Author: ohio

S/he who fights monsters should take care that she herself not become a monster. For when you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.”

~ Friedrich W. Nietzsche

After the intensity of last week’s events, and all the weeks leading up to it since this resurfaced (thank you 20/20) in August, I took a much needed break over the weekend. A break that has now spilled into this week.

I think it’s important for me to mention that up until I was blindsided by a heads-up back in August, informing me that Bolin and his blushing bride were once again going to be on ABC that very night, I rarely gave this part of my life much thought. Frankly, for many, many years I’d rarely thought of it at all. I’ve thought of the victims, more often than anyone outside of my own head will ever know, but not the drama. I’ve been on with my life for a very long time. Doing my thing, concerning myself with the art of living, and with noticing all which matters most in this one, and precious life.  And perhaps, somewhere along the way, even losing sight of my inner awareness that a death loomed on the horizon. In a story with as many legal delays, twists and turns as this one has had, it was easy to forget that most of the appeals had finally been exhausted.

As I’ve said, this “ending” has stirred up a plethora of emotions. Opening up wounds, allowing me to see my own life, from a perch that offers a view in which I’ve never fully taken in before this. One that’s up close and personal, more vivid, more real.  I don’t mind letting in these moments of clarity. Of raw honesty. Of reflection. That’s who I am. That’s how I live my life. I’m not hiding from anything, and I won’t deny any feeling as it comes. But now, today, I’m just as anxious to release this. To let this part of my history go, to put it back in the deepest, healthy corners of my mind, where it belongs.

I hate to be redundant and keep using the words “heavy” and “intense”…but I will find no other words a better fit. Heavy is the only way to describe what these past days/months have been like. For me, as well as for those who love me.

If I haven’t said this already, I didn’t welcome any of this drama into my life again. It wasn’t welcome in 1987, and it isn’t welcome now. But it is what it is, and the story had to play itself out.  And while I will forge on, honor my commitment, continue what I started in writing this blog, for truth and for clarities sake, I find myself growing restless. If something positive comes from this, what a beautiful thing. But I have to remain true to who I am today. And who I am today bears little resemblance to the twenty-year old victim of 1987.

When I say that I’ve refused to be defined by this, that means I have never allowed this one event to become my identity. And while I would be honored to think that speaking out could help anyone else, in any small way, and while I would always be there for anyone who needed me in this capacity, I refuse to allow it to become my identity today.  Whatever anyone else’s perception, whatever anyone else tries to throw at me, it never will.

It’s been hard to get back into “writer zone”. But I’ll try to dig back in. Pick up the story where I left off, offer up those thoughts and opinions which inspired this in the first place, and move on. For you see, I already had. A very time ago.

I’ve received an outpouring of encouragement from a mind-bending number of good and decent people these recent dark days/months. It is for those people I felt compelled to come here this evening, and at the very least, offer up my gratitude.  I can’t express how much the love and support has meant to me.

So it is for you that I say – I haven’t abandoned this. I just took a much-needed quiet step back.

It’s obvious to me now that any thoughts of doing this blog in chronological order are out the window. There’s the past, there’s present day events, and there’s all the years in between.  Any thought of this flowing like one long story in a book, will have to be forgotten. I still intend to go back and pick up the actual “story” at some point soon, but it’s become clear I need to surrender to the concept of a true blog, and let go of the pressure I’ve put on myself.

Again, thoughts are scattered about in contrasting color. Of course they’re all over the place. How could they not be? So let them fall where they may.

Yesterday was brutal.  For weeks I’ve allowing myself to recall, to even re-live, this one unyielding event that spans three decades of my life. And suddenly, here we are. The day countless juries had called for. I can’t begin to express the different things going through my mind, or how many times I found myself swinging wildly between equally intense emotions. It was all very out-of-body.

As everyone who is following the Oscar Ray Bolin Jr. story knows, he was executed last night at 10:16 pm, after a 4-hour delay. What I felt in that moment, those hours, what I’m feeling today, are all things I’d really love to share. But before I go there, I’m going to share with you exactly what I was feeling in the 11th hour. Sometime between 4-5 pm EST, before the scheduled 6 pm execution.

