Ex-Jehovah's Witnesses break silence on shunning: 'My mother ...

Amber Sawyer was just 8 years old when it happened.

She was watching cartoons on the living room floor of her Mississippi home when she heard the bang.

She went to investigate and found her 21-year-old sister, Donna, dead in her bed. She had shot herself in the heart with their father’s hunting rifle weeks after their church excommunicated her for getting engaged to a man who was not a Jehovah’s Witness.

For Sawyer — who sat on the bedroom floor near her sister's body for hours that day, waiting for her mother to come home from her door-to-door missionary work — it was the beginning of a long, painful journey that would one day tear her family apart.

Years later, Sawyer got excommunicated, too, after seeking a divorce from an abusive husband. She ended up leaving the husband — and the faith.

► March 12:Kaylee Muthart explains what made her pull out her eyes

► March 12:Oregon couple’s final days captured in intimate aid-in-dying video

► Feb. 20:Did shunning from Jehovah's Witnesses drive mom to murder-suicide?

Her family cut all ties.

“Jehovah’s Witness kids grow up knowing that if they ever mess up, their parents will leave them — and that’s scary,” Sawyer, now 38, said in a recent interview from her home in Pascagoula, Miss. “The shunning is supposed to make us miss them so much that we’ll come back. … It didn’t work.”

Sawyer and many others like her now are denouncing the church's shunning practices in wake of a recent murder-suicide in Keego Harbor, Mich., that killed a family of four former Jehovah’s Witnesses who were ostracized after leaving the faith.

► Feb. 11:As details of Burning Man suicide emerge, family grieves anew

► Dec. 13: Lawmaker dies of suicide days after being accused of sexual abuse

The deaths sparked outrage among scores of ex-practitioners of the faith nationwide who took to Facebook, online forums, blogs and YouTube, arguing that the tragedy highlights a pervasive yet rarely publicized problem within the church: Shunning is pushing the most vulnerable people over the edge and tearing families apart, they say.

In the Michigan case, a distraught mother shot and killed her husband, her two grown children and herself in their home about 25 miles northwest of Detroit, shocking the small and quiet community.

They chose to leave

The shooter was Lauren Stuart, a part-time model and personal trainer who struggled with depression and spent much of her time working on her house, her friends said. She and her husband, Daniel Stuart, 47, left the Jehovah's Witnesses faith more than a decade ago over doctrinal and social issues.

Among them was their desire to send their kids to college, which many former Jehovah's Witnesses say the church frowns and views as spiritually dangerous.

“University and college campuses are notorious for bad behavior — drug and alcohol abuse, immorality, cheating, hazing, and the list goes on,” read an Oct. 1, 2005, article in Watchtower, the church's official publication that is not available online until 2008 editions.

► Nov. 20:How other countries can help us understand U.S. mass shooting crisis

► Oct. 14:Mom kills 2 sons, herself. But why did she do it?

The Stuarts sent both their kids to college: Steven Stuart, 27, excelled in computers, just like his father, who was a data solutions architect for the University of Michigan Medical School. Bethany Stuart, 24, thrived in art and graphic design.

After the parents left the faith, the Stuarts were ostracized by the members of the Kingdom Hall — the churches where Jehovah's Witnesses worship — in nearby Union Lake, Mich., and their families, friends said.

Lauren Stuart, whose mother died of cancer when she was 12, struggled with mental illness that went untreated, isolation and fears that the end was near, friends and officials familiar with the case said. One friend who requested anonymity said she believes the killing was the result of depression, not religion.

Longtime family friend Joyce Taylor, 58, of White Lake, Mich., believes depression, shunning and religion-based doomsday fears all played a role. She said that about six weeks before the killings, Lauren Stuart started getting religiously preoccupied and telling her, "It's the end times. I know it is."

Weeks later, Taylor saw her friend again. Lauren Stuart had a vacant look in her eyes.

She was emotionally distressed.

A week later, with her home decorated for Valentine's Day, Lauren Stuart killed her family. She left behind a suicide note.

"She said in the suicide note that she felt that by killing them it was the only way to save them," recalled Taylor, who said police let her read the letter. "She said she's sorry that she has to do this, but it was the only way to save them all."

Taylor, a former Jehovah's Witness herself who left the faith in 1986, explained: "Jehovah's Witnesses believe that if you die on this side of Armageddon, you'll be resurrected in paradise."

► June 1:Persecution of Jehovah’s Witnesses in Russia intensifies

► April 20:Russian court bans Jehovah's Witnesses as extremist group

In Lauren Stuart's case, Taylor believes her friend never deprogrammed after leaving the church — a state she describes as "physically out, but mentally in." She believes that Lauren Stuart's indoctrinated doomsday fears never left her and that the shunning helped push her over the edge.

If her tight-knit community that once was her entire support system had not excommunicated her — and left her with no one to share her fears with — Lauren Stuart may not have done what she did, Taylor believes.

"People do things when they are desperate," Taylor said. "And that was an extreme, desperate act."

Shunning "can lead to great trauma among people because the Jehovah's Witnesses are a very tight-knit community," said Mathew Schmalz, a religious studies associate professor at the College of Holy Cross in Worcester, Mass.

"If you're separated out, you're really left to your own devices in ways that are very challenging and very painful," Schmalz said. "Once you leave a group that's been your whole life, letting that go is a kind of death."

Police have not yet disclosed details about the death of the Stuart family except for calling it a murder-suicide.

The tragedy has emboldened many once-quiet ex-Jehovah's Witnesses to speak up. Many say they suffered quietly on their own for years until they discovered an online community full of isolated, ostracized people like themselves — people who had lost someone to suicide or attempted suicide themselves because their families, friends and church community had written them off for making mistakes, for being human.

The church calls it being "disfellowshipped." Members can return if they repent, change the behavior and prove themselves worthy of being reinstated. But unless or until that happens, members are encouraged to avoid the sinners, especially those who leave the faith.

Mothers go years, even decades, without talking to their children.

Siblings write off siblings.

Friends shun friends.

An estimated 70,000 Jehovah’s Witnesses are disfellowshipped every year — roughly 1% of the church’s total population, according to data published by the Watchtower.

► April 12:Body of judge on New York's highest court found in Hudson River

► January 2017:Michigan officers stop suicide just in time

Their names are published at local Kingdom Halls. Of those, two-thirds never return.

However, within a faith representing 8.4 million people worldwide, many members believe the religion is pure, good and loving. Those who are speaking against it are disgruntled and angry people who have an ax to grind because they were disfellowshipped, current members argue.

Or, they are lost souls who have misinterpreted the meaning and love behind the faith. Members say they believe that the shunning accusations are exaggerated and the suicides are often more about mental illness than ostracism.

► June 2016:Mom who stabbed self killed her three sons first, police say

► June 2016:Is there a psychology of hate we need to understand better?

Many of those who have left the religion disagree.

In the world of ex-Jehovah’s Witnesses, they maintain that the shunned are considered dead to their families, just like the suicide victims.

These are their stories.

‘A dangerous cult’

The conversation was difficult to wrap her 8-year-old brain around.

“You know your sister was being bad, right?“ Sawyer recalled her mother telling her after her sister's suicide.

“And what she did was stupid, right?’ … To take your own life is very wrong," her mother continued.

“I didn’t understand what was going on … and I said, ‘Oh. OK,’ “ Sawyer recalled. “In my 8-year-old brain, I was thinking, ‘When I mess up, my mom’s going to hate me.’ "

And so began her painful journey with the Jehovah’s Witnesses faith, the religion she was born into and grew up in in Pascagoula, Miss., where her fears of abandonment took hold at age 8.

► March 2016:Former Army Reservist kills family, self

► March 2016:Cannabis church founder says he was defamed

Sawyer believes that the shunning drove her sister to suicide. After the church disfellowshipped her for getting engaged to a non-Jehovah's Witness, the fiancé left, and her sister was thrown into depression.

Her sister tried turning to her mother for consolation. But her mom would read scripture and tell her, "Until you start acting right, you’re going to have these bad things happen to you.“

Bad things happened to Sawyer, too.

At 30, she sought a divorce from her husband because he was abusive and cheating on her, she said. But church elders and family pressured her to save her marriage.

“I showed them the holes in my walls,” Sawyer said, referring to the damage her ex-husband did to the home during fights. “They told me to pray more … and sent me back home to him.”

Sawyer took up smoking to handle the stress, which got her disfellowshipped because smoking is not allowed.

She also went through with the divorce. She ended up losing her home to foreclosure and turned to her mother for help because she had two children to raise.

Her mother took her in temporarily, but when church elders found out, they threatened to shun Sawyer’s mother. Her mother let the grandkids stay but not her daughter.

Sawyer ended up homeless for six months, living out of her car in a community college parking lot.

She landed on her feet with the help of a student loan. She got an apartment, a job as a hospice nurse and her children — now 10 and 18 — back.

She found herself but lost her family along the way.

► January 2016:Dad likely torched home with gasoline

► December 2015:Minister stripping away church knowledge gap on mental health

Her mother doesn’t speak to her. Sawyer said she can’t recall the last time they spoke.

Her sister in Alabama hasn’t spoken to her since Sawyer got divorced in 2010.

“She was on my porch with my parents," Sawyer said. "My sister looked at me and said, ‘You’re abandoning me just like Donna did’ and left. And that's the last thing she ever said to me."

Sawyer has kept silent about her pain for decades.

“This is a dangerous cult,” she said of her former religion. “It’s important for people to realize. This is serious.”

He lost his daughter

On Feb. 3, 2011, the Utah church of Dave Gracey disfellowshipped him at age 61.

By then, he had been an elder three times — a job that troubled him as he often found himself judging and sanctioning people who had sinned in the eyes of the church: Smokers. Drug users. Adulterers. Homosexuals.

“I had a terrible time with that,” Gracey said. “All we were doing was chasing people around and catching them in their sins and kicking them out.”

But then came the day the church judged his own children. That's when Gracey said he started rebelling.

In 2010, Gracey’s 38-year-old daughter, Laura, committed suicide after a fallout with church elders.

► September 2015:Town comes together for funeral of family shot by dad

► February 2015:Missouri candidate dies of self-inflicted gunshot wound

“It put me in an absolute rage,” he recalled.

Gracey's daughter was rebellious growing up and suffered from mental illness, he said. She got into drugs and became homeless at one point but tried to get her life in order.

At 33, she was baptized as a Jehovah's Witness and over the next four years she was disfellowshipped twice and reinstated twice.

But in January 2010, following a meeting with church elders, Gracey's daughter fatally overdosed on prescription medication. She had been living in an apartment complex with other Jehovah's Witnesses in California and had a medical marijuana card for anxiety and stress.

Gracey suspects his daughter told the elders about the card.

“The elders won’t tell me why they met with her,” Gracey said. “Obviously, she was distressed that night, and they left her alone. They knew how fragile my daughter was. … It’s my guess that they excommunicated her that night, but they won’t tell me. They failed to protect her in her most vulnerable state.”

That same year, Gracey would suffer more heartache at the hands of his church. His 14-year-old stepdaughter had been raped, but the elders didn’t believe her, he said.

An investigation followed and an administrative judge and child protective services made a finding that the Jehovah's Witnesses were guilty of child maltreatment.

The church mounted a campaign to oust the Graceys of Layton, Utah, who appealed to the Jehovah’s Witnesses' headquarters in Warwick, N.Y., in the New York City metro area, claiming the church had harmed their daughter.

On Feb. 3, 2011, the Graceys were excommunicated.

“We were so indoctrinated. We had difficulty with it,” Gracey said, noting he and his wife officially left the faith in March 2013 after getting shunned repeatedly.

► January 2015:Parents killed selves, kids fearing apocalypse

► July 2013:Rick Warren returns to pulpit after son's suicide

“I walked out and never came back,” Gracey said. “I started kind of waking up.”

Gracey, who considers himself agnostic now, is focused on helping all of his family escape the Jehovah's Witnesses organization.

“I want to expose this religion for what they really are. It is a cult that splits up families and separates people from life. … They seem nice on Saturday morning when they are peddling their Watchtower, but they are insidious.”

‘I’ve been sick over this'

For Californian Kerry Kaye, the Keego Harbor killings triggered a host of emotions: anger, pain, frustration.

She, too, is a former member of the Jehovah's Witnesses community and lost a very good friend to suicide more than 20 years ago.

“I’ve just been sick over this. It brings back a lot of memories,” Kaye said of the Michigan killings in a recent telephone interview.

Kaye was in her early 20s when her friend committed suicide after being disfellowshipped for getting pregnant out of wedlock. The woman was 20 years old and seven months pregnant at the time.

Kaye said her friend tried to get back into the church, but the elders told her, “No, you need more time. You’re not qualified to come back.“

► July 2013:Indiana mom, 2 kids' drowning deaths called accident

► May 2013:Man commits suicide inside Paris' Notre Dame Cathedral

That day, the friend went home and shot herself in the heart, Kaye said.

“If you’re in the organization, you understand the depression and despair,” said Kaye, who explained that when someone gets disfellowshipped, word spreads fast in the church. She admits that she once shunned her own father at the direction of the church.

“The moment they make an announcement, you’re not allowed to have contact with them whatsoever. You have to pretend they’re dead,” Kaye said. “That’s how they control the people. It’s a fear tactic. It’s to keep them in the cult, under their control.”

Kaye was 24 when she left the church. Her father had left the faith a few years earlier after the church pressured him to leave his government job, telling him he had to choose the faith or his work.

He picked the job and disassociated himself.

