you be the judge, if you like), because of the way my older sisters treated me.

I don't blame them, though, nor ever did. My mother desperately wanted another boy after she lost her first in a mid-term abortion that was induced when my father hit her in the stomach in anger over her pregnancy (i.e. he essentially "murdered" my older brother pre-naturally, and lived his life as a result in a state of perpetual guilt that my mother constantly lorded over him and used to keep him submissive to her). She and my father were both still in high school at the time.

So my sisters were only reacting naturally to the very palpable emotional neglect that they themselves experienced as a result of being unwanted girls by my mother, and impositions upon my father, who escaped the family as much as he could through an NCO military career.

I don't blame my mother or father either. They were just kids themselves, struggling to adapt to a completely new and fast-changing post World War world where television ruled moral conduct with falsely composed images of perfect American families that were, and are, impossible to attain. My mother desperately wanted such a family, so desperately that she shunned even her own thoughts, and children, when they did not conform. I think my father just wanted to stay out of prison, and then, later, out of hell. (And then, later still, out of prison again; but that's a different story.)

If I were to blame anyone, for my loneliness and such, it would be society itself for the way it held up such impossible idealistic familial images that even the most staunch advocates could not attain in the end (as history shows). And I did blame society for the longest time years later, after all the fear, confusion, and loneliness I experienced as a child lead me to behave against love and human connection itself and landed me in prison before I even understood what it was I was rebelling against.

But, I can't blame society anymore. Like my sisters, like my parents, and like everyone else, including me, society was just a "victim" of its own ignorance and historical circumstance. The disease, if you can call it that, that causes all such fear, confusion, and suffering (loneliness) is ignorance itself. And I have since come to understand that even ignorance has its place and purpose. So in the end, I no longer blame anyone or anything. It just is what it is.

So, my earliest memories excuse nothing. Though they could help explain everything, if considered without an eye on blame, or fault, but instead with an open heart and mind that might allow one to see how WE are all responsible for what our children do (and become), as I hope the fact of my earliest memories as a child help to set forth here. I became a "serial killer", and "child rapist/murderer", even "the most hated man in Idaho" (according to the popular newspapers). But, what I became was the result of who and what we all are together, not just who or what I am alone. Just as it takes a village to raise a child, so it takes a society to create a "monster". My hope is only that someday WE will realize this, and stop blaming everything on the "monsters" that we create, which only propagates the ignorance, and the "monstrous" behavior itself.

I remember puppies in a flimsy pen made from chicken-wire erected in the backyard. These were from our family dog's first and only litter. Her name was Gigi, a black and white mixed spaniel. She had eight puppies, which we gave away quickly. I don't remember their birth, or anything else. Just the puppies in a pen on the grass.

I remember being so desperate for attention from my older sisters that one day as they walked me home from school (half-day kindergarten for me), I told them I knew where there was some "human poop" behind a bush along the way. When they asked how I knew it was human, I said because it looked human. I couldn't tell them the truth, that it was my own poop which I had deposited earlier as I walked to school by myself (during their lunch time). I had to poop and there was no bathroom near enough, so I dropped my pants and took care of business behind the bush. I don't know why I'd remember such a thing, and it's a rather embarrassing memory even now. But it shows how desperate I was for any attention I could get from my older sisters, a desperation that permeated my childhood and even carried over into my adult life. I've always felt unloved and unwanted by my sisters, even if I don't understand why.

I was a very curious boy, even as a small child. I loved exploring, and poking things. I remember riding over a bumble-bee I saw on the sidewalk with the front wheel of my tricycle. And then, after I thought it was dead, I tried to pick it up to look at it more closely. It stung me, and I ran to my mother crying. When I was stung again years later, I had a bad allergic reaction, which makes me wonder how much the allergy has to do with this early experience (i.e. could it have been psychosomatic?).

I have "picture memories" of kindergarten. I remember the classroom, the playground, and the walk to school each day at lunch. But I don't remember any other children (peers) or teachers, though my mother says I was the teacher's "pet" in kindergarten (or so the teacher, Mrs. Hall, told her how impressed she was by my manners and intelligence). I don't actually remember Mrs. Hall, or what I actually did in kindergarten at all. I just remember the place, not what happened there.

I remember one day taking my father's army trench-shovel to a nearby play-area with another boy who had brought his father's trench-shovel also. These shovels were common objects in the army, and they could be fixed so that the shovel-head extended at a ninety degree angle and used like a pick-shovel. The other boy and I configured our shovels in this way, then sat opposite each other on the ground and began digging a hole to China (in our imaginations) by taking turns swinging the shovels and scooping out the dirt. I ended up getting hit in the crown of my head by the pointed edge of the other boy's shovel when he swung out of turn, and again ran to my mom crying, this time covered with blood. The wound required stitches at the hospital, but I don't remember that part.