I have not kept up with the press coverage leading up to this event. I had not, nor have I still, seen the interview with Oscar Ray Bolin others have told me is out there. But I did take the time around mid-day yesterday to glance at a couple articles, and stumbled across comments made by Kay Reeves, the mother of Teri Lynn Mathews. In it she said that if Oscar Ray Bolin Jr. were to confess, to offer an apology for killing her daughter, perhaps then, and only then, may they find some forgiveness. But only if that confession took place. Her words gnawed deeply at me for hours, and in the late afternoon with death looming, in a state of near-panic, I got it in my head to do something that might seem a little bat-shit crazy to most others. But not to those who know me best, and understand that nothing I do is ever limited or governed by rules, except the ones I impose on myself when faced with doing what I think is right in an unjust world.

Over the years, there have been brief moments when in my own mind, I’ve imagined what I would say to the monster who derailed my life, given the opportunity. Never really believing that day would come to fruition, nor that I’d ever allow it to. What is there to say to a serial killer who refuses to face his own dark side? Nothing. But after reading the words of this mother, a woman I’d come to know personally all those years before, and with whom I’ve carried an unbreakable connection to in my heart ever since, I felt a sudden and powerful urge to ask the questions I have always asked in my own mind, and to relay some parting words of my own.  Logistically, I knew it was too late for any such wild thoughts, but that didn’t stop me from having them. Or trying.

I composed an email of what I would say to Oscar Ray Bolin, if given the chance. In the event that in a fair and just world, I’d be able to get them into the hands of the proper authorities to read. In the event that, if there were such a world, he’d answer them.

Late yesterday afternoon, I’d been given the name of a seasoned reporter who was invited to be a part of the execution process. He was already there at the prison, no longer with access to the prisoner.  Everything in my mind told me what I was doing was a complete waste of time, both because time had already run out, and because he would never confess or apologize anyway. But with an urgency I can only describe as a sudden and deep need to come through for these mom’s, after so many years of silence, scrambling, I called the station the reporter was affiliated with. Thinking, if the press still had access, if anyone did, maybe my statements could be read. He was unreachable, but they put my call through to a reporter on the scene, who ironically, turned out to be the woman who did the last interview with Oscar Ray Bolin Jr.  As the words were coming out of my mouth, my voice of reason kicked in. Obviously, this is something I should have thought through hours before. Or days. But I hadn’t had the thought so powerfully until this exact moment in time. Which is the way most powerful thoughts come to us in life.

Undeterred by the voice of reason, and with the full support of the man sitting by my side, the same man who had loved me on that dark November night in 1987,  I called the Florida Dept. of Corrections. I asked them if it was too late for anyone in an official capacity there to read a statement to Bolin.  Knowing the answer. Of course it was too late.  And that thought dies with him.

Here is that unsent email:

While this request may seem unusual, on behalf of all the families gathered, on behalf of myself and my own family, I have two questions and one statement for Oscar Ray Bolin Jr. I was hoping someone might be able to read them to him.

– Why am I alive?
– On the night of November 17/18th 1987, did you fire that gun at me after telling me to run in that dark field in Pennsylvania?

Statement to Oscar Ray Bolin Jr:

Own your own story. Confess to these crimes. You have nothing to lose at this point. You literally don’t. Teri Lynn Mathews, Natalie Blanche Holley, Stephanie Ann Collins…they did not deserve to meet such a cruel and twisted fate.  Neither did I. And if the answer to question #2 is “No”, perhaps somewhere inside you know this. I don’t know why you grabbed me that cold November night. I don’t know why you terrorized that girl of just twenty. I don’t know why you had the urge to brutalize people who had never harmed you. I don’t know what happened in your childhood to darken your soul. But I’m appealing to whatever part of that soul is human — do the right thing and own this. Think about it. You won’t be here to see how this plays out.  This is no longer about you. Your legacy will not be one of an innocent man put to death. You’re not innocent.  Do the only right thing in this moment. Acknowledge that you are the one who killed these beautiful souls, and after three torturous decades, ask those who have loved them for forgiveness. Then be at peace with knowing that may never happen. Just do the right thing.

~ After the execution, I viewed the comments given by Kay Reeves during a press conference. Her broken heart shredded the one that beats inside of me.  On a level I’ll never be able to fully articulate. I felt 28 years of emotions hit me like a freight train. With all that I am, I hope that she, the other mom’s, and all who have ever been affected by this unusually cruel, prolonged collection of tragedies, have found some measure of peace.

But as I headed off to try to grab some much-needed sleep myself last night, I recognized that it may be awhile yet before I ever find mine.

