Exhibit A (Chapter 4) by Nik James
"I looked and there before me was a pale horse!"
"The riders name was Death, and Hell followed with him!"
- Revelation 6:8
"First, I'd like to say thank you for taking the time to listen to what I have to say. It's been four years, seven months, three weeks, and one day since this circus started. I will be more than grateful when I get to put this experience behind me. I have waited for this day since August 25th, 2010. It's been more than infuriating to have to wait this long to finally get a say, to be heard, to actually have control over my life and the people influencing it.
I wrote this impact statement for the courts to detail the effects that these depraved acts have caused. Well, this could take a while. Let me take you back to the summer of 1997. I was nine, almost ten, the first time he abused me. While my mother worked two jobs to pay the bills and put food on the table, we were under his constant supervision. After recently moving here from my grandparents' house in MS, I was trying to adjust to the new rules and lifestyle of the family.
While I have nothing against rules and structure, I seemed to have a tough time conforming to the cruel and unusual habits he had created. Several rules were, I could not have friends at my house, nor was I allowed to go to anyone’s house, ever. They considered school a privilege so on a whim he could decide that day, I didn't need to go. I would have to stay home and do work in the yard, cleaning, finding tools, mending fences, etc. When I attended school, he expected me to do chores before schoolwork, yet nothing less than a B+ was acceptable on my report cards.
I was in trouble a lot. Getting all these rules correct was impossible. I could never get anything right, and he was always doing strange things as punishment. Writing thousands of sentences, not getting to go to bed until things were done, standing in the corner with my head pressed against it until my nose bled. Getting whipped with the belt buckle, push-ups, and leg lifts until I was sick, or having to start over if I stopped.
That's when he came to me with a proposal, a Deal, an agreement that could get me out of these punishments and earn special privileges, such as having friends over, or fewer chores. At nine years old, I was interested in what I could do to get out of trouble or have a friend from school come over! Little did I know, and much to my dismay, what this "deal" was going to entail. This was not any kind of agreement that any child at any age should have to consent to. I declined. I said NO, but to think that I had a choice was a mistake that will forever haunt me. The explicit details are unimportant here, now. This was such a small portion of the life I have lived. Verbal attacks on my character, personality, looks, and intelligence were on the agenda daily. Being told that I was worthless, stupid, and ugly. Being told that I would end up in prison or dead because no one wanted to deal with me were things I heard frequently. Being told that my mother didn't care about me and that's why I lived with my grandparents was another classic phrase.
As I got older and smarter, I tried to figure out ways to get out of a "meeting." Any time I did this, he got angry and during the day I got the physical wrath. Punched in the head or ribs, getting earrings yanked out with clumps of hair, being drug from the corner of the kitchen that I always ended up cowering in. Kicked in the back of the leg with steel toes. Having a screwdriver stuck in my elbow for sighing out of line, getting my lip split clean through for wearing "stupid sunglasses." Just a fraction of what happened. Each scolding ended with the infamous collection of statements to follow: "family don't call the cops on family" and "if you call the cops, I will make sure they have a reason to take me to jail." There was one time the sheriff came out to the house. He had gotten a child welfare check call. When they pulled up, we were outside, they saw we weren’t dead. They proceeded to the house. After a thirty-minute chat with him, they came to speak with us.
During that conversation, they told us we were lucky, lucky to have a parent like that, one who cared, one who wanted the best for us and that's why we had rules and structure. We should be grateful. They never once asked us if there was anything inappropriate going on. If I couldn't trust the very people who were paid to protect us and were snowed by this man, my mother would be as well. What is important here and now is that you, this court, God, and everybody knows for a fact that this experience has damn well impacted me.
