Katie Beers (23 page)

The story spiraled further down a ludicrous path. “…When I realized what was happening, I pushed her hand away and she—you know, she went, because I started yelling for my wife. My wife lived upstairs.”

“This was a naughty little girl who saw a grown man come out of the bathroom in the nude…”

“I was…” “Let me finish. This was a naughty little girl who saw a grown man come out of the shower in the nude and she decided to come over and manipulate your penis, is that your story to us?”

“No, my story is that I was coming out of the shower and she came into the bathroom, probably not realizing I was in there, and she caught me in the nude drying off and…”

“And when she caught you in the nude, she was so interested in your body that she decided to manipulate your penis, is that our story?”

“I don’t think she was interested. I think she was just more scared than anything else and she didn’t move and I…”

“So in fear, she decided to manipulate your penis?” “I don’t think there was any fear there, but I did entice her to do that. I did entice her.”

“You did or did not entice her?” “I asked her.” “Okay you asked her. Now, back to my basic question. Why would you want this child to do that, for what purpose?”

“I have no idea, sir, why I did that.” “How come you have no idea? You are the best person to ask that question. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes, it is.” “Then how come you have no idea why you did that?” “I don’t know, because I never did this type of thing before.” “Have you been involved in sex offender counseling?”

With that, Sal admitted that he had failed to attend mandatory sex abuser counseling in prison, because the counselor didn’t believe his story either. Despite promises to try to make himself a better person upon release, parole was denied.

The ruling was succinct:

It was apparent that you have not yet come to terms with your criminal conduct, which you severely minimize. You displayed an abject lack of insight into your criminal behavior and have failed to fully participate in recommended therapy. Until you fully address the psychosexual dynamics of your criminal behavior, you will continue to represent a massive risk to public safety.

Sal must have taken note of that last line and returned for parole review in 2002 with a completely different story. This time, he admitted to sexually abusing Katie twice.
³⁰

“I never mentioned, you know, to the commissioners in my previous appearance, but when I took the counseling, the sex offender program, she was very good at getting things out of you, and I myself was abused as a
young child and maybe I just started to do to another child, I don’t know. Family members, a grandfather, uncle, you know, there was—they used to tie me to the benches out in front of the house. They, you know, like they used to buy other things for other children and that just progressed and progressed and as time went on, as I grew older and older, I believe until the age of twelve or thirteen, I had two of my aunt’s brothers, they used to try to take me down in my uncle’s basement and they used to—wanted me to do things. They used to touch me, and the family that I came from, the children were supposed to be seen not heard and every time I tried to talk to, you know, my mother about these things we were always just, you know, pushed to the side. So I guess in my mind, you know, I, over the years, I suppressed these feelings and maybe it just came to a head one day and I, you know, I did what I did.”

“Obviously the things that occurred to you as a young boy, I would certainly assume you derived no pleasure from those things occurring to you?”

“No, I didn’t.” “All right. Then why in God’s name would you ever want to do this to another person after you have been demeaned and injured in that fashion? I mean, this is an unspeakable horrendous thing that you did.”

“Well, like I explained to you, I think, you know, it just came to a point that maybe I wanted to do it to another child but that’s, like I said, not the right way and I can’t take back what I did. All I could do is, you know, improve my lifestyle and try, you now, if and when I do go home, just try to be a productive citizen of society and of course, you know, I know I have to, you know, seek counseling.”

The Parole Board commended Sal for taking a big step with his admissions, then asked him if he ever had child pornography to which he answered, “I don’t even look at porno books.”

Parole was denied yet again. Sal skipped the hearings altogether in 2004 and 2006
³¹
, where parole was again denied.

After serving the maximum of twelve years, New York State Department of Correctional Services had no choice but to return him to society. Sal moved back to Bay Shore and settled in a room at 501 East Main Street, better known as The Econo Lodge. He never registered, as
required, as a high risk sex offender and warrants went out for his arrest. He was picked up in North Carolina and brought back to Suffolk County to stand trial for the parole violation. Police said he had been living there with a girlfriend and her very young children.