Through the years, there have no doubt been some who’ve questioned where the anger I carry around like a tiny rock, inside of what is otherwise a beautiful heart, comes from. Or why I have little patience for those who have intentionally wounded me. Perhaps as this unfolds, a little insight into that may be gained. Or not. But let me be clear, when I finish with this story, when the dust settles and the smoke clears, and soon, I fully intend to eradicate that rock, once and for all.

And never look back.

 

Creating this blog was a difficult but empowering decision for me, made more difficult by not being in a position to dig into the writing before this. And then, having to decide if I was willing to put out a story so incomplete. Not meeting the deadline I’d created for myself makes me feel somewhat vulnerable, as thus far, the voice of the victim has been louder than the strong woman I am today. And maybe there’s a reason for that.  I’ve been sailing against some powerful elements, but forging on. I had very specific reasons for doing this, not all of which are going to be realized, and I have to accept that. I can only hope that collectively, when all is said and done, something good can from it. There’s a clock, and it’s ticking. And that means many different things, to many different people connected to this. I feel a deep need to just honor those people today, the ones who have touched my life in so many positive ways. Too many to name, but who have shared in this madness with me through the years, and who have been affected in their own unique individual ways. That is where my thoughts are in this moment in time. This isn’t a day to think about those who have hurt me, failed me, or let me down regarding this part of my life, or even since I made the decision to speak out about it. For all those who’ve had my back, just know I love you madly.

There’s a story behind why I chose the name Solitary Bugle.  I’m anxious to share that with you soon.

If I find there is nothing more to say on this day, outside of the intimate conversations taking place between myself and those I love most, let me say this….

Oscar Ray Bolin did not strip me of the things that he intended to. He may have hijacked them for a brief time in my history, and certainly there have been adversities to overcome and areas to repair, but ultimately, these are the things he could not take from me — my pride, my dignity, my fiery spirit,  my sexuality, my love of being a woman, my faith in men, my determination, my ability to be fair and objective and not be slanted by my own personal experiences in life, my gift for seeing the beauty in all the things that matter, my compassionate, honest heart. And Lynyrd Skynyrd.

 

This is my first attempt at a blog.  I know absolutely nothing about blogging, and putting one together in a couple days has proven a challenge.  Frankly, I’m not even sure I’m the blogging type, as my writing style tends to be very wordy.  Trying to rein in a million thoughts scattered like leaves, expressing them in a way that’s both cohesive and readable, that may prove most difficult of all. But the desire to voice the truth trumps such burdens.  After weeks of reflection and much soul-searching, I’ve decided it’s time speak out, to finally weigh-in on a story that’s woven in and out of 28 years of personal history, a story that began years before that.  In the grand scheme of things, it isn’t “personal” really.  While it’s certainly felt so at times, particularly when certain parties involved have made it their life’s mission to turn it into something quite personal, far too many innocent lives have been derailed in this painful saga to view it that way.  Lives brutally taken, lives left behind to grieve an unbearable grief, lives altered on a scale much greater than anything I’ve had to endure.  That’s not to say my own life has not been impacted.  It has.  But being abducted at gunpoint by a complete stranger isn’t personal.  Being raped at gunpoint by that stranger isn’t “personal”.  It’s happenstance, it’s random, it’s the essence of tragedy, and it’s a hideous side of life.  28 years ago I was kidnapped, raped, and tossed into a dark field by Oscar Ray Bolin, a serial killer on Florida’s death row, scheduled for execution tomorrow, January 7th.  And while at the time, and many times since, I’ve resented that it happened to me, I’ve come to understand that it wasn’t personal.  It’s what a diabolical serial killer does.

Again, it’s difficult to articulate my perspective on events that span three decades, and with as many layers, twists and turns as this real-life story has.  Frankly, it’s impossible to express all that I’d like to in one sitting, but whatever is merely touched on today, I hope to elaborate more fully on at a later time.  That’s the beauty of a blog, I’m told.  The inspiration for the blog is quite simple.  I’m about Truth.  That’s who I am; that’s how I live my life.  I believe in being candid, with others and with yourself.  That has mostly served me well; sometimes not so much.  I’ve done things in my life I feel proud of, and have made a hell of a lot of mistakes along the way.  But whatever my mistakes, I own them.  When I’m wrong, I admit it.  When I love, I love deeply.  When I’m passionate about something, I’m all in.   I’m an intensely private person, who also wears her heart on her sleeve.  To know me well is to understand that I am full of such contrast.  Some may view that as a character flaw; I don’t see it that way. The spotlight has never appealed to me, but transparency does.  When I see injustice, I speak out, even if my voice shakes.  When I have an opinion, I express it.  I try my very best to keep it real.  And that’s what this blog is about.