Kaye was forced to shun her father or face consequences, she said.

“I didn’t talk to my father for almost two years, and then I finally had enough,” Kaye said. “I started to try to make an escape.”

It wasn’t easy. After she left, she said she became suicidal.

Doctors intervened and saved her life, she said. Eventually, she moved away from her hometown to the Los Angeles area to raise her three children on her own, outside the organization.

They are all college educated now and thriving, she said. And she has found peace as she has dedicated herself to helping others who feel trapped in the denomination.

“I’m wonderful since I left,” Kaye said. “My mission is to help other people. When entire families are destroyed, it makes all of us who have been involved in this cult very angry. We want people to know what is really going on.”

‘We love everyone’

Almost 8.5 million people are Jehovah’s Witnesses worldwide, including 1.2 million in the United States, according to the JW.org website.

We come from hundreds of ethnic and language backgrounds, yet we are united by common goals. Above all, we want to honor Jehovah, the God of the Bible and the Creator of all things. We do our best to imitate Jesus Christ and are proud to be called Christians. Each of us regularly spends time helping people learn about the Bible and God’s Kingdom. Because we witness, or talk, about Jehovah God and his Kingdom, we are known as Jehovah’s Witnesses.

The Jehovah’s Witnesses national organization did not return calls and e-mails from the Free Press for comment on the subject of disfellowshipping. Multiple members and elders were contacted, but all declined to speak on the record, many saying they were not authorized to publicly comment on scripture and church teachings.

However, following the Keego Harbor killings, numerous current Jehovah’s Witnesses contacted the Free Press to defend their religion, stressing it is about unconditional love, peace, helping people and having an unwavering commitment to God and Jesus Christ.

But like many religions, Jehovah's Witnesses have rules to follow — such as no stealing, killing, committing adultery, smoking or getting intoxicated on alcohol or drugs. If one commits any of these acts, they can be disfellowshipped, but they can get back in if they truly repent and change their behavior.

They, too, did not want to have their names published.

Misunderstood denomination

Schmalz, the religious studies professor, said mainstream Christians often misunderstand the Jehovah's Witnesses' faith. Their beliefs may seem "unorthodox" to other religious groups and their rules too strict or extreme.

But Jehovah's Witnesses, a Protestant denomination that began in the 1870s as a Bible study group in Pittsburgh, have rational reasons for much of what they believe and do, he said.

Jehovah's Witnesses believe in a "great cataclysm," that " 'the end is near' is continually imminent," he said. When you are brought up with that belief within a strong and tightly knit religious setting, it is hard to shake.

► April 2013:Churches shed light on suicide, depression

► April 2013:Pastor Rick Warren blames son's death on depression

"This belief in Armageddon, which is central to the Jehovah's Witness worldview, is something that still retains its power — even for people who have left," said Schmalz, who teaches a course in modern religious movements with discussions about Jehovah's Witnesses and Scientology. Author L. Ron Hubbard founded Scientology in the early 1950s in Los Angeles.

Jehovah's Witnesses aren't alone in the practice of shunning, Schmalz said. The Amish and other Mennonite groups ostracize those who leave the faith, too.

He said Jehovah's Witnesses have two goals in mind when they disfellowship someone:

1. They need a mechanism to discipline people who don't abide by their tenets.

2. They are trying to create a pure community whose members adhere to the group's beliefs and tenets.

This practice can be harmful, he said. But members have a rationale for the behavior.

"How is disfellowshipping really that different from tough love, where you hold people accountable for their actions? It's a complicated question," said Schmalz, who is opposed to using the word "cult" to describe the Jehovah's Witness church.

"We should look at the Jehovah's Witnesses not as a bizarre religious group but as a religion that has its own internal means of discipline," he said. "They can be very harsh and have very unintended and tragic consequences."

Follow Tresa Baldas on Twitter: @Tbaldas

12 Days of Giving: Cape Coral mom needs day training for three ...

By Janine Zeitlin ;

jzeitlin@news-press.com ;

Link:12 Days of Giving feature page

For the Coleman family, Christmas is wrapped with a tragic memory.

On Christmas Eve of 2008, not long after Karen and Ivan Coleman finished wrapping presents in their Cape Coral home, Ivan began to feel sick and vomit. He refused to go to the hospital. It would be too costly. When he lost consciousness due to a massive heart attack, Karen dialed 911 early Christmas morning. Their children, Brandi, Randy, and Sarah, woke as paramedics arrived to try to save him.

“When they hauled my dad out, my mom fell to her knees,” said Randy, 35.

“I knew he was gone,” said Karen.

He was 53.

This Christmas, it would be Karen Coleman’s wish for people to donate to the cost of sending her three adult children and other adults to Freida B. Smith Special Populations Center in Cape Coral. The city program helps adults with intellectual disabilities reach their goals and serves up to 100 people a day. It offers education and work and social skills. The center needs 21 scholarships, totaling $22,000, to meet the demand of needy families.

“If we didn’t have Special Populations, they would just sit in the house and do nothing, and it’d be very lonely and hard and there’s a lot of handicapped people that have to do that,” she said. “It’s just so expensive, and we don’t get any help from the state. It’s just one day at a time.”

It costs $60 a day to send Brandi, Randy and Sarah to the center. Special Populations offered them scholarships to attend two more days than they can afford.

Brandi, Randy and Sarah began attending adult day training about a decade ago, shortly after moving with their parents to Cape Coral from southern Illinois. It was the first time a family with three children with the same disability was in the program, said Sara Sansone, Special Populations supervisor. Brandi, Randy, and Sarah have thrived there and made friends.

“They’re our second family, and I believe they think of us that way too,” Sansone said.

Karen Coleman is grateful for her children, but being the mother of three children with disabilities has not been an easy journey. For decades, Karen Coleman felt angry at God.

He didn’t answer her prayers for her eldest daughter, Brandi, to walk. Her frustration grew when Randy couldn’t walk either. It wasn’t until she was five months pregnant with her third child that the young mother found out why her children didn’t move as other toddlers did. A geneticist told Karen and her husband, Ivan, their two children had Sjogren-Larsson syndrome. With it comes neurological and muscular problems and dry, scaly skin. There was a 25 percent chance the third child would not inherit it.

Baby Sarah arrived into the world with the syndrome, too.

Karen and Ivan followed a doctor’s advice to treat them like any other children. They took the children fishing, camping and taught them to clean their rooms.

Finances have been tight since Ivan’s death. He had worked in construction. There was some life insurance, but that’s gone. The family receives his Social Security and Medicare, but once the bills are paid, there’s about $600 left for food and expenses.

The trio have been on a waiting list for 11 years for a Medicaid waiver through the state, which would cover the cost of Special Populations. There are about 22,000 Florida families on that waiting list, according to the state. At Special Populations, about 33 families are on that list.

Since Ivan’s death, Coleman, now 58, has made peace with God. Her husband’s memory is a presence in the family’s home. Brandi, 39, a daddy’s girl, cries at the mention of his death. His pictures, the most recent one with his signature handlebar mustache, hang in the living room. The TV sits on a stand he and Randy built together. A tropical painting Karen and Ivan chose hangs above the couch.

She prays every night. She feels God in their lives when she recalls how often her children have fallen. Brandi uses a wheelchair and Randy and Sarah use crutches. Only once did a fall result in a broken bone: Brandi’s pinky finger.

“I look back now, and God has been with me the whole time,” she said. “He watches over us.”

12 Days of Giving

The holidays are a time for giving, and the needs in SW Florida are great. Each day until Dec. 24, The News-Press will feature the wishes of 12 families and people in hopes that neighbors can help their less fortunate neighbors.

Connect with this reporter:

Janine Zeitlin News-Press (Facebook) @Janinezeitlin (Twitter)

How to help

To help Karen Coleman with the cost of day training for three adult children with Sjogren-Larsson syndrome or other needy families, contact Freida B. Smith Special Populations Center in Cape Coral at 574-0574 or email specpops@capecoral.net. The center needs 21 scholarships, totaling $22,000, to provide adult day training services that families cannot afford.

Coming Sunday

Day 3: Fresh out of a domestic violence shelter, Tina Ruwinski struggles to provide for her three children.

George Segal: How 'The Goldbergs' says goodbye in his final episode

George Segal's final appearance on ABC's "The Goldbergs" Wednesday was quintessential Pops: a mix of humor based on generational misunderstanding and folksy but legitimate wisdom, seasoned with plenty of heart.

The 1980s-set family comedy, now in Season 8, closed with a touching 48-second video tribute to the longtime film and TV star, who died at 87 March 23 due to complications from bypass surgery.

After the episode ended, the screen shifted to a message: DEDICATED TO OUR FRIEND, GEORGE. That was followed by a series of clips featuring Segal in various scenes as grandfather Albert "Pops" Solomon, including some from his roles in the program's signature film and TV re-creations: Pops as Batman, Pops in a straitjacket, Pops as one of the Ghostbusters – where his amusing pop-culture cluelessness was on display.

"Who ya gonna telephone? The Ghost Fellas," he said, butchering the famed catchphrase.

Accomplished life:George Segal, longtime movie star and grandfather on ABC's 'The Goldbergs,' dies at 87

The tribute also featured Segal on the banjo, an instrument he often played on late-night shows, along with his Pops offering loving hugs to family members and heartfelt advice: "If you just believe in yourself, like I do, you can't lose." The segment closed with a simple on-screen message: We will miss you, George.

"The Goldbergs" capped a long, successful film and TV career for Segal, who received an Academy Award nomination for "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" and starred in such movies as "The Hot Rock," "Blume in Love," "California Split" and "Fun with Dick and Jane." Before "The Goldbergs," he enjoyed a six-season run on the NBC comedy "Just Shoot Me!"

In the episode that preceded the tribute, Segal's "Pops", the father of Beverly and grandfather of Erica, Barry and Adam, had a typically small role as measured in screen time, but size shouldn't be confused with significance. To the end, the character remained a charming co-conspirator to aspiring filmmaker Adam (Sean Giambrone) – the youthful alter ego of series creator Adam F. Goldberg – providing both comic relief and important life advice.

Wednesday's episode opened with Adam re-creating the innovative pencil-sketch animation of A-ha's 1985 "Take On Me" music video, with Pops and mom Beverly (Wendy McLendon-Covey) as his co-stars.

Pops, of course, didn't quite get the technology. "I still don't understand why we have to be animated," he said.

"No, I do the animation after," Adam explained. "It's called rotoscoping."

"Does it hurt?" Pops replied.

"That's a wrap for Pops," Adam concluded.

For all the laugh potential, Segal's Pops has always been a sage presence, grounding a family of characters known for their flights of whimsy. That came into play later in the episode, as Pops served as both sounding board and counsel when Adam tried to figure out ways to show his much less privileged girlfriend, Brea, that he wasn't a coddled mama's boy.

"Instead of trying to convince Brea that you're not spoiled, why don't you show her by getting a (bleeping) job?" Pops suggested.

Adam listened, getting a job alongside Brea in an ice cream parlor, but he hated the hard work and concocted a scheme to get Beverly to interfere so he would be fired.

"This is a huge mistake," Pops said. He was right, as usual.

Brea saw through the charade, leaving Adam without a job and (potentially) a girlfriend.

Pops was not pleased. "You didn't like working so hard, so you took the easy way out. Brea doesn't like that. Frankly, I don't either," Pops said.

In the words of the narrator, grown-up Adam (Patton Oswalt), "Pops' disappointment was a rude awakening." Chastened Adam listened this time, getting back both his job and Brea. Moral: Always listen to Pops.

At the end of the video tribute, Segal received one final honor, an appearance on executive producer Goldberg's production card. Goldberg, who based the series on his own upbringing and often features family members in the closing credits, closed with a black-and-white picture of Segal and him.

It was a deserved spot for a beloved member of the family, whether it's Goldberg's, "The Goldbergs" or the millions of fans who have enjoyed watching Segal over the decades in film and TV.

Indiana killer Paula Cooper: The Executioner Within

Robert King

robert.king@indystar.com

This 13-chapter story, told as a real-life novel, raises questions about race, justice, poverty and abuse. But it is also the story about the human capacity for forgiveness and a young woman’s struggle to find peace.

Still shrouded in darkness, she sat alone in her car, parked between night and day, between this world and the next.

Behind her, a family of teddy bears sat strapped in by a seat belt. In the front seat next to her was a digital recorder. And a gun.

She picked up the recorder and clicked it on.

"This is Paula Cooper."

A short introduction, a simple statement. Even though nothing had been simple about being Paula Cooper.

"I believe today is the 26th; 5:15 will be my death."

She saw it clearly now, even in the pre-dawn gloom. She'd spent so much of her life searching for peace. But early on the morning of May 26, 2015, the end was in sight. She would reach it before sunrise.

She just had a few things left to say.

—

"My sister. My queen. My everything."

Every morning she spoke to Rhonda. Why should this morning be different?

—

"My mother, I felt like you didn't love me. You didn't care about me. You cut me off. You judged me. You didn't want me at your church. You hurt me about the man I loved. But I still love you."

Others had forgiven Paula. Yet she never felt it from the woman who mattered most.

—

"To Monica, I'm so sorry. This pain that I feel every day. I walk around. I'm so miserable inside. I can't deal with this reality."

Monica had been like a godmother in the fairy tales — someone to fill the void in the absence of a mother's love.

—

"LeShon, I love you. … You showed me how to love.You showed me how to be a woman."

LeShon looked beyond Paula's past. As if it had never occurred.