I was told I had to remember. Details. Dates were absolutely necessary too. Investigators with the DA’s office took me to the Riverhead library to browse through old newspaper archives on microfiche. Sal used to get the newspaper every day, so if I could simply recognize a headline, or a comic strip, they could have the needed date and I could be assured Sal would never hurt me or anyone else again.

But neither the headlines nor the comics could jog my memory. All I knew is that Sal had been violating me for as long as I could remember.

Three days a week after school, I would go to Mary Bromley’s office to regain the memories. I never minded going to Mary’s office—she treated me more like a teenager or an adult than a previous therapist had. The first therapist, who I saw briefly, was geared more toward kids. I
was
a kid, but I didn’t have kid problems. So my foster parents quickly changed gears and brought me to Mary.

Mary’s office was big with a lot of windows and wrap-around book shelves. There were two couches, a big comfy chair, which Mary usually occupied, a coffee table, her desk, and a little table that was kid-sized. The kid-sized table was where I would do arts and crafts, color pictures and play games. I usually sat on the couch with a pillow planted in my lap.

There, I could talk about anything and everything without a care. As I got older, my foster mom would come to some sessions, as would Marilyn. Not that Marilyn and I ever resolved much. She was the child and I was the grown up. I was the one always making excuses for
her
.

As I grew and made friends and the court cases ended, I went to Mary’s office twice a week, until it dwindled down to once a week; eventually, I would go once every other week. I liked talking to Mary; she was a safe person to confide in, and for the first time in my life, I didn’t have to worry about protecting anyone but me.

Mary always reminded me of how strong a person I already was. Everyone from the DA’s office, too, would tell me how strong I was to
pull through. Most kids who went through what I had gone through, they assured me, would have never been able to withstand a trial. No matter how much preparation they received, they wouldn’t be able to have done that. They told me I was special.

I tried to regain the memories as requested, but it was hard to do after blocking them out for so long. Blocking thoughts was my only way of controlling Sal’s behavior and later Big John’s. If I didn’t think about the dirty things they were doing to me, they wouldn’t happen as often. And even if they did, it was as if it wasn’t happening to
me
. And so I willed the memories to disappear. Of those that lingered, almost every memory that I have of my childhood is of the abuse I endured. Very few memories make me smile. Most make me cry.

Unfortunately for me at the time, in therapy, memories were summoned to reappear. Even worse, in court, I had to talk about the abuse publicly. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do.

I was ushered into a big room with a lot of chairs. The grand jury room was empty except for me, Mary, Mr. Catterson, and a few other people I didn’t know. Mr. Catterson asked me questions about what Sal had done to me. This was something we practiced a lot to make sure that I was comfortable answering Mr. Catterson’s questions. At this point, I was as comfortable as I was going to be. It wasn’t easy to tell people— strangers—that Sal made me “move my hand up and down on his penis after he made me put lotion on it.” Hell, I was only ten and eleven years old; I wasn’t comfortable even saying the word penis! But I moved along with my testimony, answering the questions that were asked. I was asked if I remembered the dates that the abuse occurred —I didn’t. I was then asked to recall a few specific incidences that didn’t occur at my house in West Islip. One incident that I remembered was when Sal was supposed to be taking me to school—he pulled off into a nursery off of Udall Road. The business was closed, so Sal pulled in far enough from the road to be hidden and made me “play with him.” I guess that was specific enough for members of the grand jury.

I was then asked about the nights that I slept on the couch because Linda wouldn’t let me come up to the bedroom having missed the cut-off time. I answered flatly, on those nights, that I awoke face-down to Sal on top of me. I pretended to be asleep because I wanted it to be over quickly.

Sal would take off my underwear and hump me, rubbing himself between my butt cheeks. After he had ejaculated, he would wake me up, and tell me to go clean myself off. I told the grand jury one time after this happened, I threw up. Usually, Sal would come with me to the bathroom and clean himself up too. I was disgusted with what had just happened, and now I had to witness him cleaning himself. It was too much to keep down.

I’m now grateful that no one woke up in the middle of the night to witness the abuse because Sal probably would have killed them. I told the grand jury how, when I didn’t make it upstairs in time, I would sneak into my grandmother’s room and sleep in bed with her, but Sal would still find me and march me to his room. There was no escape.