There has been a plethora of misinformation, inaccuracies, untruths, and sideline antics surrounding the entire Oscar Ray Bolin cases for years.  The involvement of his blushing bride, the lack of responsible journalism, laziness on the part of those who could, but fail to check facts, are just some of the reasons why.  The circus-like quality that has dominated this entire situation over the years has diverted attention away from the victims, their families, and the pursuit of justice itself.  This has bothered me immensely, both as a participant and from afar.  This seems like as good a time as any to do a little record straightening myself.  I’ve chosen to remain silent for many years for reasons I will elaborate on further in this piece.

But as this execution date arrives, I’ve come to realize that perhaps that has been at my own expense. For I never fully realized just how unheard my own voice has been. When I testified many years ago in the murder trials for the victim(s) for which he is set to die, I believed that I was giving a voice to those who could no longer speak. Could no longer tell what actually happened to them. It was something I felt powerfully determined to do. What I didn’t realize, is that somewhere along the way, I lost sight of the fact that I too had been his victim, no matter how much I’d done in my life to distance myself from that word. And as recent weeks and days have lead up to this chapter, I’ve actually felt myself being transported back to the night that connects me to this story, in a way I never have since it happened. And with that has come a deep sense of sorrow for that young woman of just twenty, and a startling recognition that that girl was me.  I now see that I have spent so many years trying to be strong, so determined to not be that stereo-typical “victim” type, to be fierce and brave and unscathed, that perhaps I have been unfair to myself in some ways. Perhaps the knowledge that there were others, whose lives had been taken while mine inexplicably continued on, allowed me to minimize my own view that I too, had been one of his casualties. What happened to me that night almost three decades ago is chilling. As I re-live it for the first time really, raw and unfiltered in my mind, I fully see that. The maternal side of the 48 year old woman I am today, wishes she could go back in time and give the 20 year old version of herself a really big hug. And while I have come too far in my life to ever put myself back in the mode of self-pity, I think I realize that it’s okay for a moment to grant myself permission to feel the weight of things I have detached myself from all these years. That it’s time for my own voice to be heard, outside of a court of law.  And then move on.

Perhaps I should briefly give some insight as to where this all began for me before I get too much further ahead of myself.

November 1987

I don’t know if I want to go into great detail about that one night at this time. There’s far too much ground to cover. Whatever I skim over, I will expand on at a later date.  What’s important to know is that anything I do share regarding the crimes against me are fact. Not just my own personal truth or perspective, but indisputable cold hard facts.  The truth, on record.  Facts that can be found in original statements, made both by myself as well as one of the accomplices, facts that are in court documents, facts that are burned into my memory.  And while truth may be glaringly inconvenient to those who profess to believe in Oscar Ray Bolin’s innocence, that doesn’t make it any less true.  More on her later. My opinions regarding other cases, as well as my take on every drop of drama that’s ensued since my own event, are well-thought out and solidly formed.  Many are also based on facts.  But what happened that chilly, violent night in November of 1987 – it’s just not up for debate.  Anyone who claims otherwise is a shameless liar.  A pure-hearted girl of twenty was kidnapped and raped at gunpoint, by a man who turned out to be Oscar Ray Bolin, who has since pled ‘guilty’ to kidnapping and rape, among other charges such as felonious assault and battery against a corrections officer, and escape.  He plead guilty to those crimes because they occurred.  And also, in my case, because his story didn’t line up with the facts.  Here are some of those facts.