—

"Michael, I'm so proud of you. And thank you for apologizing."

Michael was her first love. She wanted a life with him; he wanted something else.

—

"Meshia … you helped me when I was down, but I explained to you better than anybody how I feel."

Meshia knew Paula's pain; she'd just been unable to stop it.

—

These were the people Paula loved most. And to each one she had revealed part of herself, but never the whole. It was a select list from a life populated by characters: Her brutal father and her innocent victim; the judge who condemned her and the man who forgave her. There were friars and a bishop and a pope; jailers and journalists; people who were zealous to save her life and people eager to end it. There were too many to consider, really. And the sun would be up soon. She could wait no longer.

"Forgive me," she said in a recording that would soon become part of a police investigation. "I must go now."

Her coda finished, Paula stepped out of the car and into the shadows. She took a seat against a blighted tree. She felt the breeze in her hair. She felt the gun in her hand.

She was familiar with death. She'd seen it up close. She'd been condemned to it, resigned to it and reprieved from it. She had debated its merits and come to terms with it. Never had she stopped thinking of it.

But the question that would vex those she was leaving behind was maddeningly simple.

Why, after all she had endured and all she had survived, after all she had done and seemed capable of doing, had she chosen to die now?

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The garden spot in the woods — where her father grew vegetables and beat his daughters — was only an occasional venue of torture.

More often, for Paula Cooper, it happened at home.

As a child, Paula went to bed night after night next to her sister, listening to their parents argue, listening to her father make threats to come after them. Sometimes her mother would talk him out of it. Sometimes the man's wrath ebbed and they fell asleep. Sometimes they would be jarred awake at 3 o'clock in the morning, her father standing over them, ready to beat them.

Paula believed there were other kinds of families out there. She watched the people on "The Cosby Show," and they seemed to have such a nice family. But that was television. This was real. This was her family. And it looked as if there was no escaping it.

—

Paula was born in Chicago to Herman and Gloria Cooper on Aug. 25, 1969. Her sister, Rhonda, was three years older. Early on, the family lived in Michigan City, but by the time Paula was old enough for school they had moved to Gary.

The girls attended Bethune Grade School, a stone's throw from home. They went to nearby New Testament Baptist Church, where Paula sang in the choir and helped with the little children's Bible classes.

By the late 1970s, Gary's downward spiral from a midcentury boomtown was picking up speed. Manufacturing jobs were disappearing. White families were fleeing to the suburbs. Crime was rising. Like many black families still in the city, the Coopers were left in the wake of all this.

Gloria worked as a lab tech at a hospital. She had an assortment of health problems, none of them helped by the drugs and booze she added to the mixture.

"One day my mother be nice, the next day she be angry," Paula would tell Woman's Day, years later, when her story was national news. "And the next day she be real strange-acting."

Herman worked for U.S. Steel and worked construction, but his employment was sporadic. He had a girlfriend on the side and would be gone for long stretches. When he returned, chaos followed. Herman and Gloria were a volatile pair, drinking hard and arguing often, creating an atmosphere that was not just unstable, but dangerous.

The result, as Paula would say later, was that the girls had to "fend for themselves." Sometimes, on evenings when Herman was gone and Gloria worked late, Paula took meals with the next-door neighbors, who allowed her to stick around and watch TV. Most of the time the girls had food and nice clothing. But, as Rhonda would say later, "we hardly ever had any love."

Except from each other.

In the middle of all the darkness, Paula and Rhonda clung tightly to each other. They found moments to giggle together, play pranks together and share secrets.

More than just a sister, Rhonda became Paula's caregiver. Yet, through their early years, they were unaware of an important family secret: Rhonda was the child of a different father. It was a secret Gloria took great pains to hide, even though she allowed Rhonda's father, Ronald Williams, to visit occasionally. She said he was her uncle.

Before Herman came along, Ronald and Gloria were engaged. They broke it off, as Williams would later tell a courtroom, because he felt Gloria had a "split personality." In short, he thought she was crazy.

Living with Herman Cooper didn't help.

Herman beat everyone in the house. He beat Gloria in front of the girls. He beat the girls together. He beat them separately, sometimes in front of their mother. Sometimes Gloria seemed to egg on the violence.

"We did everything we was supposed to do, but it just wasn't never good enough for her," Paula told Woman's Day many years later. "… She get mad at us and he'd beat us. 'Be a man,' she'd tell him. 'Take care of it,' she'd say. And he'd take care of it."

The girls grew up unable to remember a time before the abuse. When they were little, Paula would later say, Herman beat them "for the things little kids do." When they were older, Rhonda remembered, he beat them for forgetting to take out the trash, for not doing the dishes and for skipping school.

Herman employed an assortment of tools for punishment, whatever he could get his hands on — shoes, straps, sticks, a broom. Sometimes he used an electrical cord from an air conditioner.

"He'd triple it up and go to work," Paula would say later. "It got to the point I was so used to it I didn't cry anymore."

To heighten the pain, Herman sometimes ordered the girls to remove their clothes before a beating. Questioned later, he denied that he ever abused the girls at all.

—

This stark picture of Paula Cooper's childhood emerges from several sources; the courtroom testimony from Rhonda and her father; testimony from Dr. Frank Brogno, a clinical psychologist who discussed what he learned from examining Paula. Some of the glimpses into the darkness come from now-yellowed news clippings. Others come from anecdotes Paula shared with friends and loved ones and the few journalists she favored. Finally, there's the freshest source of insight into Paula's world — more than 100 personal letters she wrote to a treasured friend that were reviewed by IndyStar.

Taken together, they amount to a catalog of horrors. Her father's beatings, Paula said, left her "close to death so many times." With no apparent means of escape, she seemed to stop fearing death at all. "I just cried," she wrote, "until all my tears were gone away."

—

In 1978, when Paula was 9, the tears were still flowing. Her parents separated, but it was often fuzzy as to when they were back together and when they were apart. Once, when Herman returned home to find the doors locked, he forced his way in. According to testimony Rhonda gave in court, Herman entered their home, beat up their mother and raped her in front of the two girls.

The incident seems to have been a tipping point. Not long after, Gloria began telling her daughters the world had nothing to offer them. Instead, she said, they'd all be better off going to heaven. On this point, Rhonda would say later, Gloria began pressuring her daughters. Eventually, the girls came to believe, like their mother, they had nothing to live for.

Gloria phoned Ronald Williams, Rhonda's father and steady friend. It was late. She'd been drinking and taking pills. She was crying. Herman had been giving her problems, she said, and things weren't good at work.

She was thinking of killing herself.

Williams had heard this kind of talk from Gloria before. Always, he had been able to console her, to talk her back from the precipice. He reminded her that she had Paula and Rhonda to think about. What would happen to them? His question made Gloria think. But only for an hour.

She called Williams back. Between her tears and her wailing, Gloria said: "I finally found out what I'm going to do with the kids."

Williams was alarmed. He demanded to know what she meant.

"I'm going to take them with me," she replied. "I'm going to let you speak to your daughter and Paula for the last time."

The girls took the phone in turns. They were crying, too. Rhonda said they were going to heaven with their mother.

"Don't do nothing drastic," Williams told them. "Let me speak to your mother, OK."

The phone went dead.

Williams panicked. Gloria and the girls had recently moved. She hadn't shared their new address. He didn't know where to find them, how to stop her.

He called the operator and asked for his last call to be traced; it was no good. He called Gary police. Without an address, they could do nothing.

There was nothing anyone could do. Williams waited. For three weeks, he waited. He feared what had become of them.

Had Gloria killed them all?

—

After she hung up the phone, Gloria decided not to act right away; she'd wait until morning. When she awoke, Gloria took the girls out to the car in the garage. She put them in the back seat and started the engine. The garage door remained closed.

From there, accounts differ. Williams testified that a friend told him neighbors noticed something and called the fire department. Rhonda testified that, as the fumes gathered, the girls drifted off to sleep. They thought they were going to heaven; instead, they woke up in bed. How they got there isn't clear. Rhonda said Gloria had changed her mind. When the girls awoke, she said, their mother was coughing on the lawn.

From then on, Williams tried to coax Gloria into letting him have the girls. Rhonda was his daughter, and he was fond of Paula, too. Gloria would have none of it.

"I'd rather see them both dead," she said.

—

The girls survived their first brush with death. But Paula and her sister were being shaped in a world without hope. And now their mother had planted a seed: The ultimate escape was death.

Rhonda looked around at this nihilist world and began seeking a way out. Several times she tried to run. Soon, she began taking Paula with her. "I couldn't take it no more in that house," she would say, "and I didn't want her to, either."

By 1982, when both girls were teenagers, they made an unsuccessful attempt to run and were sent — together — to the Thelma Marshall Children's Home in Gary. Within a short time, they were returned to the Coopers. For Paula, it was the beginning of a cycle — of running and being returned home. For Rhonda, that cycle ended only when she learned Ronald Williams was her biological father. At her first opportunity, she left the Coopers to live with him.

If the move helped Rhonda, it had grievous consequences for Paula, then 13. Her sister had been the most stable person in her home. Now she was gone. Paula came to believe her parents blamed her for Rhonda's departure. Now that her father's anger had one less target, Paula's beatings grew more frequent and more brutal. Even as her parents divorced, Herman never quite left the picture. And his handiwork began to show.

At school, Paula revealed to an administrator a rash of injuries — a bruise on her thigh, a welt on her arm, a rug burn on her elbow.

When a welfare caseworker visited the Cooper home, Herman and Gloria cursed at her. They blamed Paula's problems on interference from the courts, from the school psychologist and from the welfare department itself. When the caseworker recommended family counseling, Gloria said she'd rather go to jail.

At various times, Gloria and Herman seemed to vacillate between wanting Paula and considering her a curse. Paula began running away on her own. After one attempt, welfare officials wanted to send Paula home, but her mother objected. If Paula returned, Gloria vowed to leave.

On another occasion, when Rhonda made a rare visit to spend a weekend with Paula and her mother, arguments ensued and Williams returned for Rhonda. He couldn't find her there, but he found Paula. She was crying so loudly he heard her without going in. Gloria, who stood in front of the house fuming about Paula, simply said: "I'm going to kill that bitch."

Paula emerged and, seeing Williams, ran to him and jumped into his arms. He asked her if her mother would really hurt her.

"Yes."

Williams told her to get in the car. Gloria charged out toward them and began to threaten Paula. "I'm going to kill you and if I don't (Herman) will."

Williams considered it serious business to take Paula. He lived in Illinois and assumed it would be a crime to take a child across the state line without permission of the parents. He took her anyway. Gloria and other family members threatened to phone the police.

At his home, Williams asked Paula what she wanted to do. They talked about the logistics of her staying with him without her mother's permission. It would be impossible for her to go to school. Then there was the trouble Williams might face. With tears, Paula looked at Williams and said, "It's best for me to go home … I don't want to get you in no trouble." Paula's respite lasted only a few hours.

Even though he wasn't keeping Paula, Williams couldn't fathom returning her home. Instead, he just let her walk away. She was young, no more than 13, but Williams believed she was safer on the streets of Chicago than at home. Under scrutiny for making such a choice, Williams later told a courtroom he thought Paula was in danger there. "I would rather see her in the street as a slut than for her mother to blow her brains out."

For several days, Paula survived on her own. Inevitably, she wound up back home.

—

By 1983, when Paula turned 14, she stayed away from home as much as possible. She was smoking cigarettes and drinking. She smoked marijuana almost daily. Tall, but heavy, she took speed to lose weight. She tried cocaine. She skipped school routinely. She was sexually active. Years later, she would warn others against making similar choices. But for the moment, it was her life.

And it was a rootless life. She spent six months at a children's home in Mishawaka and three months in a juvenile detention center. She was removed from one home after only six days after she threatened a staff member and another resident — with a knife.

With each new address, Paula changed schools. She attended four high schools without ever finishing the 10th grade. Her schoolwork, decent at first, nosedived. She called a teacher "crazy," resulting in a suspension. She struggled to keep friends. She developed a reputation as a bully. All the while, Paula struggled to wake up in the mornings. When she was evaluated for the problem, a doctor at a local hospital asked if she ever thought of killing herself.

"Yes," she replied.

For that answer, she was sent to a mental hospital. Released four days later, she returned home.

"I told people I needed help and to talk, but all they did was move me from home to home," Paula would write a few years later. "I didn't care about life or trouble or consequences at all."

—

Perhaps the pinnacle of Paula's abuse came, ironically, after her father visited Gary police seeking advice on how to deal with a wayward child. Paula was 14, and Herman Cooper couldn't keep her reined in. Frustrated, he asked the police what he should do with her. It was a family matter, they said; he should do what he thought was right.

For Herman Cooper, that meant one thing: another beating. But for what he had in mind this time, he'd need some privacy. He took Paula to a woody patch near a spot where he kept a garden. Paula had been there before; so had Rhonda.

"If you scream where I take you," he told Paula, "no one will hear you."

Several times in her life, Paula thought her father was going to beat her to death. This was one of them. "He just kept beating me and beating me," she would tell the clinical psychologist, for what seemed like half an hour. Instead of the cord or a broom or a stick, this time Herman beat her with his bare hands.

When he was done, Herman put Paula in the car to take her home. But as they drove through the darkening streets of Gary, Paula knew she couldn't go back there. Not when the possibility of more punishment lay ahead in the Cooper house of horrors.

As Herman pulled the car up to the house, Paula jumped out and took off running into the night. Running and screaming. Herman gave chase, but porch lights began to click on. Up and down the street, neighbors stepped out to investigate the commotion. The neighbors had seen this show before; it never seemed to end. This time, though, Herman retreated.

