Yours for Eternity: A Love Story on Death Row (4 page)

I saw my mother and father today. I love seeing them, but it also hurts, because my mom always cries a lot. It tears me up inside to see her do that, and know that there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. It makes you feel so helpless.

Damien

April 23, 1996

Dear Damien,

When you write again, I know this is a lot to ask—but could you try to explain what your beliefs are? In the film your sister said that you at one time wanted to be a priest—but in your testimonies it seems you were delving into other beliefs. I am very interested in what you hold dear—or what you are devoted to. I am struck by the fact that you don’t pretend—even with all that has happened to you—you don’t present yourself in a false light. I have a great amount of respect for that. That aspect of you certainly came through in the film. I’ve never read much about the occult or wicka (sp?) although I have friends who know quite a bit about it—from the little I know—it seems a very early, mystical religion. I have always sought my own path with my life’s belief—I was raised in a family of Southern Baptists, born-again Christians. No one could ever answer my questions—and they kept saying they loved everything and everyone on God’s green earth—but they didn’t.

I simply believe in love, hope, and fate. Simply put. I believe there are strong forces and if we don’t go with them—our lives will be amiss of incredible experience. I’ve had some exceptional things happen to me—I liken it to magic. I believe very strongly in these forces—I don’t even like to say “good” and “evil”—it’s not that easy.

I know I have believed things into happening—sometimes it’s scary—always wonderful—sometimes heartbreaking. I’ve met a
couple of people who have had the same experiences—they know what I mean—it’s very subtle, at the same time very intense.

So—I am believing in you with all my heart and soul. You need to be free—because I can tell your soul is full of murky, lovely, fascinating things. I know it when I see it or feel it, and I know you’re a treasure.

Do you or can you keep in touch with Jason? How long have you been friends?

How often do your parents visit—or how often are you allowed visitors?

Maybe some day I can visit you—would they allow that? Could I bring you some kind of chocolate treat?

Surely, they’ll let me.

Lorri

April 26, 1996

Dear Lorri,

My beliefs? Yes, at one time I very much wanted to be a priest. I wanted to be a priest because for my entire life all I ever had were questions that no one could ever answer. I wanted to know the reason for my existence, and religion was the first logical place to begin my search, but I still found no answers, so I got deeper and deeper into the church. I thought maybe the priesthood would give me a reason to live. I couldn’t force myself to believe what the church taught; there were just too many holes, which only brought more questions. I began to look at other religions, searching for something I could believe and put faith in, and that’s how I became a Wiccan. We believe in the creative force of life, which we call the Mother Goddess. We believe in reincarnation and the ability to shape our own destiny. It’s one of the oldest surviving religions left on the face of the earth. If you have any specific questions you want to ask, I would be more than happy to answer them to the best of my ability.

I agree with you about good and evil. I believe it is people who make things good or evil. The powers of nature simply exist. It’s up to the individual to choose to use that force, and unfortunately, some people use it for harm.

No, I definitely do not try to make myself appear as something I’m not, or putting up a false front, because I believe that everything you do eventually comes back to you—karma, which means that
people would eventually see through any false façade. It’s far easier to simply present yourself as what you truly are.

I know what you mean when you said if you believe in something strong enough it will come true. I think everyone does it sometimes without even realizing it. Thank you for believing for and in me.

Well, I guess I’m going to close and get this in the mail, but I’ll talk to you soon, and I can’t wait to hear from you again.

Until then,

Forever,

Damien

May 1, 1996

Dear Damien:

Now we’re going to be even more out of synch. Small bits of each letter will start making sense, little by little. It’s great, getting to know someone by writing. It’s quite wonderful and mysterious. I like writing much better than the telephone. Although my closest friend moved to Paris, so I like getting calls from her. She’s another one—like I have tried ever so ploddingly to explain to you. She knows things. She has a magical thing in her—we knew as soon as we met. We saw each other, we smiled, we linked arms and we walked off—leaving everyone else to fend for themselves. She was in NY at the time, then she moved to Boston—and then all the way to France. I miss her something awful. But we see each other when we can. She was a ballerina for the Boston Ballet—but she quit to become a biologist. I like that, I hope some day to see her in a white lab coat doing things—experiments and whatnot. Damien, if you could study anything, what would it be? Are you obsessive (unlike me—haha)? I’m incredibly so. As if you couldn’t surmise—but I think it’s a trait worth having—I just have to watch it sometimes—the combination of being obsessive and extremely emotional can wreak havoc on everyday life.

Your parents must be so strong. Were they easy to grow up with? Have they always accepted you? What are they like? My parents are an odd combination. It’s funny, I have 2 sisters; one older, one younger (are you the oldest?). My sisters always were what my
parents wanted them to be—they were both homecoming queens!! But I was always doing something else—but no matter what I did—my parents hung in there with me—like when I was 3 I asked for a wig made of real hair, but it had to be white—like a horse’s tail. Well, I don’t know if it was real, but they got it for me, and I’m sure my mother was mighty embarrassed walking around in a supermarket with a three-year-old in that wig. I wore it all the time. Then when I was six, I asked for a suit (preferably pants and a vest) made out of snakeskin. I must have seen one somewhere, I don’t know—but they got one for me (it was vinyl—but it looked like snakeskin). I got it in the summer—I wore it all the time, sweating. My parents are by no means “hip”—no, not at all—conservative as all get-out—but I think they like me—even though I’ve broken their hearts a million times.

I hope you don’t mind rambling letters like this. Will you tell me some things you did as a child? The stories before the age of 10 are the best—I believe anything after that is merely a confirmation of everything that has already been formed.

Oh, Damien, I hope this letter finds you all right, and calm.