In November of ’87, I was working as a fuel cashier at a truck stop not far from my family home in rural Ohio.  Located less than a couple miles from my former high school, it was within a reasonable daytime walking distance from my home.  I mentioned being candid before, and I will candidly say it was with great reluctance that I took the job.  I had previously been working in a popular area of what was then a thriving downtown Toledo, while sharing my first apartment with a friend and enjoying the perks of being young and in love with a steady boyfriend.  While the job and apartment with the friend ultimately didn’t work out, the relationship with the boyfriend deepened.  I decided to move back home for a while, but then suffered a setback after losing control of my car on black ice, splitting a telephone pole in half.  I walked away from that with minor internal injuries, but it was back in the day when “liability only” insurance was what I could afford, and I was suddenly without a vehicle.  Eventually I conceded that if I wanted another car, I’d be forced to look for work close to home.  I took a second shift job at the nearby Truckstops of America, simply because I could walk to work during the day, while getting a ride home from my boyfriend or mom at night.  It wasn’t long before I was in a position to get another used car, but having a regular paycheck compelled me to stick it out with the job for a while longer.  While today I feel shame in admitting it, I was ashamed of that job back then.  There’s absolutely nothing dishonorable about honest work, it just wasn’t what I had envisioned for myself.  I told anyone who asked what I did for a living that I was a Western Union agent.  And I was. It just happened to be among my many duties as a fuel cashier.  In a truck stop. Perhaps my reluctance to even be there made for a good employee.  I was aloof, anti-social, and focused solely on my job.  Getting off work to call or meet my boyfriend was always the goal.  While there were a couple people with whom I worked that I enjoyed chatting with on breaks, and who looked out for me by walking me to my car every night, I was completely uninterested in being social with the customers, and I never was.  Details such as that would later come back to haunt my thoughts after the incident.  ‘Was I being punished in some way for being too bitchy?  Why me, of all the girls who worked there, the distant misfit of the bunch?  And what about the way I was dressed — in nurse shoes, blue work pants, buttoned up smock, and that day, even ugly eighties glasses?  It made no sense.’  Just a sample of the kind of naïve thoughts that burden the mind of a traumatized twenty-year old, who doesn’t yet understand that sexual assault has nothing to do with any of these things.  There would be other thoughts such as this that I tormented myself with following the incident.  Anyway, I turned out to be a reliable enough employee to be given a promotion to a management position, even though I hadn’t been there long.  Having always been a dreamer with her head in the clouds, I was quite proud that someone thought I was capable of that level of trust and felt guilty for ever looking down my nose at the work itself.  On my very first night of training, this incident took place.  I’d never return to that job again.

November 17/18

On the night of November 17^th, I was asked to stay late to go over some of my new responsibilities.  One of my fellow employees, Ed, who had always walked me to my car, wanted to stick around so he could walk me out.  My manager told him it may be awhile, and to go on without me.  I would later learn that decision haunted Ed for years.  I don’t know this, but I imagine it bothered the manager doing the training as well.  When I ultimately left the building alone, I felt an instant chill go the length of my spine the second I walked through the doors, one that can only be described as a sixth sense.  It had been mild when I’d come into work, and I blew it off as November night air.  I later came to recognize that is instinct whispering to you, and I’ve never ignored a voice that powerful again.  But I was twenty.  I got into my car like I always did.  Suddenly, I look up and there’s a man standing there, gesturing the motion of rolling a joint.  I shook my head no, and instinctively moved my elbow up to lock the door, but he was too quick.  The next thing I know there’s a gun pointing at me, and I’m being told to move over.  He told me he was running from the law and needed my car, but to my very core I knew I was in great danger.  For reasons I can only describe as survivor’s mode kicking in, I started telling a tale of a daughter whose first birthday was the next day, and that if I wasn’t home in short order per usual, it would be clear to those watching her that something was very wrong.   I pleaded with him to just take the car and let me go.  I was absolutely terrified. Instead he dug the gun into my side and drove us out of the parking lot, to another isolated lot up the road.  Through tears, fear, and hysteria, I recall looking out and realizing we were facing the cemetery where my step-father, who had drowned in our pond a few years earlier, lay in his final resting place.  The sense of foreboding helplessness that washed over me is something I’ve never forgotten.  Somewhere around that same exact moment, a semi pulled into the graveled lot.  I felt a glimmer of hope, believing I was no longer alone.  As the man with a gun, who I would one day soon learn was Oscar Ray Bolin, pushed me out of my car and towards the truck, I pleaded with him again to please let me go.  Instead I found myself being shoved into a cab with two other men, who were told at gunpoint to turn off the radios and head for the turnpike.  The reaction of at least one of the men led me to believe they too were victims, that essentially it was now three against one. And a gun.  Bolin then forced me into the sleeper section of the semi, and closed the curtains.  With a gun pressed against me in warning, I felt the truck roll through the tollbooth window and onto the turnpike.  At that moment, another so profound you don’t ever forget the pounding rhythm of your own heartbeat screaming in your ears, came the sound of obscene belly laughter from the front of the truck.  Followed by the wail of Lynyrd Skynyrd, being cranked to full volume. My entire life flashed before my eyes. Right then and there, I believed no one who loved me was ever going to see me again.