I traveled a lot to Riverhead during preparations for Sal’s trial, a few times a week. As I sat in Mr. Catterson’s office with him and Assistant District Attorney Bill Ferris asking me questions, Mary was always by my side, usually holding my hand to make me feel at ease. Even now, when I am in an uncomfortable situation, I need something in my lap, either a pillow or my coat, a stuffed animal—something—a little piece of Mary always with me.

The dress I would wear to court was the most beautiful thing I had ever put on. Rose colored with a white lace collar. And the buttons: pearl all the way down the front. But as strong as prosecutors assured me I was, nothing could prepare me for Sal’s burning glare. He was staring me down, leaning toward his attorney to get a better look at me. I tried not to pay too much attention but it was hard because he was in my line of sight as I answered Mr. Catterson’s questions. His eyes were like knives aimed at me. If those eyes could talk they were saying to me alone, “If I don’t go to jail, you’re finished.”

The searing stares unnerved me. As many times as I was promised Sal would go to jail, I wondered if somehow he would find a way to avoid it and come find me at my foster parents’ home in East Hampton. Suffolk prosecutors, in my many visits to their offices, served me bowls of mint chocolate chip ice-cream and assurances that Sal would never do this to anybody else. I would walk from office to office in the DA’s Riverhead headquarters, greeting everyone. Bill Ferris became my friend for life. He still calls me every year on my birthday. But I’m also often visited by Sal’s burning glares. They come back to me in my nightmares. Even when I
knew that he was going to go to prison, I feared he would get out one day and make me pay for speaking the truth.

Somehow, in all the questioning, in all the courtrooms, in all the conference rooms, and on all the prosecutors’ couches, it never came up that I was raped.

Maybe all the grownups were afraid to ask me straight out. Maybe they didn’t want to traumatize me anymore than I had been. Perhaps they
did
ask me and I just don’t remember. Although I’m pretty sure no one ever asked me if either John or Sal had penetrated me. And therefore, I didn’t tell. I wanted to forget that the rapes ever happened and I thought that if I didn’t talk about being raped, it didn’t happen. I felt dirty enough already with just being touched and forced to touch them. I didn’t want to feel dirtier by admitting to being raped. I was too young to understand that Sal and John both would have both faced far more serious criminal charges if I had mentioned the rapes. Instead, the rapes faded away, like the scars on my arm. No one knew that I had been raped and there was a good chunk of time when even I didn’t have an understanding or a word for what had been done to me.

There were a lot of suppressed memories that came to light after starting to spend time with Mary. Little things would jog a memory. Most of my early childhood memories were suppressed. I blocked out whole years and fragmented images: my silent helpless whimpers as Sal beat my brother; the deep searing pain of a lit cigarette touched to my skin and the angry rants from Linda when I cried; the invasion of my most private parts that began when I was two years old.

It seems unreal to me now that as such a young child, I was hurt by so many different people and I didn’t have a mental break down or turn into a heartless monster. Erasing the memories was only one coping mechanism. I also developed the ability to cry away the pain. As a little girl, I would often cry my eyes out. I still do. Sometimes I find myself having a “good cry” and don’t exactly know why. Afterwards, I am drained but recharged.

Sal’s conviction was on the cover of a New York City newspaper when I was in fifth grade. My gym teacher showed me the paper. I felt instantly weak and sick and rushed to the school nurse. I needed to go home right away. Rebecca was home from college and dropped everything
to get to the school and bring me home. I went right upstairs, closed the blinds and made the bedroom as dark as possible. When Aunt Barbara got home from work, she came to check on me—and immediately knew that something was very wrong by the appearance of my bedroom, dark like a cave. I didn’t want to talk about why I was upset, but finally, I could speak. Seeing that headline and Sal’s picture, I told her, put me back in a place I wanted desperately to leave behind. School was supposed to be a safe place for me, and the teachers were supposed to know how to keep me safe. I don’t know what was going through my gym teacher’s head when she showed me the article. Maybe she wanted me to know that Sal was going to jail. But it was Sal’s glare all over again, just as I was trying to forget about all of them and start to live my life—a life that I had never been able to enjoy until now. I wanted to forget about their existence and the pain that they caused me. I wanted a childhood.