Paula ran until she wound up where the night had begun — at the police station. She told officers there about the beating, told them she couldn't go home. At least not while Herman was around. The state pulled her away from the Coopers. It isn't clear from the record where she was placed. But soon, she was sent back home.

—

In the summer of 1984, when Paula turned 15, she felt as lonely as ever.

Adrift, Paula briefly took up with a guy she hoped might offer her a haven. Later, she would tell others he was a rough character who dealt drugs and treated her poorly. The one thing he did for Paula was leave her pregnant.

Many teenage girls would consider pregnancy a tragedy; Paula saw it as a blessing. She had almost forgotten how to care about anyone. She wanted a family, wanted someone to belong to. The child growing inside her represented someone she could love, someone who would love her in return.

And then it was gone.

Gloria had been dead set against the pregnancy; she wanted Paula to end it. Paula refused and ran off — perhaps to seek help from a woman she knew in Chicago. Her mother tracked her down and, as Paula would write years later in a letter and tell friends, forced her to have an abortion.

Paula was several months into the pregnancy; the procedure nearly killed her. "She took something that would have completed my life," Paula would write later, "and after that I felt I had no one."

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Ruth Pelke was gentle, an old woman with silvery hair and horn-rimmed glasses. As her stepson Robert and his wife pleaded for her to leave Gary, she listened.

Robert pledged to do everything necessary to make her house ready for sale — the legal stuff, the touch-up jobs, whatever. She listened as they talked to her about how dangerous her neighborhood had become.

But Ruth didn't really need reminding. Her Glen Park neighborhood was still one of the better places to live in Gary, although that wasn't saying much, given the city's downward lurch. There were abandoned houses now. There were burglaries. Her own home had been hit five times in recent years, including when her husband, Oscar, was still alive. Now, at 78, she was widowed and alone, and things were only getting worse. But Ruth had been in Glen Park for 41 years; it was home. She still had some good neighbors. Just as important, she had a mission.

For decades, she'd opened her home and heart to the neighborhood children. She'd taught them the Bible using felt cutouts of Bible characters that she stuck to a flannel board. She'd given the kids candy when they memorized Scripture. She'd driven them to church. She believed these were children who needed hope, and they could find it in Jesus. No, she finally said that night after her stepson's plea — she wouldn't be leaving the home in her neighborhood.

"I'll stay here until I go there," she said.

Ruth Pelke was pointing a finger to heaven.

—

The next day, Tuesday, May 14, 1985, Ruth's doorbell rang.

She answered it and found three teenage girls standing on her porch. She didn't recognize them, but she opened her door. One of the girls said, "My auntie would like to know about Bible classes. When do y'all hold them?"

Ruth wasn't up to teaching anymore, but she wanted to help the girls. "Come back on Saturday," she said. And closed the door.

—

The girls — Karen Corder, Denise Thomas and Paula Cooper — walked back across the alley. Sitting on a porch, April Beverly was waiting.

The foursome — all ninth- and 10th-graders at Lew Wallace High School — left school at lunchtime that afternoon with no intention of going back. The girls walked the 10 blocks or so to an arcade near 45th and Broadway where they spent what little money they had on games and candy. When their money was gone, they headed back to the house where April was staying with her sister.

They were a ragtag bunch.

At 16, Karen Corder — known to her friends as "Pooky" — was the oldest. More than two years earlier, she'd given birth to a baby boy whom she'd delivered in a toilet. She'd managed to keep the pregnancy secret from her parents until the child was born, according to court records.

At 15, April Beverly was seven months pregnant. She was part of a divided family with 11 children, and she bounced between two homes, her father's and her sister's. Her mother was dead, her father had remarried. On occasion, April benefited from the kindness of the old lady across the alley. She'd listened to Ruth Pelke's Bible lessons. And the old woman had brought food over to April and her siblings when she was concerned they might be hungry.

At 14, Denise Thomas was the youngest of the four and the smallest. The others were mature young women — at different places on the spectrum of teen motherhood. Denise still looked very much like a little girl. In the context of this group, some would later describe her as a tag-along.

And, of course, there was Paula Cooper. At 15, she was only months removed from an unwanted abortion that had nearly killed her. She was tall, somewhat heavy and had the bearing of a girl beyond her years. She would be described as the "prime mover" of the quartet — the ringleader. But it was a label she'd never cop to.

—

To date, the sum total of their illicit behavior was strictly small-time. Karen had tried her hand at shoplifting. Paula, Karen and April had pulled off a burglary a few days before that netted them $90. Mostly, the girls were truants. And on this Tuesday afternoon away from school, their immediate priority was to raise some money so they could go back to the arcade.

Their first attempt was a harebrained scheme April cooked up to get some cash from a woman up the street. All four girls had gone to the woman's door. April introduced Denise, the small one, as her daughter. April claimed the woman's husband had taken $20 from Denise and they'd come to collect it. For added zest, April threw in this detail: The woman's husband had been naked when he stepped into the street to take Denise's money.

The woman didn't go for it.

After that failure, April turned her focus to Ruth Pelke. She seemed to recall the lady keeping a jar of $2 bills. She thought the woman might even have some jewelry. The question was how to get to it all.

As they sat on the porch at her sister's house, April asked Paula to come inside — she might know where there was a gun. For the girls, a gun crime would be a considerable step up the criminal ladder. But the gun wasn't where April thought it was; she couldn't find it. Then it occurred to April: Something else might do.

"I have a knife you could scare the lady with," she said.

Soon, April produced a 12-inch butcher knife. It was sharp and had a curving blade that graduated to a fine point. It was a cooking tool, but also a potentially lethal instrument. Paula took the knife and hid it in her light jacket. Out on the porch, she and April explained to the other girls: This was their new weapon of choice. And Karen came up with another approach to getting inside the old lady's home: They would ask her to write down the time and place where the Bible classes would be.

In all this planning, Paula and the other girls would forever swear, the subject of killing the old woman never came up. The most they would admit, according to Corder, was that they'd knock out the woman and rob her. Still, the reality of what they were planning — to con their way into her house, pull a knife and take the old woman's valuables — was fraught with danger.

As their scheme unfolded, April stayed back again, resting on her sister's porch; she didn't want the old woman to recognize her. Karen, Paula and Denise crossed the alley.

They rang the bell, and soon Ruth Pelke appeared at the door. This time, when she answered, Karen said: "My auntie wants to know where the Bible classes are held at. Could you write it down for me?"

Ruth said she no longer taught the classes, but she knew of a lady. "I'll look up her telephone number for you." She invited the girls to come in. And she turned to walk to the desk on the far side of the room.

—

Ruth Pelke looked for all the world like the kindly grandmother drawn up in children's books. She was also a woman whose Christian faith was essential to who she was. She went to church on Wednesday nights and twice on Sundays. She visited church members who were too old or too sick to get out. She sang in the choir. She hosted missionaries in her home on their trips back from foreign lands. She took her own missionary journeys, going deeper into the heart of Gary to share her faith with children.

What followed — recorded in statements to police, testified to in court, reported in newspaper accounts and, in brief instances, described in letters Paula would write years later — was a scene that would shock Northwest Indiana and the rest of the state.

As Ruth Pelke crossed her living room to the desk where she kept phone numbers, she felt a pair of arms wrap around her neck.

Paula had put her jacket on the couch and run up on Ruth, grabbing her from behind. For a moment, the teenager and the old woman struggled. Ruth still tended a garden and did a little work outside the house to keep fit, but she was in no shape for a chunky 15-year-old girl who now had her in a headlock.

Paula threw Ruth to the floor.

On a table nearby sat an item some would describe as a vase but others likened more to a triangular snow globe. One of the girls picked it up and hit Ruth Pelke over the head. Prosecutors would allege it was Denise Thomas; Paula took the blame.

Paula demanded to know where Ruth kept her valuables. She threatened to cut her with the knife. "Give me the money, bitch," she said.

Ruth looked up and said simply: "You aren't going to kill me." She began hollering for help. Paula's anger rose now. Then she looked at Ruth's head. Blood was streaming from the place where she'd been hit with the vase. Paula saw the blood and reacted in a way she would struggle to explain for the rest of her life.

To police investigators, she would say she entered "a blackout stage."

To a judge, she would say, "Something clicked in on me."

To a psychologist, she said the sight of the blood altered her perception of whom she was attacking: "I saw somebody else inside of that body."

Several friends and supporters who heard similar explanations from Paula concluded that, in this moment, Paula no longer saw the meek and mild Bible teacher in front of her. They believed Paula saw the woman who watched her suffer so many beatings and did nothing to stop them, the woman who took away the baby she'd wanted to love. They were convinced that, in the defenseless woman pinned to the floor, Paula saw her mother.

Whatever she saw, Paula reached for the knife. She grabbed it by the handle and began slashing. She sliced open the old woman's cheek. She stabbed at her head, without deep penetration. Ruth fell back, flat on the floor. And Paula went to work, cutting her arms and legs.

The other girls stood by in disbelief.

Karen Corder, the oldest, told Paula to stop.

Denise Thomas, the youngest, cried and screamed for Paula to quit. Later, she would claim she yelled, "I'm getting out of here," only to be met with a withering threat from Paula: "Leave and you're dead."

Paula's barrage was relentless. She stabbed the old woman in the belly and, finally, thrust the blade deep into the side of Ruth's chest. With that, Paula stopped; she pulled back from the carnage.

"I can't take it no more," she said.

Paula looked at Denise; she told her to come hold the knife. But Denise refused. She looked at Karen, communicating the same message. Karen knelt beside the wounded woman. The blade remained lodged in her chest. And Karen held it in place.

April Beverly, who concocted the robbery scheme, initially held back. After the others went inside, she had come up to Ruth's porch and acted as lookout. Now she entered the house. The old woman was lying on her back, her dress covered in blood, her arms and legs still moving. Karen, she noticed, held the knife as it protruded from the woman's side. To April, it appeared that Karen wasn't just holding it: She was wiggling the knife back and forth. Out of some morbid curiosity, she would tell police later, Karen pushed the blade farther into the hole to see how deep it would go. At one point, she concluded, "The bitch won't die."

Karen estimated she held the knife in Ruth Pelke's side for upwards of 15 minutes; Paula thought it closer to 30.

Ruth Pelke moaned through most of this. The old woman's torn and tortured face was too much for the girls to bear. One of them went to the bathroom and got a towel to cover Ruth's face — and try to smother the last breaths of life from her. Paula and Denise said it was Karen; Karen said it was Paula.

In her dying moments, Ruth Pelke managed to share a few last words. Denise heard her saying the Lord's Prayer.

"Our Father, which art in heaven …"

Paula had stalked in and out of the room, and the last words she heard from Ruth were something else. Words that would haunt her the rest of her life.

"If you kill me," she heard Ruth say, "you will be sorry."

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Paula and Denise began tearing the house apart, rifling through drawers, ripping items off shelves and upending furniture.

For Paula, it was a mad search for some reward for the awful business she'd just concluded. There had to be some money somewhere. Maybe some jewelry. But as she continued her desperate search, a nervousness began to grow inside her. Whether it was regret for the killing or the chilling final words of her victim, she felt uneasy. And she didn't like it. As they were going through the upstairs rooms, Paula tried to pull herself away. But the only place to go was back downstairs, where the source of her angst lay dead on the floor. She resumed the treasure hunt and soon managed to turn up some cash — all of $10. She came across a key and thought it might start the old woman's Plymouth in the garage. She ran out to give it a try. Nothing.

April joined in the search and quickly turned up another key. This time when Paula tried it, the engine stirred to life. April went inside to fetch the other girls.

By then, Karen and Denise were alone with Ruth Pelke's body. Karen had watched the rise and fall of the old woman's chest until it grew shallower. Finally, it stopped. Maybe April sensed some new panic; she sternly warned the other girls: "If you tell anyone, I'll kill you."

The girls had spent roughly an hour in the old woman's house. They hadn't found a jar of $2 bills. They hadn't found a trove of jewelry. But it was time to go. Someone might come looking. Before they could leave, Karen grabbed one last item.

She knelt down again beside Ruth. The butcher knife was planted firmly in the left side of her chest, just below her breast. Karen grabbed the handle. She pulled it out. As they headed out to the car, Karen carried the knife at her side. She climbed into the back of the car and dropped it to the floor. The blade was still coated in blood.

—

Paula Cooper was 15. She was too young to drive. But with her three accomplices as passengers, she managed to steer Ruth's car out of the neighborhood and onto 45th Avenue. They were just down the street from Lew Wallace High School. School was out now and, almost immediately, they saw a classmate walking along the street. Almost reflexively, they waved to Beverly Byndum. And Beverly waved back.

This was the paradox they now faced. They were teenagers in possession of a car, the apex of adolescence. Yet they had acquired it in the most horrific way imaginable. Years later, Paula would say things just "got out of control." But here she was — a killer. Now that the deed was done, now that they had a few bucks, Paula and the others seemed in no mood to enjoy it.

Before they arrived at the video arcade, Karen asked Paula to let her out of the car; she wanted to go back to April's house. Paula let her go, but not before asking her to perform a little task: Go back to the old lady's house and get the jacket Paula had left inside.

Next, Denise said she wanted to go home. She asked Paula to let her out at a convenience store and she would make her way from there.

When Paula and April pulled up to Candyland Arcade, they were alone. For a few minutes, they just sat there, talking about what they'd done. April hadn't witnessed everything that went on inside the house. It's not clear how many of the missing details Paula shared.