It wasn’t long after that I was sexually assaulted with a gun to my head.  The only thing I can say about that is this — it was a brief part of the beginning of a 5-hour long ordeal. I went somewhere else in my mind entirely.  My defiant side has conveniently spared me the burden of having to recall that tragic part of the journey, all these years. That girl of twenty, who was madly in love with her boyfriend and had no idea why this was happening to her, was traumatized nonetheless.  It is important to clarify however, that it was the only sexual assault that took place during this incident. Any reports of being raped repeatedly, or at all by the other men involved, are completely false.  It truly bothers me that such important details have falsely been printed as truth in the press over the years. While it was a devastating part of the ordeal, and while the fear of it being repeated was a palpable part of the trauma, there are enough shocking and awful details without the story needing to be embellished, or carelessly regurgitated inaccurately in the press all these years.  What is true is that for 5 hours or more, I believed to my very core that I was going to die. For 5 hours, I was continuously toyed with as Oscar Ray Bolin played his own version of Russian Roulette against my skull.

There was chatter amongst all throughout the trip, some of which was utterly confounding. There were moments when one of the accomplices seemed to express some fear and disbelief himself about what was going down, as well as a level of measured compassion towards me. He asked Bolin if they could at least stop and get me something to drink, or allow me to go the restroom. When I look back now, I do believe though cowardly in own role, he was the one participant who may have been in way over his head. You know when someone is dangerous. Oscar Ray Bolin, with his vacant eyes and his cunning, unaffected affect, was dangerous. When he’d first shoved his way into my car, I recall being struck by confusion. For at first glance, he didn’t fit my perception of what the boogeyman was supposed to look like. But I instinctively knew I was in the presence of a very dangerous man.  What he did to me proved how dangerous he really was. In the truck, his demeanor was cold and in control, but transitioned back and forth between demanding and angry, to mocking and amused, fully amped about how thoroughly terrified I was, to manipulative – relaying tales of violence in a failed relationship, and a terrible childhood.  Very hard for a kid to wrap her mind around how a man who had just raped her, could casually try to engage in that kind of personal dialogue. I had a deep sense which exceeded my years, that I was being held captive by someone who was very broken. He never let me get too hopeful there was something reachable within him, and the threat of death loomed over my head the entire ride. There was never a moment when I was not traumatized out my mind.

My own emotions fluctuated as the nightmare drug on as well.  I went from hysterical to trying to reason, from trying to humanize myself, to trying to analyze the entire situation.  I talked of my family, my boyfriend, even God…and of the phantom daughter throughout the trip.  During the last hours I became fed up and angry, and towards the end, felt such a sense of defeat I almost stopped caring if he killed me.  I just wanted it to be over.  Until it was.  Until the truck finally stopped and the realization that my life, and all I had ever hoped for it, was over. I was blindfolded with the work-smock I was wearing, taken out of the truck to a fence that hugged a dark field of long grass.  I was back to hysteria, pleading…promising that if he’d just let me live I would never go to the police. And in that moment, I really meant that. Then he did something that took many years to recall. He briefly lowered the blindfold and said “I’ve never done anything like this before”.  I’ve analyzed that comment many times, but you’d have to ask him what was meant by it.  He repositioned the smock, tossed me over the fence and told me to run. For me, this was the most traumatic part of the entire event. It was what I believed was about to be the end of my life. There were sirens, drums, and other unrecognizable noises, probably coming from my chest, going off in my head.  Whether there were gunshots fired, misfired, or whether or not he went back to the truck and told the others he snapped my neck, I cannot tell you. But somehow I made it out alive.  Some twenty-eight years later, I still can’t tell you why.

Aftermath… FFWD to 2016 After so much content thus far, it feels sloppy to suddenly speed things up and skimp on details, but I feel a need to get at least something published this week, and I’m tired.  I find myself diving in way deeper than I’d imagined emotionally, and it’s intense as hell.  For that reason alone, maybe it’s a good time to remind myself that this is a blog, and I’m free to come back and continue at any time.  There’s a lot of ground I’d really like to cover, but traveling over that one night again, after all this time, has been an incredibly draining experience.  I’ve been going at this for many sleepless hours now, with breaks in between for tears and reflection, along with unlimited emotional support and hugs from a man who has my back more than anyone ever could, along with my mom and family, whose support and love across the miles is just as unwavering.  This is heavy.  It’s hard to articulate the range of emotions we’re all experiencing, as this date with death looms for Oscar Ray Bolin.