All the guilt and shame, all the pain I felt all these years, I thought were mine to shoulder forever. I contemplated suicide more than once. I thought the only way to end it was to end it myself. There was little hope. I settled for cutting. I cut myself just to feel that searing pain and watch the blood run down my arms or legs. Like a river running free with nothing to tell it where to go or what to do. It was the closest thing to feeling good that I could do. Just for those few moments, I was in control. Deep down somewhere inside, there was a little flame that stayed burning, telling me to keep going for one more day. I never thought I'd escape. I'd rot in this cage. I would be a slave to this place. You don't know how hard I fought to survive, waking up alive when all I wanted was to die. You don't know about this life I've lived, these roads I've walked, or these tears I've shed.
There are effects this has had on me extending from living at home. One thing that I have had to live with because of this is my dislike for person-to-person contact. I don't even hug my family or sometimes my kids. My sleep habits are being affected by my obsessive-compulsive disorder. I suffer from overeating. I constantly concern myself with my self-image to others and have had several unhealthy obsessive relationships. All based on my need to find worth and low self-esteem. I have nightmares, constantly. Nightmares, flashbacks, and post-traumatic stress syndrome. Every day, I must fight the war that rages inside me. The constant argument with myself. The black and white of it, the good vs. evil. Everything I do is tainted by all this. Memories of my childhood dictate my life and even though I don't express it openly with others, I fight all the emotions back and finally settle on the one easiest to control. Anger.
I need to be and have been the strong one, the one who can keep a level head during all of this. They needed and shoulder to lean on and I took that willingly. But it takes its toll as well. When I am alone, I cry. When I wake up from my nightmares, I cry. I still fight for my self-image, my self-esteem. I take on challenges to prove that I am not worthless. I refuse to become everything he said I would be. Still, some days I slip, slip to that place that so closely resembles hell. The place where all the guilt and self-loathing all but consumes me whole and spits me out, broken again. I fight and I fight to win. I use my anger to fuel that little flame that has always been there, burning inside, keeping me lit. At least one more day.
How long do you think it's going to take to get over these things? I'll tell you; too long, much longer than it should take. Time is not considered here, though. Concerning this matter, forty years with twenty suspended and eligible for parole after five? Tell me that's not a slap in the face to this family, myself, my sister, mother, brother, or any other child who has or is going through this same ordeal?! I don't want an apology; I don't want to see remorse. I want to see suffering, the same suffering that I felt. I want to see the fear of what comes next. A total loss of control is what I want to see. No more choices, no more options, and no more DEALS!
I want someone else to be in control, to say when to eat when to sleep, when to shower. I want to see all the dignity stripped away, leaving the only thing to cover up with is guilt and shame. I want a brutal humbling. No more manipulating the system with fake sincerity and misshapen chaos in well-seeming forms. I want to see it for a long time! Let's add years for the time it took investigating, and the time taken to build the defense.
How about more for all the time he spent playing games with the court systems? Thirteen continuances, four judges, and four attorneys, all of which I pay for. No measure of time could balance the scales of justice in this case or any other. Thank you again for your time today, and for letting me speak. There is one more thing I'd like to say specifically to the defendant.
I've spent all of this time building you up in my head as some big bad monster, the truth is you're nothing. Nothing but a sad, pathetic little man that has to beat and rape children to make himself feel big. You've got no power over me. I am not afraid of you. I have nothing to fear. I do have something to say. You're not going to take this from me. Years of screaming in pain, years of anger and rage. I will not be your slave. I leave you in this moment. It's time to strip you of this hold. I will shed myself of this memory, but you, you won't forget me. I will haunt you 'til your body's cold."
He’s shaking his head the way he does when he wants to hit me but can’t. This was the same reaction I get when we’re in public. I took back the power he stole years ago. I reignite the fire within and crank up the heat. If there’s anything he hates, it’s my facial expressions. I can be very animated when I want. These expressions got me in plenty of trouble in the past. I raise one eyebrow, pausing at the end of each sentence, looking up and at him. Making sure I read it slow enough to revel in each word and insult. It’s a triumph. He nods and smirks with his lip curled up like Ted Bundy. Too bad for this fool, Ted Bundy was much more intelligent. I wonder why we waste so many words and metaphors on him. Every sentence packed a punch. I never felt more liberated.
