BROKEN JUSTICE

A Memoir + Brainstorm

Modernizing Sex Crime Protocol

A Survivor’s Point of View by Jane Pearson

DISCLAIMER

I am stating legally that neither myself, the book, nor the publisher are inciting any specific action by anyone. I have not used names or specific places.

All statistics and research I have included, I have made an effort to ensure it is legitimate, accurate, and footnoted, but do not take responsibility for their conclusions or accuracy.

FORWARD

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.”- Thomas Jefferson

The abused are a complicated lot. We are often no one’s problem, or priority, and helping us is often fruitless, frustrating, expensive, time consuming, and emotionally taxing.

I get it.

But, I’ve also done it. A seven and eight year old simply can not take on a monster. Some one has to do it for them.

An eleven year old might try. She may run away, may be driven to greater acts of courage when trying to protect another. She also may be broken- like I was.

Young adults by definition are already trying to find the compass in their own lives. Abuse often limits their options and ambitions. Trauma can be downright crippling.

When the assailant is part of our lives, it is further confusing and complicated. The abuser can have a charming affectionate side, and a very bad violent one. Questions regarding self worth, love, loyalty, and survival are added to the complexity of abuse.

Abuse, in my opinion, is best picked apart until it is completely understood. Dissecting not only what happened, but who was involved, and why.

From my experience, it was how I finally addressed all the internal questions leftover from being sexually and mentally abused for nineteen years. It has taken me fifteen years of being free, to find any real lasting sense of peace.

Everyone failed me when I needed protection and saving.

Many people rallied around me when I was ready to fight back. For this, I will be eternally thankful. For unlike many of the victims of this monster, I had the chance to stand up to him and watch him run. In the end, he was afraid of me.

CHAPTER 1 BREAKING POINT

We are headed to a campsite in the Sierra Foothills. I have a vague idea of what I’m in for, having not been left alone for over a week. The lectures are incessant- telling me what I am supposed to think, how special I am, that before I was even born, I begged for this, that other girls would cut off their right arms to be me... I have lead in my stomach, like a heavy dark ball of dread. At almost eleven years old, I don’t know how to stop the inertia. My parents have delivered me into the hands of a psychopath and, his watch dog-of-a-wife. I have nowhere to go, and no one to turn to.

Watch Dog drives us through the campground, exits and keeps on driving. She pulls off on an abandoned logging road. It’s out in the middle of nowhere. There’s not another human being for miles, seemingly.

Having noticed my penchant for painting, they brought art supplies. I delve in, trying to blank my mind and get a break from being talked at. They heat up canned cream of corn, baked beans, and give me chocolate milk.

Watch Dog leaves for the rest of the day. It’s under the pretext that she forgot something, but I am uneasy. They are escalating my sense of insecurity and using up my adrenaline. I help Psychopath set up two tents, one supposedly for them, and one for me. Watch Dog returns. They wait for dark, pitch dark. Not a glimmer of light anywhere except for a pump-action gas lantern.

The Watch Dog says it is time to bathe, … just me. She has me strip and awkwardly use a container of cold water. I am ushered into a tent. The man is on me. There is pain that makes me see white spots. The woman is constantly talking. I am trying to flee my skin. Pinned down, I experience hate for the first time in my life. I hate myself- for ever having been born.

As much as I try, I cannot get away from my body. It is trapped, so I am trapped. My eyes are shut hard and I’m shaking my head as if it will block what’s happening. It feels like I’m running in a tunnel being chased by something dark, vicious, and painful. Then I am disoriented. There’s warm tapioca pudding all over me and I don’t understand.

Psychopath is recklessly waving a loaded .357 Magnum around my head. He’s pointing at me then gesturing outside. One fear is dissolving into another.

Psychopath’s shrill scream pierces the air. The breath is sucked out of me and I completely loose perspective. He is howling and manically laughing, … then he starts whispering, “there’s a killer in the darkness. He has a hatchet and wants to cut you to pieces.” I am naked, exposed, cold, and my nerves are shot. He continues, “He’s a hunter. He saw you when you set up camp. He is coming for you.”

Psychopath says he going to protect me from the man with the hatchet. I shrink into a ball.

Watch Dog bares a six-inch blade. It’s the pearl handled Almar she showed me earlier. She is pointing it at me, and waving it around too. She says she’s going to slice through the fabric of the tent and she and I are going to make a run for it.

Psychopath says he’s going to shoot the hunter in the darkness. He warns me he only has six shots. Says it might not be enough.