My mother tells me that around this same time, some other children in the neighborhood propped me up on another child's bicycle that was much too large for me so I could not reach the peddles and hence brake. They then pushed me down a hill near our house and I managed to keep upright until reaching an intersection at the bottom of the hill where I was nearly hit by a car that had to swerve to avoid me. My mother said she heard the screech of tires and horn and ran out to investigate, and when she asked what happened, the driver, who had stopped and gotten out of his car to make sure I was okay, told her what happened and that after I subsequently crashed the bike on a nearby lawn, I got up and ran. They found me hiding in some bushes, uninjured, but terrified because of the "trouble" I though I was in. My mother was just happy that I was uninjured.

These are all my earliest memories. I have no memories this early of anything sexual or abusive. I just remember being alone a lot, and feeling alone, though I did not feel sad. Feeling alone just felt "normal" to me. I did not know it was possible to feel otherwise.

[J.D. August 18, 2018]

Sexual Psychopath "Treatment": My Demise

In order to understand the impact that the Sexual Psychopath (SP) so-called «Treatment» program had on me, it is crucial to realize that it was my initiation into the adult world – and the only initiation I ever got.

I was a 16-year-old sub-urbanized military brat with no street smarts and very little sexual experience or information at all when I was first arrested and charged with «raping» a 14-year-old boy (for pointing an empty gun at him and making him «blow» on my dick, then masturbating into his mouth). I was barely nineteen when I was «voted out» of the SP «Treatment» program and sent to prison for seventeen and a half years (on a 20-year-sentence) for the same crime. So the SP program was not just my initiation into the adult world, it was also the only source of information I had about sex, relationships, social experience, and everything else that most teens get to learn from their friends and family. And what I «learned» really confused me for a very long time; I'm still struggling to sort it out all these years later!

The worst part was all the mixed messages I got in the program. The treatment model was based on very strict rules for conduct and self-examination that all SPs (Sexual Psychopaths) were required to adhere to under harsh penalty. An innocent white lie, intended merely to flatter someone could be, and often was, interpreted as «manipulation» and punished with anything from a «sub-group» treatment session (a meeting with two or more other group members to discuss the «treatment issue» and come up with a «treatment plan» to prevent future relapse) to the loss of an entire «step» in the program (there were ten steps required to complete the program, so a lost step could mean several more months in the program).

And yet the therapists and other administrative staff who ran the program were not subject to the rules of conduct and often engaged in behavior that would get any SP instantly and automatically expelled from the program, which usually meant being sent to prison.

For example, one day the therapist for the group I was in («Aquarius» group), Gary Michael Shepherd, whom insisted everyone call him «Mike», interrupted our meeting to inform the group that one of the «OBS» (Observation Status) members who had been «voted out» (i.e. «not treatable») had subpoenaed group records and notes which were kept on file for every meeting. Mike told the group that if anyone asked, the records were lost in a «fire» (which of course they weren't). And even though this amounted to the therapist telling the entire group to be complicit in a criminal act with him, which would result in automatic expulsion for anyone in the group, everyone just nodded ad “ahemmed” their agreeance.

(If anyone is interested in fact-checking this, the man who subpoenaed the group records was named Lotis Cassidy. He claimed that he did not «abuse» his own children, but was only teaching them about sex. So, of course the group said he was in «denial» and found him «not amenable to treatment».)

I also heard about a therapist from before I got to the program who was in the «habit» of picking up young G.I.s hitch-hiking from the nearby military bases, then forcing them into the woods at gunpoint where he'd tie them up and rape them anally. I don't know how true this is though, but I heard it from reliable sources (i.e. my attorneys, who were investigating the «mitigating» impact that the program might have had on my recent death penalty trials).

The worst thing that «Mike» Shepherd did though was very personal to me, and directly lead to my «quitting» the program (though technically I was, of course, found «not amenable to treatment», thus «voted out» and sent to prison). He contacted my mother and offered to «comfort» her if she needed it. He ended up inviting himself over to her house and making very lewd and lascivious sexual advances toward her. When my mother refused his advances, he made implied threats about my (her son) «advancement» in treatment, and told her that if she did what he wanted her to do (have sex with him) that he'd help her son move quickly through the «steps» in the program, etc.

My mother still refused and forcefully told him to leave. (She has since told investigators working for my «death penalty» defense team that to this day she still feels «guilty» for not giving in to Shepherd's demands and causing her son (me) to be kicked out of the program and sent to prison.)