Paula said she needed to use the restroom, and she ventured into the arcade. When she returned, five girls from school were standing around the car. One of them was Beverly Byndum, whom they had passed on the street. Her sister, Latesha, asked where they had come by the car. Paula said it was her sister's.

Within minutes, Karen walked up to the arcade out of breath, as if she had been running to catch up with the crew. Wherever she had been, she hadn't stayed long. Paula pulled her aside and asked if she'd gone back to the house, if she'd picked up the jacket. No, Karen replied. It was probably the last place on Earth she wanted to go. And she didn't hang around long enough to talk further about it. In a few minutes, she caught a bus for home.

Whether Paula remembered it or not, she had left more than her jacket in the house. Inside one of its pockets was a newly filled prescription for birth control pills — her pills. She had picked them up earlier that morning before school. It was just one of the clues she had left for investigators to find.

Paula and April looked around at the girls and asked if anyone wanted a ride home. Eagerly, their friends piled into the Plymouth. Latesha Byndum was among those who jumped into the back. As she did, she felt her foot brush across something on the floor. She reached down to pick it up. It was a knife. And there was blood on it. There was also blood on her shoe. Latesha looked at Paula and April in the front seat and asked, "What you all do? Just kill somebody?"

The girls looked back at Latesha.

No, they replied.

And, in a response that would reverberate across the community, Paula and April laughed.

—

Paula and April dropped off their passengers at various addresses around Gary. But details about where and how they spent their next two days are choppy and imprecise.

Prosecutors would characterize their time in the car as a joy ride. But from this point on, Paula and April seemed to have a different sense of what to do next.

April wanted to go to a park in Hammond; she wanted to see her brother Tony; she wanted to see her boyfriend. When she found $40 in Ruth Pelke's glove box, she wanted to spend it. When they picked up April's boyfriend and he brought some alcohol, she drank it.

Paula wanted to go to a girl's home where she had lived for a time; she wanted to pick up some friends there. But she quickly decided she and April needed some time to focus on what to do next. When April found the money, Paula thought they should save it for gas. While April got drunk, Paula wanted nothing to drink. She was too nervous.

Most symbolic of their division, perhaps, is what happened to the money from Ruth's glove box. The girls wrestled over it, and one of the $20 bills was torn. Paula gave up the fight. April could keep the money and do with it what she wanted.

—

On Wednesday morning, the day after the crime, Robert Pelke phoned Ruth's house to check up on her. She didn't pick up the phone, and he decided to check on her in person. Just three days before, he and a large portion of the extended Pelke family had taken Ruth out for a Mother's Day dinner. Just two days earlier, Robert and his wife had pushed Ruth to think about selling her house and leaving Gary. Robert rang the doorbell, with no idea how prescient that conversation had been.

There was no answer, so Robert opened the mail slot on the door and called inside. There was only silence. But through the mail slot, something caught Robert's eye: The dining room was torn apart. He went to fetch a spare key Ruth kept hidden outside. Looking around the place, he noticed Ruth's car was missing from the garage, and he assumed Ruth must be gone, too.

He found the key, unlocked the door and stepped into the house. The place appeared to have been ransacked. Pictures that had adorned the walls were now scattered about the floor. Cushions from the couch had been pulled up and cast about. And then his eyes turned to the dining room floor.

The cloaked figure of a woman lay there motionless. Her dress was caked in blood. Her arms were slashed. A towel masked her face.

Robert knelt down next to her. He pulled the towel away and called her name. Still, there was no movement. He touched her, and the body was cold. He knew she was dead.

Robert got up and went for the phone. In an age when every phone was a landline, Ruth's had been ripped from its place on the wall. He stepped outside and began going door to door, looking for someone who would let him use their phone. But at house after house, he found nobody. Finally, Robert looked farther up the street and saw a man and a woman getting out of a car. He approached them and asked them to call the police.

His stepmother had been murdered.

—

Robert's son, Bill Pelke, arrived home just after 3 o'clock from his shift at Bethlehem Steel and soon received a phone call. It was one of his uncles. Nana, he said, was dead.

Nana was the term of endearment everyone in the family used for Ruth. Bill had grown up listening to her Bible stories. He'd loved her flannel board tales of the three men in the fiery furnace, of Noah and the ark and his favorite — Joseph and the coat of many colors.

Even as a 37-year-old man, he still loved to go to Nana's house for the holidays, to warm himself beside her fireplace and congregate there with the rest of the family. His grandfather had passed almost two years before, but Nana was still a magnet. She could still bring the family together. And now, suddenly, she was gone.

At such moments of shock, the brain's processor goes into hyperdrive. And some key facts rushed through Bill's head: Nana had been 78; she was the oldest Pelke; she'd had a good life; it must have been her time. But that instant of comfort evaporated quickly. He sensed something else in his uncle's voice that was borne out in his next words: There'd been a break-in at Nana's house. He didn't know if there was a connection.

Bill hung up and turned on the television, wondering if there might be some news about it. Sure enough, his father appeared on camera. He was saying something about it being a terrible murder. For Bill, everything else was a blur; he had to go. He had to be with his family.

As it turned out, Ruth Pelke had been dead for a full day.

—

By that spring of 1985, crime was a painful reality in Gary. Its murder rate was among the highest in the country. It was on its way to becoming the murder capital of the United States.

Gary was a city in decline; poverty was growing like a cancer. But the violence was being spread through an influx of gangs with names such as The Family and the Black Gangster Disciples.

Yet as accustomed to crime as the city had become, the murder of Ruth Pelke shocked and angered people in a whole new way. There was the innocence of Ruth herself — the elderly Bible teacher. As one observer put it, she was a grandma to the neighborhood. The killing's effect also might have been amplified because it happened in Glen Park, which a prosecutor later described as a "last bastion" of the white population in a city from which white residents had disappeared.

On the day after the discovery of Ruth's body, The Post-Tribune in Gary devoted two front-page columns to the story: "Bible teacher, 77, murdered in her home." It had her age wrong, but the dominant image on the page was a picture of Ruth — silver-haired and smiling behind her horn-rimmed glasses from another era.

The newspaper reported that neighborhood children "were visibly upset and shaken by the murder." They spoke of Pelke as "meek and mild," serving cookies during summer Bible classes and giving out boxes of candy to the children who memorized Scripture.

As for who might be responsible, the initial story carried some important nuggets: Police were searching for a 15-year-old girl who'd been seen driving Pelke's blue Plymouth. They weren't releasing her name, but the girl was a student at Lew Wallace High and lived in Gary's Marshalltown neighborhood.

—

Paula Cooper lived in Marshalltown.

As they combed through Ruth's house, police found the jacket with the prescription in the pocket. Eyewitnesses had seen Paula and the other girls in a car that matched the description of Ruth's missing Plymouth. And on the day Ruth's body was discovered, Gloria Cooper phoned police to report her 15-year-old daughter missing; she'd been missing since the day before.

The ink was barely dry on the newspaper stories when Karen Corder, walking around school on Thursday, two days after the crime, began looking for someone on whom she could unload her conscience. She had opted out of the joy ride and gone home and had a couple of restless nights' sleep. She found a gym teacher who'd been nice to her and said they needed to talk; she'd witnessed a murder. Soon, police were at the school. They took Karen and Denise into custody. And Karen was telling her story about the crime.

In the two days since the killing, Paula and April — with April's brother, Tony — had driven aimlessly from Gary to Hammond and to various parts of Chicago's South Side. They'd had no real sense of direction.

Tony pressed on in Ruth's Plymouth until the gas needle dropped well below empty. Then he pushed it some more. Finally, the car died. Their money gone, they found a phone and called April's sister. Thursday night, with the police dragnet closing around them, she took the girls to see the Gary police.

—

Detective William Kennedy Jr. had been looking for Paula Cooper and April Beverly for the better part of two days. When his phone rang around midnight, the news was good: They'd turned themselves in.

In addition to being a cop, Kennedy worked security at Lew Wallace High School. He'd seen Paula Cooper walking the halls. He never knew her name, but they'd exchanged hellos. Now, he was tidying up the loose ends of a case for murder against her.

When he arrived at the station, Paula's parents were waiting. Kennedy asked Herman and Gloria Cooper if Paula could make a formal statement about the crime. Herman, speaking for everyone, declined. They were interested in talking to a lawyer, and he seemed annoyed at the article in the morning paper, which he felt pointed a finger at Paula even if it didn't name her.

The Coopers met briefly with Paula, then returned to the waiting room. Soon, Rhonda arrived at the station. She'd read the papers. She knew Paula was in jail. And she was upset. She wanted to see her sister.

Gloria was OK with that but urged her to persuade Paula to talk about what she'd done. When the police wouldn't let Rhonda see her sister without a parent, Gloria agreed to go with Rhonda.

After so many years of turmoil and strife, Gloria and her two daughters were together again — for a moment alone in a police interrogation room. What they said isn't clear. But when Kennedy, the detective, rejoined them, Gloria gave Paula a nudge.

"Say something," she said.

Paula hesitated. She said she didn't want anyone looking at her. So Kennedy turned 45 degrees and looked at a wall. Paula began to speak. She kept speaking for 15 minutes. She laid out the essential elements of Ruth Pelke's murder, described the girls' desire for money and a car, described how they came up with the Bible class as their way in. She described how she got the knife and stabbed the old woman more times than she could remember. She talked about the aftermath, when they took the car and gave rides to their friends. At one point, according to the account the detective would later make from his "mental notes," Gloria Cooper asked Paula in front of the detective: Were you and Karen basically responsible for the lady's death?

Paula's answer: "Yeah, you could say that."

When Paula was done, Kennedy left the room. Her mother and her sister left, too. As Paula stood alone in the interrogation room, April Beverly was giving a statement in a room nearby. When Kennedy returned to Paula, she was newly animated. She began unloading a rapid-fire addendum to her confession to the detective.

"April is lying. She's lying on me, so I'm going to tell you where the murder weapon is. It's at the McDonald's in Hammond on Calumet Avenue, next to the police station. Her brother threw it out the car right by the drive-thru window side. It was by a tree right there."

For Paula, this was the start of one of the great grievances of her life — her claim that the other girls lied. A few details aside, their stories largely matched up. But in the discrepancies, Paula saw injustice. And correcting the narrative to fit her exact version of the truth would become an obsession.

The legal ramifications of what she'd shared, in her two statements, were that Paula had essentially confessed to the key elements of the murder. She had gift-wrapped a case for the authorities. She also had put herself in the cross hairs of a zealous prosecutor. She had no idea just how precarious her own life had become.

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Jack Crawford — with a swooping, blow-dried haircut that gave him an appearance not unlike the televangelists of the era — came before a bank of reporters with material certain to make a splash.

A rising star in Indiana's Democratic Party, Crawford had swept into the Lake County prosecutor's job years before, having pledged to get tough on crime. Since then, he had pursued the death penalty more than any other prosecutor in the state. In the first five months of 1985, he'd already won four death penalty convictions.

Now, flanked by a pair of cops, Crawford came before the gathered media with an announcement sure to make headlines: For the first time in Lake County, his office was charging four girls with murder. He would seek the death penalty against the oldest — 16-year-old Karen Corder — and if the other girls were moved out of juvenile court, he'd likely seek death for them, too.

"I've been a prosecutor for seven years," Crawford told the media, "and we've never had a case like this before."

As zealous as he was, Crawford privately acknowledged that same day that his chance for death sentences had already taken a big hit. That's because the clerk's office announced that the judge handling the Ruth Pelke cases was Superior Court Judge James C. Kimbrough Jr.

Kimbrough was a former public defender and NAACP lawyer who'd grown up in the civil rights heartland of Selma, Ala. More important than all of that, everyone around the courts — from prosecutors and public defenders to reporters and clerks — knew Kimbrough hated the death penalty. Hated it for its unfairness. Hated it for its inability to deter crime. And in a county where other judges had shown themselves willing to brandish the ultimate weapon, Kimbrough hadn't sent anyone to the electric chair during 12 years on the bench. Only once had he come close: Kimbrough sentenced a man to death who had been convicted of a double murder. Soon, though, the judge reversed himself and gave the man a new trial. Eventually, he was set free.

So, at word of Kimbrough's assignment, Jack Crawford and his team murmured that the path to a death sentence was a steep one. "We certainly thought we had an uphill climb," he would say later.

—

In the Lake County Juvenile Detention Center, Paula Cooper's life behind bars was getting off to a rough start.

She was no stranger to jail, having spent three months in the same detention center two years earlier after she ran away from home. She was a bit weepy then, even tender, the guards remembered. But this 15-year-old version of Paula Cooper was angrier, explosive and cocky. She acted as if she owned the place. She was a handful.

Two weeks after the crime, Paula took a seat next to two of her friends in the jail during "quiet hour." Soon they grew noisy. A guard told them to shut up and disperse; Paula refused. The guard ordered her back to her cell. But as she stepped into the hall, Paula struck the guard across the bridge of the nose. She fought until reinforcements arrived to pull Paula off. As they were dragging her away, Paula issued a warning: They'd better transfer the guard or she would get a knife and come after her.

The dust-up prompted a transfer for the girls — from the juvenile center to the Lake County Jail. It also made the local papers, which didn't help the cause of saving their lives.

By the end of July 1985, the cases against all four girls were formally moved to adult court. Crawford, after sifting through the ample evidence, made his purpose clear: He would seek the death penalty against all four.

The case had pricked the public's consciousness of crime at a new level.