I could tell he was trying to maintain his smugness, trying to keep his composure. He was never great at it. There are little fallacies that give him away. He fidgets when he's mad, coughing fits when he's lying. It's something I have learned to watch out for. Each syllable ate at him. Taking another secret and putting it out there, making him out for who he really is. He’s incredibly nervous, fiddling his thumbs, elbows on the table, tapping his left foot. I'm surprised the coughing fit hasn't started yet. Typically, he did it when he was speaking, so we might not get that act today. The feeling is incredible! I've never been able to do that, speak my mind, and live to tell the tale. I was riding my own smug high as I thanked the judge a third time and walked back to my seat. This time on the way past I stared at him dead in the eyes and when I got just close enough to his table he moved, suddenly and subtly, but enough to get the message across. The difference this time is, that I didn't flinch. I didn't break stride. I didn't even blink, just intense eye contact. He felt defeat at that moment, not shame, not guilt, or any of the things I wanted. The eye contact spoke volumes. He was furious that he couldn’t react as he normally would. No violence, no smooth-talking. Just plain truth being spoken in public. I bet it chapped his ass as much as it made me elated. As frequently as I had been defeated, I would take this as a win.
What happened next, they did not prepare me for. I didn't realize that the defendant could speak, which was naïve, I know. So, when the judge asked for the last statement, it took me aback to see him stand. His attorneys stood with him. What could he say that is going to influence at this point? The statement he made is eight felony counts. He reached into his shirt pocket, pulled the paper, unfolded it, hung his head, and cleared his throat dramatically. He slid the glasses from the top of his bald head to the end of his nose and spoke.
The first thing I notice is his voice cracking. The stuttering he does when he's caught in a lie wasn't happening. He must have rehearsed over the last several months he's been in county. I'm surprised he wasn't hacking up a lung either. Dumbass. He looks so stupid. I'm not sure why, but I'm not paying attention to him speaking, not entirely anyway. Every other word is clear and my blood pressure rising again. The sound of his voice after makes me squirm, even after these last few years. Is he controlling me, and I don't even realize it? How does he still have that power? I hear things like "Me, these kids, growing up…" then he says it. He says the one thing I never knew would put me in such a frenzy until that moment. I hear him say, "I will always love them!"
The ringing in my ears keeps me from hearing anything else. My heart beats in my throat and I clench my jaw. I get tunnel vision, looking at the only thing that was going to make me feel better at that moment. 'Love' is no excuse nor any consolation for the bullshit I endured. That wasn’t love being brutally assaulted day in and day out, month after month, year after year, is not love. I may not know what love is or should be. I know what it isn’t. I don't see in this lifetime or any other where that is love. Even if it was, there was no way in HELL, I wanted his love! I felt sick to my stomach, but not enough to change my mind. In slow motion, I slide off my bench, arm out, reaching across the aisle. I am inches from the gun, the holster already unsnapped, ready for me. I hear nothing, I see nothing, just the gun. From what I can tell, she doesn't notice me. I cannot think about anything else except the disgust I house, and the rage has more than boiled to the surface.
The volcano of unbridled contempt has reached the point of no return. I just barely scrape my fingernail on the butt of the pistol before hands grasp me all over my body. My arms, shoulders, leg, and someone had my neck. People were pulling me back to my seat from all directions and holding me still between them. I hyperventilate, the tears are now streaming silently down my cheeks. All happening in the silence of a courtroom. No one made a sound other than people scooting and grasping, trying to control my anger. If I didn't know better, I would have thought the whole shit was orchestrated. No one said a word. If they saw anything, they aren't acknowledging it. The anger is overwhelming, and I cannot do anything about it. I sat frozen, mortified. The words keep replaying in my head. I almost got the ultimate revenge. I'm shocked by what he had to say. I can't believe he thinks that’s what I want. To be loved forever by him!!??