In the midst of my own writing, I took a break to answer some questions for a reporter.  Other than a very brief Q&A with a Tampa news station during the first trial I testified in, I’ve never granted an interview with the press.  I did talk off the record with a well-known reporter during that same period in the 90’s, but decided I wasn’t ready and never followed through with an actual interview.  In any event, between agreeing to this current Q&A, and the distraction of all that’s on my mind, trying to continue with this in chronological order at the moment doesn’t make good sense.  I think it would serve me best to try and fill in a few more brief details about the immediate aftermath, fast forward to some current thoughts, and return after some much needed rest.

Briefly back to the story — after being dumped in Pennsylvania I made my way to a highway, then ironically, stumbled upon another TA, where I called my mom.  The employees, upon seeing a wild-eyed frantic young women wearing their uniform, called police.  Not a great experience on that front.  I was taken to a local hospital and met by a very compassionate woman from a Rape Crisis Center, who held my hand through the kit / exam and took me to a shelter to rest and wait for mom and aunt, already in route to rescue me.  I have many times thought of trying to find this woman and thank her, and I hope that opportunity has not been lost in the three decades that have passed.  The reunion with my mom and aunt was devastating for us all, to say the least, and so was the long car ride home. I was already so post-traumatized that I believed every semi that passed our vehicle was them, coming to get me.  How heartbreaking to think of that for the first time again. *Insert that hug* Upon returning home, I was wrecked.  When I’d first seen my mom at the crisis shelter, I fell into her arms like a small wounded child as we all sobbed.  I’d never needed her more.  When I first found myself in the familiar surroundings of my own home, I remember never being so happy to see my little sister in all my life. And our family dog.  I think this is a good place to set this story aside for a bit.  This truly is so much different than I’d imagined it would be for me.  I’m going to skip ahead and return to pick it up later.  I don’t know how to NOT write in long form, and this is getting all far too heart-rending at this point. It doesn’t make me want to stop, instead it actually inspires me to forge on…. but wow.

Before I step away, I feel compelled to touch on a couple of things that were covered in the interview with the reporter for the Tampa Bay Times. Things I feel a need to get off my chest, even if it’s just to clarify the points briefly.  While speaking with him on the phone and in telling my story, I mentioned that there were some elements to the crime that no one seems to talk about, but that in my opinion, are key factors.

As mentioned, Oscar Ray Bolin plead guilty In Ohio to kidnapping and rape, among other charges.  But among the details that never seem to come up outside of court documents are the areas of inconvenient truth to those who profess to believe in his innocence.  Such as — after he was arrested and booked in the country jail, he told a jailhouse snitch that he was looking for someone to put a hit on me.  During the abduction, they had rifled through my purse, obtaining my address off my driver’s license.  When that plot came to light, the FBI advised us to temporarily leave our home and stay elsewhere.  With a police escort, my entire family, along with our family dog, immediately left our cozy family home, and fled to my Aunt and Uncle’s.  My sister and I never returned.  My mom, along with other family members, collected our belongings 2 weeks later, and we moved to another city, where my little sister was forced to commute her entire senior year of high school.

The other thing I’ve never seen come up anywhere but in court records is the fact that Bolin plead guilty to my crimes, in part because his entire version of events didn’t match the facts.  His story to authorities was that I was someone he’d known in the past from stopping at the truck stop, and that he’d even partied with me when I was pregnant with my child.  I had only been at that job for a few months in 1987, and, of course, there was no child.  Ever.  Just something I said to humanize myself.  Before November 17/18 1987, I had never seen Oscar Ray Bolin, or the other men involved in my abduction.  That can be corroborated at every turn, no matter how much these facts damage what Rosalie Martinez has been spinning to the press, and to her daughters, for years.

On that note — it is my intention to expand broadly on the Rosie-factor when I pick up this story.  She’s played far too pivotal a role not to.  She was one of the key factors in why, after 4 murder trials, I decided to stop testifying for the state of Florida.  If I’m being honest with myself, she also can be traced to some of the unnamed anger I’ve carried around inside all these years. I’ll dive in deeper later.  This is how I answered the question – how do you feel about Rosalie Bolin?