They continue intermittently yelling and whispering. Psychopath says the man with the hatchet is hiding in the trees. Did I hear this? Did I hear that? I have no response, no longer having the energy to lift my head, and sleep takes me away.

It’s the following morning. Psychopath and Watch Dog insist I help them set up perimeter.

They have me practice grabbing the loaded revolver and running it to Psychopath, because the hunter is coming back tonight. I am busied tying bundles of Bristle Cone pinecones together. They’re attached to long strings leading back to the tent. They will be tugged on, mimicking random footsteps and movement. When night comes, we are up for hours in the tent, waiting for the hatchet attack until I fall asleep.

They drive me back. We pull up to the community center and there are some thirty adults milling around. Everyone is dressed up. I have been put in a new dress, purchased for me by my traitorous family.

There are the fixings of a party- a surprise party for me. It is my eleventh birthday.

It’s announced to the crowd, “She is now a woman!” I am abstractly aware of applause. Applause! They are applauding that I was,… I do not complete that thought.

I feel many things- being a woman is not one of them. I feel exhausted, embarrassed, ashamed, especially now that they are all witnesses, … and celebrating.

I now understand that the whole world is against me. They are laughing at my humiliation! I feel like everything is wrong.

Somehow, I feel like I am the one who is wrong.

I keep thinking, why is no one enraged, scared, remorseful, or protective of me? But, I already know. I have been thrown away.

The mint chocolate chip ice cream comes out. A bubble wand comes out, and a VHS video of the “Never Ending Story”. The imagery is of the little girl’s world falling apart and fantasy making everything better. I am so confused. I am quiet. Silenced. I escape into oblivion.

A veil drops behind my eyes. I do not put word, image, or memory to what happened to me.

Everything is too frightening. I have no way to cope or process what is still happening to me.

Sexual assaults and rapes continue regularly. Each and every one recedes to that voided out place in my mind where I do not go.

It is only in my nightmares I am forced to acknowledge exactly what is happening to me.

Always, I have variations of the same dream, not often, but recurring: It is dark. A faceless, male, menacing presence is trying to destroy me. My desperation to escape fills my body with the burn of exertion in my limbs and chest. All my adrenaline is focused on survival. But, no matter how hard I strain and squirm, I can't move. I do not have the power to move my body, even to save myself. Then, I try to scream bloody murder, and no sound comes out. No one hears me. No one helps me. No one cares. I am enveloped, overpowered, defeated, atrophied in the darkness.

I had this dream for over ten years like clockwork. As I grew into my twenties, I slowly started to gain minute tensile strength in my subconscious body. These were huge momentous landmarks for me. Even though I was still continually overpowered in my nightmares, I at least experienced a sensation of lethargy in my muscles. There was such a dramatic contrast between feeling completely paralyzed and being able to manage slow motion movements.

I was nineteen, the first time I survived the attack in my nightmare. Even lethargic, I managed to block a bludgeoning blow, then stagger-run, and feel three white hot painful sensations in my hip, leg, and knee- which I realized were bullets. Regardless, I woke up elated. I had made my first real defensive moves. I had survived in my subconscious, and it was time to start making defensive moves in my real life.

CHAPTER 2 PSYCHOPATH

In the early 1980’s, Psychopath is huge, mid-forties, just under six foot, and 250lbs-ish. He has large muscular arms that he keeps caressing and flexing. Psycho says he lifted steel, built bridges, and worked on oilrigs, to make him so strong. He often rests his for-arm on my head letting me know how easily he can overpower my 60 lb frame. His clouded ice blue eyes are watchful, threatening, demanding, and quickly angry. Psychopath has a slightly pock marked face, scar beside the left eye and under the right jaw bone. A tattoo on his forearm says “Mary” in cursive. He wears jeans, pearl button western shirts, and cowboy boots. His thick dark silver hair reaches his shoulder blades. He is vain. He shakes his hair around and struts. He thinks he’s all that, and for some reason it works on way too many people.

Psychopath is a predator and a megalomaniac. He prides himself with the hundreds of people he has coerced, brainwashed, molested, raped, humiliated, cowed, broken, and talked out of 100,000s of dollars, marks, lira, pounds, koruna, Euros, Canadian dollars, etc.

I would say conservatively, 75% of his livelihood is siphoning from other people’s life savings, inheritances, and trust funds. People with illnesses are easy targets, as he offers to help them find “healing” or “closure”. I watched one executive who had been earning a salary of $700,000 (and vulnerable because she lost her job and fiancée in the same year), be penniless after some five to seven years of becoming a follower- even being pressured out of her last $16K in one go.