Nothing has taken my breath away like hearing those words from such a diabolical entity. I don't know if it was the words or who was saying it that bothered me the most, but right then I felt stripped, powerless, and exposed. On the day that was supposed to be the end, the final shining moment, my ultimate mic drop, he took it. He stole that like everything else. In the end, it doesn't even matter. I am so confused. The feelings and thoughts are mixing at warp speed. Trying to decide what is rational and emotion is pointless, they are the same now. I am worried that I won't be able to stop the chaos inside me, now or later.
I missed everything else he said, then I watched him sit down. I am shaking from the adrenaline and the surrounding people are still holding me. Someone is patting my leg, and the rhythm is helping me come back to reality. Next, one of his attorneys stood and made her closing arguments. She stated they had several letters from fellow inmates to show support and to endorse this asshole as the savior of their souls! This shit is out of control! This is a fucking circus, and these freaks are putting on a great show for other people, but seriously tearing the victims to pieces. Why is this allowed? Other pedophiles sending recommendations to a judge about sentencing is the most absurd shit I have ever heard! It seems like a mockery of every victim if this shit is allowed. Let me just put in a good word for my Chomo buddy here so he can get a lesser sentence and find us some more victims. That’s all I hear when I hear stupid shit like this. I find it utterly offensive!
According to his attorney, he has spent the past two years in county praying, reading the Bible, and helping other inmates. She also states these offenders are humans, not animals, and those sex offenders face a tough road in getting paroled and into treatment programs. Treatment? Who in their right mind thinks that treatment would help these idiots? I believe in mistakes and learning from them, but I do not believe in treatment for career predators. I swear to my higher power in this universe, if I have to hear any more skewed opinions about these monsters, I will lose my shit! Then they dare to mention the Bible! I have more stories about how this dick used the Bible to manipulate me to make the people sick. Thankfully, she sits, and we all look at the judge.
The judge is looking at his papers, stacking them, and moving them from one side to the other. Wasting time. It seems he wants to speak, but he is struggling with the words. Finally, the judge takes a deep breath and looks up, folds his hands, and says, "The devastation that you've brought to these two young ladies… is incomprehensible!" He gave the fucking prick concurrent 40-year sentences to the State Prison, with 10 years suspended, for each of seven felony counts. The only thing I can say about this sentence, it’s more than both the prosecution and defense asked for. I am glad that someone in this courtroom has a capacity for feelings. There are still some things I disagree with.
First off, the ability for parole is bullshit, and second is the classes. How the fuck do these idiots think you can go to a class to be cured of your fucking perversions? You know how many classes I've taken, lied my ass off, passed, and now what? Exactly how does that make sense? There is no way he is going to be "all better" at the time he completes the classes. See, these people don't know or don't care about the two-year-old he spent two years destroying. Knowing he had these charges and knowing all the truth I could tell, he still preyed on another innocent soul. If they are capable of all that BS and still do not give a shit about other kids, how the fuck does a class seem a reasonable solution? Bless her heart, I hope someday she gets justice. I know it certainly won't be here.
My need to be heard overcame my every thought. This couldn't be the way it is for everyone. Why is this happening to me? This is one reason victims don't come forward. They fear the authorities, people elected to protect us, and even their parents. They fear these people won't believe them. I couldn't blame them for staying silent, but that wasn't me, not now. I spent far too many years stuck in my silence, causing nothing but harm. I am far too outspoken to give up and I would fight for them as well as myself. How did he get complete control, again? I know the answer isn't within our justice system. It's going to be beyond these state lines and bleeding hearts. It's going to exceed the reach of a societal norm. The victims need acknowledgment, and someone needs to be their voice. I never wanted fame or notoriety for anything that happened to me, but I wanted to well use all my anger and hatred.
NIK JAMES lives in Billings, Montana. He spends his free time outdoors taking photos, rockhounding, or gathering inspiration for future stories. He is married with three kids and three fur babies. He occupies his work time selling auto parts for a major retailer, and has been doing that for the last ten years. Nik enjoys reading and writing in all genres — and has been working on more activism education over the past few years. Find him on Twitter, Instagram, or Facebook.
Exhibit A is currently unpublished.