Crawford's decision made news on the Chicago television stations; it made headlines across Indiana. The public defender assigned to represent Paula, Kevin Relphorde, was incredulous. "They must be the youngest females in the country facing the death penalty," he told reporters.

By then, Paula and Karen, sharing a cell in the Lake County Jail, had been locked up two months. They began telling jail staff they were considering suicide. On cards they were given to report health problems, they wrote things such as "Give me the electric chair" and "Give me that shock. I want to die."

As a precaution, jail officers took their personal belongings and stripped them to their underwear; they were on suicide watch.

Paula and Karen responded by banging on the bars and making noise. To calm them, a nurse broke out the oral sedatives. Karen took hers; Paula refused. The guards teamed up to hold down Paula so the nurse could give her a shot. But as they tried to restrain her, Paula jumped up and hit one guard in the shoulder.

"Oh you tough, huh?" the guard replied. "You stabbed an old lady." It was less than professional, but it was a gut reaction.

"Yeah, I stabbed an old lady," Paula replied. "And I'd stab that bitch again. I'd stab your fucking grandmother."

The jail incidents were part of a pattern to be repeated in years to come. Paula didn't respond well to restraints; she bucked authority. In such instances, she could be aggressive and hostile. A psychologist noted her tendencies and something else plain to see: Battered and badgered as a girl, she was now mistrustful and suspicious.

Soon, Paula's interaction with the jail staff would grow more complicated. By August 1985, about the time she turned 16, Paula began receiving a series of private visitors. Two were male corrections officers. Another was a male recreational therapist. They weren't visiting just because of their jobs.

They were coming for sex.

—

Outside the jail, the stories about the angry young prisoners seemed only to add to the public's contempt. And as the details of their crime emerged, they were already easy to hate. Especially the girl who had wielded the knife — Paula Cooper.

Paula had not just killed Ruth Pelke; she had stabbed her 33 times, according to the coroner. Some of the cuts on her arms looked like saw marks, as if the knife had been pulled back and forth. In other instances, the 12-inch knife had been wielded with such ferocity that the tip of the blade went through Ruth's body, pierced the carpet on which she lay and chipped the wood flooring beneath. Worst of all, it appeared Ruth Pelke survived the torturous assault for more than 30 minutes. The Post-Tribune called it "possibly the most brutal killing in Gary history."

If all that wasn't bad enough, two of the girls had bragged about the killing at school. As defendants go, they were about as unsympathetic as they come. With guilt hardly in doubt, letters began appearing in the Gary newspaper debating the punishment. Some asked for mercy; others wanted severe justice. One letter directed at Paula appeared under the headline, "She should pay."

All of it left Kevin Relphorde, Paula's lawyer, searching for a viable strategy to save Paula's life. The evidence was overwhelming, and the prosecutor was determined, which made a plea deal unimaginable. Paula's childhood had been bad, but it didn't seem to add up to an insanity plea. Her youth and relatively clean prior record were assets, but they looked meager compared to the brutality of the crime. Then there was the jury. Any panel drawn from across Lake County would be mostly white. And Paula was a black teenager who had killed an old white woman. All of it added up to a grim outlook.

As best as Relphorde could figure, the only thing Paula had going for her was the judge. Relphorde knew of Kimbrough's opposition to the death penalty. Ultimately, he suggested to Paula a stomach-churning strategy: Plead guilty.

Relphorde was a part-time public defender who'd never handled a death penalty case. But he figured Paula's chances were better in the hands of a liberal judge than with 12 angry jurors.

As risky as it sounded, Relphorde wasn't the only person who sized things up the same way. David Olson, who was Karen Corder's attorney, came to a similar conclusion. He'd had a nightmare about Karen, he told the Post-Tribune in March 1986, and awoke fearful of "losing her." His fears were amplified when he attended the trial of Denise Thomas, the first suspect to answer for the death of Ruth Pelke.

Just before the case against Thomas went to trial, in November 1985, prosecutors withdrew the death penalty charge, concluding she'd been more of a bystander to the crime.

But that didn't stop the jurors from reacting strongly to the horrific details of Pelke's death. They quickly found Denise guilty. Olson didn't want to risk that with death on the line for his client. So in March, 10 months after the crime, Karen went before Kimbrough with a guilty plea. Her sentencing would follow two months later.

How well Paula understood the risks of her plea — and how much say she had in it — is now a matter of dispute. Relphorde said he met with Paula regularly to talk strategy and that the plea was ultimately her decision. Years later, Paula would recall only three brief meetings with her attorney, who she said assured her the judge opposed the death penalty and would be sympathetic to a black girl. If she pleaded guilty, she said she was told, she wouldn't get a death sentence.

On April 21, 1986, Paula appeared in court to plead guilty to murder.

Herman Cooper came to the courtroom that day; so did Paula's sister, Rhonda. But Gloria Cooper, Paula's mother, was nowhere to be found. She had moved to Georgia and stopped answering the calls of Paula's attorney.

When the hearing began, Kimbrough asked Paula more than once if she knew she could be sentenced to death. Each time, Paula answered yes. To the most important question — How do you plead? — she never hesitated: Guilty.

For the record, Paula retold the story of the crime — the scheme to get into the house; what she did to Ruth; how the girls took the car.

"We went to commit a robbery, you know," she told the judge.

Was there any discussion in advance about what you'd do with Mrs. Pelke? he asked.

"No. It wasn't a discussion to go and kill anyone, you know."

Kimbrough accepted the plea. Paula's life was now in his hands. But she would have to wait months for an answer. Relphorde left convinced Paula had made her best play: "We were basically throwing ourselves on the mercy of the court."

Paula's strategy seemed to appear sound when, in May 1986, Kimbrough spared Karen Corder's life, giving her 60 years in prison. In fact, three of the girls had escaped with their lives. Denise Thomas, found guilty at trial, received a 35-year sentence. April Beverly, who conceived the robbery but waited outside during the killing, pleaded guilty in exchange for a 25-year prison term.

Only Paula's fate remained unresolved.

Lost in the news of Corder's reprieve, perhaps, was some language the judge used in reference to Paula. It seemed ominous. Kimbrough said it had been "conceded by all that Paula Cooper was the leader of this group of four young ladies. That Paula Cooper was the dominant factor in the crime." He said Corder was "operating under the substantial domination of Paula Cooper." Despite such words, the prevailing view in legal circles was that Kimbrough would spare Paula's life.

—

As her judgment approached, there were hints that Paula Cooper's case was starting to resonate beyond Indiana. Jack Crawford's first clue came when his secretary stepped into his office with an unusual message: "There's a man outside who says he's from the Vatican. He's dressed like a monk and wants to talk to you about Paula Cooper's case."

Crawford took a look. Sure enough, in a brown tunic bound at the waist with a cord, there stood a Franciscan friar. He told Crawford he was from Rome. He offered a letter validating his credentials. And he brought a simple message: Pope John Paul II and the Vatican weren't pleased with Crawford's decision to seek the death penalty.

Crawford was Roman Catholic. He'd gone to Notre Dame. He knew the church's opposition to the death penalty. But, as he explained to the friar, this was a legal decision, not a religious one. The friar left unsatisfied. He would not be the last Franciscan to stand with Paula.

More surprising than the friar's appearance was the visit Crawford received in June 1986 from Paula's attorney, Kevin Relphorde.

It was just weeks before Paula's sentencing, and Relphorde had few cards to play in Paula's defense. This time, though, it appeared he might have a game changer.

"You can't execute Paula Cooper," he said.

"Well, why is that, Kevin?" Crawford asked.

"She's pregnant."

—

The sex scandal at the Lake County Jail erupted in June 1986.

For months, corrections officers Vernard Rouster, 25, and Parmaley Rainge, 27, had been coming to see Paula for sex, officials discovered. So, too, had Michael Dean Lampley, a recreational therapist from a mental health center. Their encounters occurred even as a 40-year-old female corrections officer and a police patrolman were supposed to be maintaining security for the state's highest-profile murder suspect.

—

One of the guards admitted the sex began when Paula was still a week shy of 16 — the age of consent in Indiana. That people working in the jail were having sex with a captive wasn't illegal in Indiana in 1986. After the revelation, the jail workers resigned their jobs and the therapist was fired, but no one was prosecuted. Supervisors on the jail floor were suspended — for 15 days.

For all of its tawdriness, the scandal had the potential to affect Paula's case. State law prohibited the execution of a pregnant woman; punishment would have to wait. And while a death penalty appeal was certain to outlast a pregnancy, the strange episode raised the possibility of a sentencing delay.

Kimbrough ordered a medical exam for Paula. Quickly, the matter was put to rest: She wasn't pregnant. But, in a sign of the times, public discussion about the scandal seemed to focus less on the culpability of the jailers than on the promiscuity of the 16-year-old girl in jail.

James McNew, a deputy in Crawford's office who prosecuted the case, told the Post-Tribune he suspected Paula Cooper tried to get pregnant to stir up sympathy and avoid death.

However it came about, the sex scandal prompted a change in state law: It became a crime for jailers to have sex with their prisoners. Soon, though, the jailhouse sex scandal would become little more than a footnote before a judgment heard around the world.

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Bill Pelke sat on the wrong side of the courtroom.

His grandmother was the murder victim. Unwittingly, Bill took a seat on the side of the murderer. He was unfamiliar with the trappings of the courtroom. And unlike some in the community — in his own family — Bill carried no blood lust into the chamber. He thought people who committed murder should die. And Paula Cooper had killed his beloved Nana. But he wasn't fuming about it.

Bill had stayed away from the previous court hearings, but decided this was one he shouldn't miss. It was July 11, 1986. And for Paula Cooper, it was judgment day.

Courtroom 3 of Lake Superior Court was a small space. The gallery, oriented outside a circle where the business of the court was conducted, had seats for just 43 onlookers. This day, it was packed to overflowing. People stood, straining to hear, just outside the public entrance. Lawyers and other court personnel did the same just outside the doors normally used by the judge and juries. All wanted to know the fate of a 16-year-old girl who faced a potential death sentence.

Into this cauldron, Paula Cooper entered under the escort of a jail matron. She didn't need to look around to see she had few friends in the room. Her sister and her grandfather were there, but neither of her parents was present. Her mother had moved to Georgia, her father to Tennessee. As Paula entered, the matron said something that made the young defendant smile. The gesture surprised Bill Pelke; it struck him as unbefitting for the moment. When this day is done, he thought to himself, she's not going to be smiling.

Deputy Prosecutor James McNew began the proceedings by calling Bill's father to testify. Robert Pelke hadn't missed a hearing — for Paula or any of the other girls. He had been the family spokesman, and he wanted a death sentence for Paula. He described going to Ruth Pelke's home when she hadn't answered the phone, finding her home in disarray and her body on the floor. He described her bloody dress and the towel wrapped around her head. When the attorneys finished questioning him, Robert asked to read a statement to the court.

This, Robert Pelke said, was a crime that deserved the maximum sentence the law would allow. He quoted the Bible about submitting to authorities and God's vengeance and punishing evildoers. He said Paula gave Ruth no second chance, and he saw no reason to give Paula one.

"Paula reveled in her doings and enjoyed it," he said. He spoke of ridding society of those who would prey upon the innocent. "This is a tragedy that should never have happened," he said, "and a tragedy that family and friends will never forget."

Next, one of the girls from Lew Wallace High School testified about seeing Paula and the others on their joy ride and about finding the bloody knife on the floor of the car.

A crime lab technician discussed grisly photos from the scene — pictures of Ruth Pelke, of the knife-torn carpet and the gouge marks in the hardwood floor.

The prosecution introduced into evidence the autopsy report, which expressed the damage done by the 33 stab wounds. There was also an anatomical diagram noting the points where Ruth had been wounded — so many it looked like a star chart.

Jailers who had been attacked and threatened by Paula detailed her bad behavior; they recounted her admission about stabbing "an old lady."

Entering into evidence the grisly details of the crime and the accounts of Paula's callous behavior was part of the prosecution's effort to build a case that the only just punishment was death.

In Paula's defense, only three witnesses spoke.

Rhonda Cooper gave a picture of how she and Paula grew up terrorized in the home of Herman Cooper. She testified to the beatings, to their father's raping their mother in front of them, to their mother's suicide attempt and to their attempts to run away.

Ronald Williams, Rhonda's biological father, testified that he wanted to take Paula away from the misery, but her mother refused. He spoke of Gloria's threats against Paula and of the suicide attempt.

Dr. Frank Brogno, a Gary psychologist who examined Paula, described how Paula's abuse left her angry and confused, depressed and hostile. He said she was prone to confusion and bizarre thinking, even drifting into fantasies. Still, he said, Paula knew right from wrong. There was still hope for her, but also a real danger she could become a sociopath.

McNew, on cross-examination, ripped into the doctor. He pointed out how Brogno had testified in Karen Corder's case that Paula was the "prime mover" in the crime.

—

Relphorde made a plea for Paula's life, saying she had gone to Ruth Pelke's home to rob, not kill. He said the other girls were intensely involved in the crime and their lives had been spared. The death penalty, he said, was applied at the whim of prosecutors. He said Ruth Pelke, a woman of faith, wouldn't want Paula to die. In the end, he said, Paula was the handiwork of an abusive home and a system that failed her.

"I don't think Paula was born violent," he said. "I think Paula was a product of what was done to her."