Other targets included a misguided Rock Star with little kids- a double whammy, a best selling author and landowner, a lawyer’s daughter with kids, a doctor’s daughter, a landowner’s daughter, a construction supervisor, an electrician, an ex-model with family resources, a landowner with little kids, a dentist, a doctor with young children, ...

Psycho doesn’t usually have them hand over checks or wads of cash. He knows how to keep from being too obvious or a big enough target for authorities to mess with- he pretends to be “humble”. So, he has people purchase property in his name, give him vehicles, dig wells, pay for his travel and accommodations, dine him, build his home, cook his meals, massage his shoulders. When he has exhausted their resources or finished using their skills for specific purposes- he’s very deft at getting rid of them. He makes his attacks acutely vicious and in a manner designed to make them run- leaving many of their worldly goods behind and all they’ve invested into properties they don’t own (in the tune of tens of thousands to hundreds of thousands).

Cults, churches, groups, schools, work places, home… he’s used all these venues. He studies everyone’s habits, structure, insecurities, ambitions, backgrounds, emotional tensions, and family history. He pulls personal details out of people effortlessly. He gets in everyone’s personal space, especially if they’re female. Then once he’s lulled them into hoping for insight, life changing answers, comfort, compassion, gained their trust… he turns, amplifying their greatest fears and insecurities. He cows them, offering some sort of salvation and relief. Total entrapment. He plays them like instruments, and they fall, one after the other.

A simple example of his manipulation, is long before I comprehended war, world events, or World War II, Psycho gave me a cap he said I had to wear every day. It was right before a rare visit with my maternal grandparents. During the visit I found the cap under the bathroom sink while retrieving more toilet paper. I found that very odd, but I just shrugged and put it back on. It wasn’t until years later that I learned that the symbol on the cap was the imperial flag of Japan. My grandfather had served as a merchant marine in the South Pacific. Psycho had completely set me up to be disrespectful with designs to further alienate my grandparents.

Psycho was well practiced by the time I became one of his victims at eight years old. He had been steadily working on my parents for two whole years. Then he succeeded at convincing them into letting him take me on a solo weeklong road trip.

He grew up on an Indian reservation, and was abused as a child at an institute for the visually impaired and blind. By the time he was in his teens and early twenties he had a reputation for being a “sex maniac and a liar”, and he abused his own kin.

He learned his methods of mind control, entrapment, and coercion from others using pseudo Native American spiritualism. He also obsessed about Nazi Gestapo WWII tactics. He studied and actively used their methods of intimidation and violence to control people. He’d laugh, “it’s so easy to control people, … you know how often they only had four guards on thousands of prisoners in the concentration camps?!”

Psycho is very cruel and bitter. He has scars left by knife wounds. He was almost beaten to death with a chain for being Indian, even though he was 31/32nds white. He experienced racism the other way too, for being mostly white growing up on the Indian reservation. Psycho barely knew his German immigrant father- his having died early from former mustard gas exposure. Psycho grew up very poor, one of six or so children.

He is aggressively anti-pregnancy, and got a vasectomy. He had fathered four children by the age of 20, that I know of, and had been arrested for statutory rape.

It became apparent that he cycled through new groups of people roughly every ten years, and then would disappear. He frequently changed his first name, and the towns where he had P.O. boxes rented in other peoples’ names, as well as bogus residential addresses. Off the top of my head, I know of twelve different addresses he used in a span of twenty-five years. Sometimes they were a four hour round trip from where he was living. Those fronting his address would have strict instructions not to give up any information about his where about. The only reason he didn’t completely disappear is because he was a royalty recipient.

Psycho ensnared my family for more than 22 years and moved us six times during that period. He started with convincing my parents to put 1300 miles between us, and our extended families.

Whenever social services, neighbors, family members, and/or the law would start to close in, we’d disappear. In addition, he had at least fifteen protracted stays in Europe, one in Costa Rica, and another in Canada.

He conquers people. He is too smart, too charismatic, too cunning, and has gotten away with it his entire life. Psycho especially targets parents, gains their trust, and abuses their children and adolescent teenagers.

I watched the process, over and over again. I was made to be party to it, actively and passively. Some of his victims only had a single chance meeting, others, like myself, were part of his “core group”- a changing number usually around twenty to thirty people.