The next day she came to visit me at the program and in tears told me what happened. After this visit I in turn told the group in the meeting that same evening. The next day «Mike» Shepherd read the group meeting notes, then called the «senior leaders» into his office and told them my mother was lying. Then he called me into his office and with the group leaders still present he denied making any sexual advances toward my mother (though he admitted to being at her house to «counsel» her at her request). I told him I believed my mother, not him. Then he told me I could believe what I want, but I was not to bring up the accusations «in group» again (where they'd be documented) and he told the leaders to make sure I didn't.

As it turned out, Gary «Mike» Shepherd has a long history of sexually abusive behavior toward «vulnerable» women, and using his «authority» to take advantage of them. Later lawsuits brought by women who were raped by a serial rapist (named Timothy Anderson) while the rapist was on «work release» under Shepherd's charge, claimed that several other women related to men in the program (usually wives, and girlfriends) had also been manipulated for sex by Shepherd, including Tim Anderson's wife. In exchange for sex with Anderson's wife, Shepherd had advanced him (the rapist) quickly through the program and AGAINST the recommendations of the treatment group itself. Thus, Anderson was raping women while still in the program and living on the treatment «ward». This lawsuit was settled by the state out of court, and never received any public attention. The program was shut down (possibly as part of the «agreement»), but since the allegations against Gary Shepherd were never proven, he was re-assigned to another «therapist» position within the same psychiatric hospital (Western State Hospital) and remained a DSHS (Department of Social Health Services) employee. (When I was representing myself in this more recent death penalty case I saw documents stamped «confidential» all over them that showed several female employees (nursing staff) who worked with Shepherd in the years since also formally complained about being harassed and threatened by Shepherd for sexual favors. The last I heard he was still employed by DSHS though, and had refused to meet or speak with my «defense team» investigators. He should be retired by now though.)

Needless to say, the impact this «assault» against my mother had on me was tremendous. According to SP program standards, what «Mike» did was «attempted rape» (i.e. using threats to force a vulnerable person to have sex). Prior to this incident I was doing very well in the program on my own (without his «help») and even looked up to «Mike» as a fatherly figure (which is how he liked to present himself). But now...? Well, I was crushed, confused, and left with no support or course of redress for the source of my confusion because of the way Shepherd forbade me from discussing it with other group members.

I eventually, over the course of a few weeks, realized I could no longer stay in the program. I decided to risk prison, which from my perspective at the time suddenly didn't seem so bad. To understand this decision you have to realize what the program meant to me. It was my «salvation». For the first time in my life I felt like I was getting the «help» and information I needed in order to sort through all the confusing and hypocritical messages I kept getting from everyone else – teachers, parents, older siblings, friends, etc.. I realized later in life that the hypocritical messages I got as a child are «standard» (i.e. everyone gets them). But most people find something to «hold onto» (rationally) in order to fair the confusion. They find some belief or other that becomes their «religion» in some sense (literally or figuratively) that they cling to no matter what other messages they receive. This makes them feel safe and secure, thus providing a sense of salvation and purpose in life. The SP treatment program was my «religion» in this sense, and Shepherd was my «priest» (religious leader). That's how it really felt to me. So when Shepherd did what he did with my mother I lost my «religion», and anyone who has ever lost their «religion» like that knows how devastating it can be, and would instantly understand why prison suddenly seemed preferable to remaining in the «treatment» program.

But, I had just recently been approved for a special «cottage visit» with my family. This was a special privilege only for members in the program who had reached step five or above. It was an entire weekend visiting in one of the hospital's cottages with no security. The only restriction was that you could not leave the hospital grounds. But I could walk around the hospital with my family and cook meals with them in the cottage. For men with wives this was a conjugal visit. But for me, since my parents were divorced, I had arranged to spend the first day (and night) with my mother, and the second with my father. I was very excited about the visit, so I decided to wait until after the visit before I told the group I was done with the program and wanted to do my time in prison.

During the cottage visit I had an extremely emotional encounter with my mother that confused me even more at the time, but I have since come to understand it was deeply related to the confusion that lead me to think that forcing someone to have sex with me would help me find some resolution and understanding. It's far too complex for me to attempt explaining here, so I'll just say that I realized that my mother had feelings for me that I could not understand at the time. Not necessarily «sexual» feelings, but not quite «motherly» either. I was her «religion» in the same sense I've mentioned above. She clung to me for a sense of sanity in an insane world. There are a lot of complex emotional reasons behind this, that go back to her having lost her first child, a boy, in a late term miscarriage at a very young age. The circumstances under which she lost her first son only made the experience all the more traumatic and confusing for her. And when I was born I instantly became her «salvation», and her «religion», ultimately to my own demise.