“The first thing I would tell anyone — how is a woman supposed to feel about someone who knowingly marries her rapist?  A woman with four daughters of her own?  Rosalie and I locked eyes in the corridor of the courthouse as I was being led in to testify in the first trial.  I will never forget that look.  From that moment on, I have found every single element of the Rosalie Martinez equation to be both mystifying, as well as vulgar.  She married a man on death row because she wasn’t getting the attention she felt she “deserved” in her marriage, then wallowed in the attention she received in doing so.  As a result, she took the focus away from the only things that truly mattered in all of these murder trials, the innocent victims.  As someone who not only was once a victim herself, but as an observer from afar, I find it outrageous.  Had she just been doing her job, had she just attached herself to the cases as an advocate, I would have never had any reason to personally begrudge her.  But she did so much more than that.  She turned tragedy into a freak-show, disrespecting three young, beautiful lives cut short long before their time.  I had to walk away because my own feelings of disgust were something I no longer wanted to burden myself with.  I stopped reading about it, I stopped giving her the attention she craved.  But frankly, when this all came back into my life starting with the latest 20/20 fiasco, my sentiments towards this person reached a new level.  The only thing worse than watching a woman marry the man who brutalized you, is watching her daughter, around the same age as I was then, touching his hand.  I say shame on the state of FL, but more pointedly, shame on Rosie.  It is clear she has spent years telling these girls what she needs them to believe.  And how do you explain to your girls why you married a serial killer?  You yell them you think he is innocent.  How do you explain to them that you married a convicted kidnapper and rapist who plead guilty?  You tell them they don’t know the real story.  Well there’s only one version of the story.  The truth.“

This was never a “he said/she said” scenario, nor a “drug deal gone bad”, as he shamelessly told mindless talk show hosts.  It was a violent crime against a young woman just trying to leave her job and get to the warmth of her home, a family home that was stolen from her, and from those she loved most.  And I hope one day, Rosalie’s own daughters come to grasp just how truly messed up that was, and how truly messed up it was for their mother to have wanted them to believe it was any other way.

When asked my feelings on Bolin’s execution…

“My feelings about the upcoming execution are complex and expansive.  My views on capital punishment have evolved in the years since I testified in the Oscar Ray Bolin murder trials.  Fundamentally, I’m opposed to the death penalty for a multitude of reasons.  It’s not who I am.  What’s complicated is that I want nothing more than for the mothers and all who’ve ever loved these young women, to get whatever bit of peace in life they can find to hold onto, after so many years of unnecessary legal battles.  I can’t pretend to know their pain, but I obviously have a deep connection to their stories.  My thoughts will be with them on that day, and their girls will forever be in my heart.  I’m not a big believer in closure, so that’s not what I await this week.  I will say this however, for those who are seeking it, I can’t help but wonder if Rosalie Martinez herself has helped that along.  There are just as many people who want her to go away as much as they do him.”

And when this is all said and done, I think she should go away. I say go away, do some soul-digging of your own, ask yourself some brutal questions for once in your life, answer them honestly, own your shit. Own your story.

Again, I felt compelled to share these points now as they may be coming out in the press, and also because they are relevant.  This is happening. Whatever your viewpoints, it is. And while it was my intention to make it through the saga beforehand, in chronological order, it no longer feel the urgency.

Before I sign out, I disabled the comment function on this blog for right now (at least I think I did).  It’s not that I won’t welcome feedback in the future, but I find myself affected by the ‘re-living the story’ mode, and candidly, it’s too much to add any more layers to all this.  It simply doesn’t feel like the right time to read or respond to comments.  I’ll close for now by sharing something I wrote to family and friends elsewhere.

~ While I respect everyone’s individual right to their own passion or belief systems, this is not a joyous occasion for me.  What I’m feeling this week is so damn complex it’s hard for me to even catch my breath.  It doesn’t matter to me what others expect me to feel right now, I feel what I feel. I am who I am. If you wish to celebrate, celebrate.  I understand. I just respectfully ask that you respect me by not asking me to join in.  You won’t find me mourning, but you won’t find me outside shooting off fireworks either. Contempt for a monster does not change who I am at my core.  The atmosphere inside my home right now is one of love and support, like I’ve never known.  The love I feel from my family reaching out across the miles, engulfs me and joins in that.  But for us, the mood is somber and reflective.  This is heavy.  It’s an unchartered, deeply bizarre, and disturbing position we find ourselves in.  I welcome love and support, and ask that the range of personal emotions we are experiencing be respected. ~

 

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice —
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do —
determined to save
the only life you could save.

~Mary Oliver