McNew, closing the prosecution's case, checked all the boxes needed for a death sentence: Paula wasn't crazy. She wasn't doing someone else's bidding. She'd struck the death blows. She had a criminal record, as far as a juvenile goes, for skipping school and running away from home. And Paula's abusive childhood? To use that for an excuse, McNew said, was to insult everyone who has endured similar treatment and found a way to overcome the horrors. Giving Paula the death penalty, McNew said, would have a sobering effect on others who might be considering crime. But McNew said there was one reason, above all, for a death sentence.

"I am not seeking a deterrence to crime when I ask the death penalty on Paula Cooper. I seek justice for the family of Ruth Pelke."

—

With the attorneys done, Kimbrough asked Paula if she had anything to say. And Paula did not shrink from the moment.

She hadn't wanted a trial, Paula began; she only wanted to tell the truth. "Now my family life, it hasn't really been good. … Nobody understand how I feel."

"This man," she said, pointing to the prosecutor, "sit here and say he want to take my life. Is that right? I didn't go to Mrs. Pelke's house to kill her. It wasn't planned. I didn't go there to take somebody's life. It happened. It just happened. Something. It wasn't planned. We didn't sit up and say we was going to go and kill this innocent old lady. I didn't even know the lady. But everybody put the blame on me."

She said Jack Crawford had described her in the newspaper as the ringleader. "I wasn't the ringleader. I didn't make those girls go," she said. "They went on their own."

Looking around at the people in the courtroom, Paula seemed disgusted. "Well, where was all these people at right here when I needed somebody? Where was they at? They turned their backs on me and took me through all this. All I can say is now, look where I am now, facing a possible death sentence."

She pointed at the Pelke family and repeated her plea that killing wasn't her intention. "I hope you all could find some happiness in your hearts to forgive me. And I know your mother was a Christian lady, and she is in heaven right now. I read my Bible. How do you think I feel? I can't sit here and tell you I understand how you feel because I don't."

She acknowledged that "sorry" would never be good enough.

Paula looked to Judge Kimbrough. But, as Bill Dolan would report in the Post-Tribune the next day, the judge "didn't return her gaze." "I don't know what the decision is going to be today, or whenever you make your decision. I know justice must be done. And whatever the circumstances, or whatever your decision is, I will accept it, even if it is death." She acknowledged she couldn't change what happened: She hoped to get out one day and start life over, maybe even finish school.

"Will I have a chance?" she asked. "Will I get a chance?"

For a couple of minutes, Paula rambled. She repeated that she hadn't forced the other girls to act; she felt it important everyone know she wasn't a gang member. Then she reined it back in for one final thought: "I am sorry for what I did. And I know my involvement in this case is very deep. But all I can ask you is not to take my life. That is all I can ask you. That is all I can ask is to spare my life."

Suddenly, a commotion broke out in the courtroom. There was shouting in the gallery. "My grandbaby, my grandbaby."

Bill Pelke looked at the wailing man near him and saw the tears run down his cheeks; the visage burned into Bill's memory. He watched the man as the bailiff escorted him out of the courtroom.

It was Paula's grandfather, making one final plea on Paula's behalf.

Now it was up to the judge.

—

Judge James C. Kimbrough had been wading through the sordid details of Ruth Pelke's murder for more than a year. He'd parsed the depressing narrative, and people had speculated whether he had a death penalty in him, especially for a girl. Now they were about to get their answer.

There was no doubt about Paula Cooper's guilt. Kimbrough dispatched that with his first breath. The murder had been disturbing: Paula had inflicted the 33 stab wounds in the body of 78-year-old Ruth Pelke.

Those were the strikes against her.

But the defendant had no prior criminal history, and she was 15 at the time of the crime.

Those were factors to consider on her behalf.

The other requirements for the death penalty, Kimbrough said, didn't work in the defendant's favor. She acted of her own free will. She wasn't under the influence of drugs. Her mental problems didn't rise to the level of incompetence. But all those things, Kimbrough said, were legalities. Ultimately, he said, death penalty cases boil down to a "political utterance."

"This case has received an unusual amount of publicity," Kimbrough said. "There is worldwide interest in the outcome of these proceedings today. And the court is certainly aware of that interest."

When he left law school in 1959, Kimbrough said, he had been "totally against" the death penalty — and most of the country shared the view.

Nearly 30 years later, he said, public sentiment had changed, perhaps because of the violent activities of people such as Paula Cooper. Now, the vast majority of the public favors the death penalty, Kimbrough said, Normally, he wrote out his sentences in advance. But this case had challenged him to the point he'd been unable to do so.

Kimbrough praised the deputy prosecutor for speaking "eloquently" — he said McNew brought the matters into focus "better than all of the turmoil that I have been through in the last several months."

He criticized state law for being too general when it came to giving minors the death penalty. It left him unsure what to do on that fundamental question. "I don't know what the right political answer to that question is."

Then Kimbrough, in a moment of vulnerability judges don't always reveal, showed some insight into his restless mind. "I don't believe I am ever going to be quite the same after these four cases. They have had a very profound effect on me. They have made me come to grips with the question of whether or not a judge can hold personal beliefs which are inconsistent at all with the law as they were sworn to uphold. And for those of you who have no appreciation of it, it is not a simple question. It is not a simple question for me."

Kimbrough interrupted his confessional to take issue with something Robert Pelke said: "I do not believe the failure to impose the death penalty today would be unbiblical. … I don't profess to be an expert in religion. But I know the Bible has passages which are merciful, and do not demand or mandate an eye for an eye."

Returning to his inner turmoil, Kimbrough said he'd concluded that a judge must decide a case based on facts, regardless of whether it satisfies him. "I will tell you, very frankly now, on the record, that I do not believe in the death penalty."

This seemed to launch Kimbrough on a rant. "Maybe in 20 years, after we have had our fill of executions, we will swing back the other way and think they are unconstitutional. Maybe."

At about this point, Jack Crawford, sitting at the prosecutor's table, was ready to give up hope for a death penalty. He turned to McNew, he remembered later, and whispered into his ear.

"He's not going to give it."

Then Kimbrough directed his eyes to the girl awaiting his judgment.

"Stand up, Paula."

She had stabbed Ruth Pelke 33 times, he said. He was concerned about her background. She had been "born into a household where your father abused you, and your mother either participated or allowed it to happen. And those seem to be explanations or some indication of why you may be this type of personality that you are."

"They are not excuses, however."

However.

That word caught Crawford's attention. So did the fact that Kimbrough's shoulders seemed to slump, as if the weight of the moment was getting to the judge. Crawford leaned in and whispered again to McNew.

"I think he's going to give it. I think he's going to give it."

Kimbrough continued.

"You committed the act, and you must pay the penalty," Kimbrough said. Briefly, he trailed into some legalese about the charge. Then he gathered himself for the final judgment.

"The law requires me, and I do now impose, the death penalty."

—

The courtroom erupted.

"What did he say?"

Paula Cooper looked at Kevin Relphorde for help; amid the chaos, she wasn't sure what had just happened. She looked back for the judge; he had already left the bench. She asked Relphorde what had happened. He delivered the verdict again: He gave you the death penalty.

The smile Paula wore into the courtroom was gone, indeed. Bill Pelke took note of that. Instead, he saw a river of tears streaming down her cheeks. As she was led from the courtroom, the tears soaked the top of her blouse.

Just like that, Paula Cooper — at 16 years, 10 months and 16 days — became the youngest person ever sentenced to death in Indiana; she was now the youngest female on death row anywhere in the United States. In this age before the cellphone, news reporters from national outlets raced out of the courtroom to the nearest bank of pay telephones. It took a few hours, but the verdict soon circled the globe.

In the hallway outside the courtroom, Rhonda Cooper yelled in anguish at members of the Pelke family and the prosecutors nearby.

"Are you satisfied now?"

They seemed satisfied.

Strangely, one of the most unsatisfied people in the building was the source of the commotion: Judge Kimbrough.

After delivering the verdict, he darted out of the courtroom and into the hallway leading to his chambers. There, between the two rooms, he spotted William Touchette, a public defender who handled appeals. Kimbrough told Touchette to follow him.

Touchette (pronounced TOO-shay) had been among those outside the courtroom straining to hear the proceedings. Like so many local lawyers, he was friendly with the judge; they'd socialized outside of work. He followed Kimbrough into his chambers.

The judge was angry. As angry as Touchette had ever seen him. Angry that the defense hadn't given him enough to spare Paula Cooper's life. Then Kimbrough uttered seven words Touchette would never again hear from a judge.

"I want you to get me reversed."

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Paula Cooper's death sentence was one of Indiana's biggest news stories in 1986. It garnered network television news coverage. Once it hit the international news wires, it was picked up by newspapers in Europe, where it inspired protests.

But Monica Foster, working for a nonprofit death penalty defense group in Downtown Indianapolis, somehow missed all that. To her, it was as if the Paula Cooper case had never happened.

It wasn't that Foster was uninterested in current events or that she was dull. In fact, Foster was a wunderkind. She'd graduated from high school at 16, college at 19 and law school at 22. She'd come to work for the Indiana Public Defender Council, researching and offering advice to lawyers with death penalty cases, even before finishing her law degree. But at 27, she had a tendency to get absorbed in her work. And when that happened, the outside world ceased to exist.

So when William Touchette, the Lake County attorney preparing Paula Cooper's appeal, called the council looking for some help, Foster knew nothing of the case. Without hesitation, Foster agreed to be Touchette's local connection to Paula, who was being held at the Indiana Women's Prison on the city's east side. Foster even said she'd donate her time, seeing the client on evenings and weekends, as a sideline.

Foster didn't realize she'd just signed on to the case that would become the most noteworthy of her career.

When the case file arrived in her office, Foster began reading about Paula Cooper. Right away, she was puzzled.

Here was a black girl from Gary who had been sentenced to death by a black judge whom even Foster knew to be one of the most liberal, anti-death penalty jurists in the state. The girl had brutally murdered an elderly woman during a robbery, but Foster told the people in her office that to get a death sentence from this judge Paula Cooper had to be some kind of rabid animal.

"She must be frothing at the mouth."

Foster decided to go to the prison and see Paula Cooper for herself.

—

Paula had arrived at the Indiana Women's Prison — America's oldest women's prison — five days after her sentencing.

Established shortly after the Civil War, it was originally in the countryside east of Indianapolis. Over time, brick storefronts and wood-frame houses sprang up around the prison's series of boxy brick buildings — situated around a grassy courtyard — and now the prison was landlocked in the middle of an urban neighborhood.

Awaiting Paula was a cell tucked away on the second floor of the segregation unit. It was stark: block walls and tile floor; aluminum sink and toilet; a desk and a chair; all of it packaged in a space slightly bigger than a walk-in closet.

She had one window to the outside world. Depending on which side of the hallway she was assigned at the time, it featured either a view of the courtyard or, just beyond a fence topped by razor wire, the backside of a row of decaying houses.

Paula's cell had two metal doors. One was made of bars, the other was solid. Most of the time, the solid door remained open, allowing her to talk through the bars to passing guards and nearby prisoners. But when the solid door was closed, it was as if she was locked in a vault. Worse, the prison had no air conditioning. As summer temperatures outside climbed into the 90s, the only air moving through the wing was pushed by a floor fan at the end of the hall. Most of the time, the place felt like the inside of a cook stove.

Here, Paula Cooper spent 23 hours a day. In the remaining hour, she had 30 minutes to shower and 30 minutes for recreation, which meant a short walk to a larger room where she could play Ping-Pong or cards with other prisoners. Meals were delivered to her cell.

She was 16 years old and, in the grand scheme of things, set apart from the rest of the human race.

The treatment was harsher than what Paula's three co-defendants in the murder of Ruth Pelke faced. They were housed elsewhere in the prison, with the general population. They had greater freedom of movement, time outdoors and an ongoing interaction with other people. Paula was allotted 10 hours of visits per month, but she wasn't sure who would fill the time. Her sister had moved to Minnesota. Her mother had moved to Georgia. Her father had moved to Tennessee. Paula was as alone as she could be.

Yet she faced a struggle greater than isolation and heat. She lived in fear that the executioner was coming for her any minute. Whatever she'd been told about the appeals process hadn't registered. She thought she was about to be taken away and killed. She existed moment to moment, in dread the guards were about to drag her away to the electric chair. In letters, she would describe her situation in the bleakest of terms — "a mental hell." Paula needed hope. She needed a friend. But who?

—

Monica Foster entered the security checkpoint at the Indiana Women's Prison and was shown to the glass-walled consultation room. In short order, she watched as a guard escorted her client in to meet her.

Paula Cooper was nothing like she expected. Monica came looking for the heartless killer who had murdered an old woman in cold blood, fought the guards at the county jail and been given a ticket to the chair by the most liberal judge in Lake County.

Instead, Foster found a girl, sobbing uncontrollably, who had been on suicide watch. Foster tried to calm her. After some questioning, she gathered the reason for the emotional meltdown: Paula thought they were coming any time now. To kill her.

Foster's blood boiled. She realized that, since the sentencing, no one had explained to Paula the years of appeals; the good chance for a reprieve; and, should all else fail, the notice she would receive well ahead of an execution. Foster felt sorry for Paula. She explained the process. Above all, she told Paula she'd never be ambushed by the executioner.

Paula went back to her cell in a little better shape, but Foster left the prison rattled. She couldn't believe how she had misjudged her client. She realized that her role in this case was about more than legal counsel. She would need to offer her client a shoulder to cry on, an ear to listen.