Thinking of you,

Lorri

postscript, 2014

I grew up in a small town in West Virginia. My family wasn’t wealthy. I was the middle child of three daughters born to parents who loved each other—had actually been together since they were in high school. My sisters and I grew up playing fantasy games. Our imaginations ran rampant, and what I recall most from my childhood is silliness and make-believe. We bought into all the fairy tales. We read books, and we dreamed, and we grew up happy.

So as I grew older, I knew I wanted to live an adventurous life. I didn’t know that that could mean pain, but I’ve always known that I wanted to conquer fear. My fears lay mostly in dealing with people and, strangely enough, logistics. I would force myself to speak in front of a class, travel alone or talk to strangers. I wouldn’t even want to do something as simple as order takeout. So anything I could do to be fearless, I wanted to do it.

During college I was intent on studying landscape architecture in England. I had always loved the gardens and architecture there, and found the idea of living in the English countryside just about the most romantic thing I could imagine. We didn’t have the money for anything so exotic, but we managed it somehow. After that experience, I never looked back. I knew that I would never settle down into a “normal” life, and that whatever I wanted, I would find a way to get it.

I lived in London for a while, then Ohio, where I married a musician named David. We didn’t make it as a couple but we’re still friends, and I credit him with the start of a very important chapter of my life: New York. If I hadn’t been so distraught over our breakup, I wouldn’t have been driven to move there with very little money and a wish for something new and exciting.

I lived in New York for ten years. I was very happy, and I built a successful life there. My career as a landscape architect was all I had ever hoped for—I worked for some extraordinary firms and partnered with some amazing clients. Some of the estates I helped design included those of Carolyne Roehm and Henry Kravis, the Pritzkers, and Oscar de la Renta. My work for the City of New York included jobs for the Metropolitan Museum of Art, City Center, and Lincoln Center. I truly felt at that point I was living the grown-up version of a fantasy life. I was moving about in a world of the super-privileged, and my life was fun.

I had very dear friends, including a ballerina from the Boston Ballet and two of the most talented, kind, and wise women I’ve ever known. I met Sherri almost immediately after arriving in New York, and we spent time together there and in Boston. We saw films, read the same books, and were always up for an adventure. I worked with Susan and Shelley at a design firm in Soho. Susan and I went on to live next to each other when I moved to Brooklyn. We shared a great deal of each other’s lives. Shelley was always my rock. All three of them are still in my life and were a great source of support to me over the years in Arkansas.

My charmed existence in New York came to a screeching halt in February 1996, when I walked into the Museum of Modern Art to see a film called
Paradise Lost
. To say I was moved by the story is an understatement. Like all the other New Yorkers around me, I was aghast at what I was seeing on the screen. Unlike most of the other audience members, I was from the South. I understood the culture that was being represented by the people in the documentary. I grew up attending a fundamentalist Baptist church. The Bible Belt was the backdrop of my childhood. Seeing Damien demonized was not so shocking to me, though I felt terrible pain for him.

From the moment I saw Damien, I felt a kinship with him. There was something in him that I recognized. He was definitely a product of his community, yet he wanted something else. He was different, and it was that difference that invited the horror that became his life. Unlike me, able to move about and make my own choices, he was caught, literally, and held captive for what he believed in, and that weighed heavily on my heart.

So much so that I couldn’t get him out of my mind. I grieved for him, and it affected my daily life. I heard a voice deep inside telling me that I needed to help him, and it wasn’t until I finally decided to write to him that I felt any relief in my heart. I reached out to him as a friend, as someone who might help him. And I felt a huge responsibility, even in that first letter. I didn’t want him to feel that I was a spectator, gawking at him, or a rubbernecker. I just wanted to help him in some way, but only if he told me there was something I could indeed do to help.

I’ll never forget seeing his first letter on the floor under the letter slot in my front door. I was elated, and scared at the same time. A combination of feelings I would come to know very well over the next couple of decades. Its arrival coincided with the first and only visit to New York by my parents. I carried it around in my pocket all day before finally getting a moment of solitude to read it late that night.

After reading his first letter, I was compelled to write back, and I never questioned that I would continue to write to him. I suspended all of the niggling questions my mind should have been asking, such as, “He is in such a vulnerable position, what if you let him down or hurt him?” But from the moment I wrote to Damien, it felt natural for me to be doing so. One letter followed the next, and in no time, we were obsessed with getting to know each other. We held no judgment toward each other. It was one of the most joyous, reckless, amazingly alive times in my life, and yet it was undercut with a sadness and grief that I couldn’t get out from under.

Lorri

May 2, 1996

Dear Damien:

I’ve just been out walking in the streets. I mailed a book to you. Sometimes I wish I could talk to you. You know, sit and talk for a long time. But then I think this is one of the nicest things I’ve ever done—get to know someone without ever speaking to them—it’s like a wonderful spell. Although, I think we’ll see each other someday, and definitely hear each other’s voices at some point. There’s a sort of freedom in just writing. What do you think?

I love the night. When I was growing up, I used to crawl out of my window and just walk around by myself. From like 2:00 a.m. to 5:00 a.m. was the best. There were all these fields around my house and I’d look into people’s windows. No one ever knew where I was or what I was doing out there. Then I would sleep till 12:00 noon. I love being places where no one knows where I am, like in an attic. I like to get away with things, like following someone for a few hours—wherever they go. That’s fun. Once I ended up on a train to upstate NY! But I would never want to talk to these people. Just watch them. I really don’t think they’d mind. I wouldn’t mind if someone watched me for a while then disappeared forever. I think it’s kind of sweet. I don’t know what it is that makes me want to follow certain people. Sometimes I see them and my breath gets taken away for a second. It has nothing to do with physical looks—beauty, clothes, or stature—it’s something else, something striking—or dark or “off.”