Those who made it out, usually fled during the dead of the night, having not breathed a word to anyone. Ten to one, those who stated their intention to leave, including myself, drew precision psychological attacks, punishments, and failed to escape.

In his megalomania, Psycho is always verbally defending himself. I realize now, these constant justifications must have been his warring with his own conscience. He is a “power rapist”, and is constantly playing out his sick fantasies. I can’t say the number of times he put words in my mouth.

During his abuse of me, he would always be talking about other men. He would tell me what they wanted to do to me. Of course, this made me fearful of just about every man. It wasn’t until he described what a rapist Bosnian Serb soldier would do to me, that I realized he was pretending to be all these different men.

CHAPTER 3 WATCH DOG

In the 1980’s, Watch Dog is a ferocious twenty-something power-hungry woman. She is gorgeous with long dark hair down to her waist. She’s slight, thin boned, 5’4”, with almond brown eyes. She’s very clothes conscience, from her skirts, boots, scarves, matching socks, strawberry lip-gloss, and gardenia perfume. She is obsessed with her appearance. Growing up in the movie industry and working at an office in the Playboy Building seems to have galvanized her. She accuses me constantly of being the shallow floozy who thinks of nothing but my “tits and ass”.

Who is she kidding? I am too young to have tits and I’m wearing hand-me-downs. I am doing everything in my power NOT to be noticed. I deliberately wear clothes two sizes too big, and choose the ugliest granny glasses to hide behind. I attempt to overeat to hide my body but get severe stomach cramps instead of any weight gain.

Watch Dog never stops tearing me down. I ripped two handfuls of hair out of my scalp in front of her, trying to get her to stop attacking me, … I stared at my reflection for a long time with knife in hand, wondering, if I disfigured myself, would it bring me some peace.

Watch Dog is a scholar and psychology major. She is very adept at making grand and blood curdling references in both history and literature while making her threats. One minute she has me figuratively screaming while being burned at the stake, the next, my head is being cut off by Sun Tzu as the King’s head concubine, then there’s the challenge of whether I would be able to not utter a sound while being skinned alive with sharpened clam shells, etc.

It is implied that it won’t be them who kills me, but that faceless, nameless hatchet man who is still hunting me- waiting for me to step outside of their “protection”.

She identifies herself as a feminist, but is the most misogynist person I have ever met. She’s not content just to defeat us, she is driven to break us until we no longer recognize ourselves.

I could never figure out why she hates me so much. My very existence seems to aggravate her beyond her limits. Her body visibly vibrates, her eyes go wild, her face turns an angry shade of red and blue, like she’s running out of oxygen, and hate spills out of her mouth.

Regardless, she keeps me at her side on a very short leash.

During her rants, I am expected to confess- and have to talk about how stupid, cowardly, weak, ditzy, and worthless I am- giving specific examples, or I will be there forever until I do. I am also expected to give equally devastating assessments and examples of everyone “under me” (i.e. the younger children), - or again, I will be there until I do.

She makes sure there is no trust or friendship between the other kids and I. When I’m seventeen years old, I take them outside to play Frisbee one day. The consequence is that on a 300 acre parcel, I am grounded to within eyeshot of the house indefinitely.

I ceased making any more attempts to befriend the other kids.

She makes it abundantly clear that there is no way “to get it right” or anything I can do to “stay in her good graces”. I am meant to constantly brace when she walks into the room and to fear her. She will make up such bizarre offenses that it is impossible to defend myself. It is exhausting, watching her, mentally exhaust me. She takes pleasure in it for hours. Then she sends me to Psycho’s bed as punishment and watches.

The manipulating rapist that Psycho is makes calculated interference to defend me from her wrath. Of course this makes her even more vicious while making himself appear more soft and unthreatening, i.e. the lesser of two evils.

Left both entitled and bitter from a privileged upbringing, Watch Dog was ignored by her wealthy movie producer father and aloof movie director mother. She wasn’t the boy that her father wanted.

Somehow I am the fall guy for every missed opportunity, missed connection, denied access to wealth, as well as Psycho’s fall guy for all the segregation and degradation he received.

I am not sure why they thought harming me could make them feel better, but they can’t get enough of it.

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My goal is to publish this book as soon as possible. I then plan on speaking and presenting it at police, legislative, and psychology conventions. As I can, I want to expand the website into a forum as well as put together petitions by region.

       
THANKS AGAIN FOR READING. REGARDS, JANE PEARSON
         
 
         
 
         
 
       
 
         
 

 

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