So, long story short, that first night in the cottage, after my mother had gone to bed, I sat out on the porch and pondered the meaning of life, and whether it was even worth living. I had lost my «father» and my «mother», emotionally, within a matter of weeks. It felt exactly like my world had ended, and I knew prison was the only avenue left for me. So I decided to make my decision irreversible, and I got up and walked off the porch, across a field, and over the low stone wall that marked the boundary of the hospital grounds. In effect, I «escaped», which I knew was the «ultimate» unforgivable violation possible for someone in the program and guaranteed a ticket to prison.

I didn't go very far, since my intent was only to commit myself to prison and nothing more. I walked to a nearby residential street, looked at the houses (i.e. «freedom»), then returned to the hospital cottage and went to bed without disturbing my mother in the other bedroom.

The next morning two work-release members from the group showed up unexpectedly and told me they were there to escort me back to the ward. It turned out that two other members in the group got caught having sex in the shower together. So the group was «grounded» (no one except work-release members were allowed off ward). We would sit in meeting all day every day, often into the wee hours of the morning, until the group came up with a «treatment plan» solution for the entire group. I was a newly elected «Junior leader» at the time, but because of the «seriousness» of the problem (sex in the program was second only to escape as far as seriousness goes, and the only thing worse than these was an actual sex crime, such as exposing yourself to a visitor or something), the first thing the group did was elect a more «experienced» Junior leader to replace me. In the very next meeting I dropped my own bombshell on the group by telling them – completely out of the blue – that I did not want to be in the program any more and had left the hospital grounds («escaped») while at the cottage the night before. The group pelted me with questions, but I clammed up and just kept repeating, «vote me out» and «send me to prison». That was the most I could say with all the emotions I was feeling at the time (I was crying like a baby).

The group put me on «double buddy» watch (so two other members in the group would have to follow me everywhere, even to the bath room) and then decided to wait and see what «Mike» would say on Monday.

On Monday, on Mike's orders, the group leaders called a «marathon line of therapy» on me. This was an outdated practice in the program that had to be explained to everyone in the group. It essentially meant that I would be forced to remained in the group-room, against my will, until I started answering questions. Other members of the group were allowed to leave in pairs in order to use the bathroom and/or take a smoke break. But I was forced, physically, to remain in the group room by two of the largest members in the group (Tabor Guard and Jessie Littleton) who sat by the door. I actually got up to try to leave several times, and even complained that I had to use the bathroom, but on every occasion I was physically stopped from leaving by Tabor and Jessie.

After what seemed like a very long time (one or two hours, maybe?) I started telling them what I thought they wanted to hear. I tried telling them the truth at first, that I left the hospital grounds only to make sure I'd be voted out because of what «Mike» Shepherd did with my mother. But they called that bullshit and demanded to know the «real reason», which according to them was that I wanted to rape another child.

So after several hours of this I started just agreeing with everything they «imagined» I had «really» done while at the cottage with my mother. I told them that I made a «rape kit» consisting of an electric cord and such to tie up my victim with and took it with me when I «escaped». I even told them that I spied on a girl doing homework by peeking through a window. None of this made sense, but it seemed to satisfy them and so they ended the «line of therapy» once they had the «confession» that Shepherd ordered them to get from me.

«Mike» Shepherd then used this «confession» in his official report to the court after I was voted out of the program. And this report went into my official file, and eventually became the primary reason I ended up serving over 14 years in prison. «Mike» claimed in his report that I was delusional, manipulative, and so obsessed with raping children that I left the hospital grounds even while still in the program to do exactly that. I had no idea that his report would plague me like it did (and still does) for the rest of my life. I tried to challenge it many years later, but even though «Mike» Shepherd was the one who wrote the report it was signed off by at least one W.S.H doctor, who I did not know and never met, and whose credentials I could not challenge.

Even though Shepherd's report caused me to serve an exceptionally long prison sentence, and also caused me to later be classified as a «level three» (worst of the worst) sex offender after I got out of prison and finished my sentence, I never blame Shepherd for what he did. I kept an affinity for him that I couldn't betray. He was, after all, just another «sex offender» like me. So if I blamed him I'd have to blame myself also. Instead I sought to blame those who gave him the authority that he used to hurt me and my mother. Ultimately I blamed the System as I came to recognize it as a living, breathing, and FEEDING organism with a will and intent all its own. I directed all my rage for these injustices toward the ones who ignorantly propagated the System and allowed it to prosper, that being society itself. And as I sit now on Federal death row as a result, I blame no one any more, not even myself.

[J.D. June 20, 2018]