Foster began going to the prison on weekends, sitting and talking with Paula for hours. She listened to Paula talk about being depressed, and she tried to buck her up. She listened to Paula's troubles with the prison administration and offered advice on ways to get along. She listened to Paula describe the abuses of her childhood, and Foster shared some of the tougher aspects of her own. The conversation wasn't always heavy. Sometimes they talked about places they dreamed of going and about men Foster was dating. Paula, in particular, was quick with a jab about Foster's romantic failures. Even in a maximum security prison, with one of them facing death, they spent a good deal of time laughing. And Foster found Paula's laugh to be infectious. That she could laugh at all impressed Foster. The girl seemed to have some kind of resiliency. After a while, Foster could deny it no longer: She liked Paula Cooper.

—

Bill Pelke felt no such affection.

In the 18 months since Paula Cooper killed his grandmother, Bill had lost the ability to think of Ruth Pelke as the sweet person she'd been; he could only see the murder victim. He couldn't remember the warmth of Ruth's home; he could only think of it as a crime scene. When Paula Cooper received her sentence, Pelke felt justice had been served. His father, Robert Pelke, warned him that the justice wouldn't last. On a trip to Florida they took to get away from it all, Robert Pelke said Paula would probably never see the electric chair. "Some do-gooder will probably come along and help get her off death row," he'd said. Bill struggled to imagine it; he just tried to get on with his life.

But moving on wasn't easy. And at 39, Bill already had other things on his mind that bothered him. He'd dropped out of college and wound up in Vietnam during the height of the war. As a radio operator, he was supposed to take cover during the fighting and call in air support. But he still carried shrapnel in his side from the wounds he suffered. Worse than that, he carried memories of the Army buddies who'd never come back. The experience left him sick of death. When he returned home, he'd married and started a family, but his marriage failed. So many things in his life hadn't gone as he'd planned. One afternoon in November 1986, all of this seemed to coalesce in Bill's mind.

Bill worked in a steel mill as a crane operator. He sat 50 feet above the manufacturing floor in the cab of his crane, moving heavy loads as the need arose. But on this Sunday night shift, things were slow; his mind began to drift. He wondered why life was so hard, why God had allowed Ruth to suffer such a horrendous death. He wondered why his family — his good family — was made to suffer in the wake of the crime. It was an unlikely perch for prayer, but Bill closed his eyes and began seeing images in his mind. He saw the courtroom where Paula had been sentenced to death. He remembered the outburst of her grandfather and the tears streaming down the man's face. He remembered Paula's reaction and the tears streaming down hers, how they soaked her blouse.

A hard realization hit Bill: Ruth wouldn't have wanted these things. She had invited Paula and the girls into her home to help them find faith. It occurred to Bill that Ruth would be more interested in Paula's salvation than her execution. He was certain, too, that Ruth would have hated seeing Paula's grandfather in anguish.

Bill thought of the Bible stories Ruth had taught and the lessons he'd learned from a lifetime in church. He remembered Jesus taught that you shouldn't forgive someone just seven times, but 70 times seven — in other words, forgiveness should be a habit. He remembered being taught that the measure of forgiveness we show others is the measure by which we shall be judged. He remembered hearing about Jesus on the cross, offering salvation to the man dying next to him, offering grace to those who sought his death. "Forgive them," Jesus had said, "for they know not what they do."

And then Bill realized something: Paula hadn't known what she was doing. Nobody in their right mind would take a 12-inch butcher knife and stab someone 33 times. It was crazy. Senseless.

In his mind, Bill began to see a new image: It was the picture of Ruth, the one published countless times since her death — silver hair, horn-rimmed glasses, sweet smile. Except now, he saw her face in the picture with tears running down her cheeks. Bill felt certain Ruth wanted someone from her family to show love to Paula and hers. Bill wasn't capable of it right then, but he thought he should try. He was a blue collar guy — a steelworker — and now he was at work crying a river of his own tears. From his seat in the cab of the crane, Bill prayed: "God, give me love and compassion for Paula Cooper and her family." In return, he promised God two things. First, Bill would give credit to God for giving him the ability to forgive Paula whenever success came his way. Second, he'd walk through whatever door opened as a result of forgiving Paula.

Eventually, the sweet memories of Ruth would come back to Bill. He would be able to put aside the horror story. First, though, he felt he had to take a greater leap of faith. He had to get in touch with his grandmother's killer. He had to reach out to Paula Cooper.

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The next day, Bill phoned Paula's attorney. He wanted her prison address, and he was willing to do whatever it took to help save Paula's life. Kevin Relphorde's response wasn't encouraging: "It's kind of late for that."

Undeterred, Bill took the address and sat down at a desk in his Portage home to write perhaps the most intense letter of his life. He told Paula he had forgiven her; he wanted to visit her; there were Bible verses his grandmother would want him to share. He also wanted to meet her grandfather, he of the tearful courtroom outburst.

Bill dropped the letter in his mailbox and, at some level, thought that would be the end of it. But in the days following, he found himself checking his mailbox almost daily. Ten days after he sent his letter, an envelope showed up. The return address said: "Ms. Paula Cooper."

The envelope was thick. Inside, he found a letter dated Nov. 10, 1986, six pages of a teenage girl's loopy cursive, written in pencil, on pink stationery. The contents were far from a schoolgirl's bubble gum dreams. It was a snapshot of Paula's mind on death row. Her thoughts darted back and forth — between apologies and self-pity, between empathy for those who hated her and preachiness about why they should forgive her. Much of the letter was frenetic. Sentences ran on and on like the transcriptions of a nervous talker. Her misspellings and limited punctuation seemed to reflect the erratic schooling of someone who'd been on the run since eighth grade. But it also bore the hallmarks of a mind in overdrive, overloaded with conflicting emotions. Here are some excerpts. Periods have been added for clarity.

Bill 11/10/86

Hello how are you? fine I truly hope. me I'll survive, I received your letter today & it was nice of you to write me. one of Ms Pelkes friends wrote me also, I answered it back also. Im not the mean type of person your family thinks I am but I can except that. I really do. your cousin Robert was something else & what he said about not knowing if Ms Pelke would forgiving me. Ive read my bible & I know it says the way you judge others the Lord will judge you the same way. Ive prayed for your family. a lady in a wheel chair use to visit me at the jail. she said God would be pleased if I prayed for all of you, I am doing fine. They treat me ok & I am always isolated 23 hrs a day. thats how it is on death row, it is a mental hell because no one cares except for themselves. I am thankful to the Lord for them letting the others have a little time, because I've had hell all my life. so it really doesnt matter if I live or die because Im ready any time they come …

In his initial letter, Bill expressed a desire to save Paula from her death sentence. But in her reply, Paula told Bill he need not write, travel or speak on her behalf; she just wanted his forgiveness. She seemed proud of her performance in court — how she looked his family in the face and apologized. She seemed to excuse her parents for missing her sentencing. Although they had beaten and neglected her, Paula said, her actions affected them, too.

At various times, her words ranged from fatalistic to self-pitying:

I cant stay here like this & I don't want to be here, I deserve a chance one that Ive never had before. but one day Ill be free even if its when Im dead…

I cry every time I think of your grand mom. the others think it's a joke because you all let them be free. Im not an evil person, or what ever you think of me to be, Im just some one who is real angry, angry with life & all the people around me …

Ive never done anything wrong before except ask for help, I was turned away & introduced into a life of drugs, sex & crime, but now its too late for help. Im dying inside because of this but I only hope for the best for others.

In closing, she made it clear she wanted more interaction with Bill, even if she was passive about it. She would put him on her list of allowable prison visitors; she would write him whenever he wrote her; she offered her grandfather's phone number and address. In a dark world, it was as if she had seen a flicker of light.

Well, Ill go now, Ill continue to pray for all of you.

Take care

Paula

Their first exchange was the start of a surprising correspondence that would span years and delve into the core themes of Paula's life — searching for forgiveness; grappling with remorse; her closeness with death; her search for peace.

The letters also chart the course of a relationship that many people would struggle to understand, especially Bill Pelke's father.

—

After a second exchange of letters with Paula, Bill felt compelled to share with his parents the news of his surprising correspondence: His father had once warned of a do-gooder who would get Paula off death row. Now it appeared Bill wanted to be that do-gooder.

At first, his parents were speechless. "We don't understand why you are doing this," his mother, Lola, said. Surprisingly, his father acquiesced.

"Do what you got to do," Robert said.

Bill wrote Clarence Trigg, the superintendent of the Indiana Women's Prison, a letter that spent most of a page describing Ruth Pelke's faith and her commitment to sharing it. He concluded with a request:

Clarence, if Ruth Pelke could speak with you right now, I am sure she would say, "Please let Billy see Paula."

Thank you for your consideration

In the name of Jesus and His Love

William R. Pelke

But the prison doors weren't about to open to Bill anytime soon. Corrections officials didn't know what to make of his request — a murder victim's grandson seeking an audience with her killer. They suspected he had another motive, such as revenge.

—

The aftermath of Paula's case was confounding in other ways. Since giving Paula a death sentence, Judge James C. Kimbrough had been very public about his discomfort with his own ruling. Based on the law and the case in court, he said Paula qualified for the death penalty. But he hadn't been able to square it with his own opposition to capital punishment. The decision was costing him sleep. In an interview with the (Gary) Post-Tribune, published Aug. 4, 1986, a reporter noted the judge's nervous appearance.

He fidgeted in his chair. His gaze varied — at times less steady and slanted toward the desktop. He removed his glasses, toying with them.

Friends who knew Kimbrough said the judge was different than he'd been before the Paula Cooper sentencing. The man they knew as friendly and jovial, even gregarious, was more reclusive, less outgoing. "It weighed heavily on his mind," said Earline Rogers, a state legislator and a friend. "That was something he felt legally he had to do but, personally, he would not have taken that path."

Some in the legal community began to think there was a good chance Paula's death sentence would be overturned. But Kimbrough wouldn't live to find out.

On April 30, 1987, less than a year after his judgment of Paula, Kimbrough drove his car into the back of a semi and was killed. He had been drinking. The tragedy cast a pall over the Lake County courts, but it also landed hard at the Indiana Women's Prison. When Monica Foster told Paula her judge was dead, Paula was inconsolable. Days later, in a letter to Bill Pelke, she shared her thoughts about the judge.

"all I could do was cry, even though Kimbrough sentenced me to die. I felt a closeness to him as if he were my father. I have been sentenced to die many times by a lot of people and it's only words. We are all on Death Row and the last day of April his death sentence was completed & it should teach a lot of people we all have a date that is already planned & the way it will happen."

Paula's own father had been cruel; at least Kimbrough had agonized over the punishment he gave.

The letter about Kimbrough was the 20th she'd written to Bill Pelke in less than six months. She was surprising herself at her output: "I didn't even know I had a good handwriting or a great vocabulary until I was locked up."

By then, she was 17 and a condemned killer with hours to contemplate her past, present and future. Several themes recurred in her writing.

Life on death row. She struggled to sleep, to breathe, to deal with the noise. "To be on death row is worst than when I was in a mental hospital. At least it was quiet." She had ailments from toothaches to a bad back. Mostly, she was confused and on edge. Life on the row made her feel like "a walking time bomb."

Memories of the murder. Her thoughts were plagued by it. She described what she did to Ruth Pelke as "awful." She wished she could erase it. "Every day," she said, "I see my nightmare."

Death. It was constantly on her mind, whether by execution or by her own hand. She alternated between dread of the electric chair — "I hope it never happens to me" — and anticipation of it — "sometimes I wish they would just go ahead & do it. They continue to put this death threat on my life and I'm tired of it."

Suicide. She seemed to ponder the merits of killing herself. She wasn't sure what it would solve but, in words that seemed to echo from her mother, she said, "there isn't anything here for me." She talked about hanging herself but acknowledged she couldn't follow through. "I know that if I do that I might go to hell (and) I don't want that to happen."

Meanwhile, people from across the country wrote her. Some, including a death row inmate in North Carolina, wanted a romantic relationship. Some wanted answers to the plague of juvenile crime. Others sent her Bibles and tried to save her soul. Yet her faith — another frequent topic — had grown cold. As a child, she read her Bible often, she said, but "my faith started to shatter because of a lot of feelings, hopes and unanswered prayers. I love the Lord but we aren't rea

Octavia Spencer kicks off day two of BookExpo America

Bob Minzesheimer, Lindsay Deutsch and Jocelyn McClurg

USA TODAY

Crime novelists offer some advice to aspiring writers

Former CIA operative Valerie Plame writes a thriller

Donna Tartt returns with a new novel%2C which took more than a decade to write

NEW YORK - The second day of BookExpo America brought out the star power, from the book world and beyond. USA TODAY spotted Jim Carrey and TV food personality Giada DeLaurentiis. Octavia Spencer, of The Help fame, served as host of the morning's breakfast. Sights and sounds from the day:

Multicultural kids' characters: Oscar-winning actress Octavia Spencer (The Help) performed in a new role: novelist and host of the Children's Book and Author Breakfast. Spencer's debut novel, Randi Rhodes Ninja Detective: The Case of the Time-Capsule Bandit, first in a series for readers 8-12, will be released Oct. 15. It features what Spencer calls a "multicultural cast of characters." Randi, a modern-day Nancy Drew, is a redhead, "a minority in her own right," Spencer said. Randi's best two friends are Latino and black. "Not that they should be define by superficial differences," Spencer said, but it shows, "best friends don't have to look alike to love each other." - Bob Minzesheimer

'Tree House' hits the magic number: Mary Pope Osborne, who releases her 50th Magic Tree House novel, Hurry Up Houdini! on July 23, regaled the crowd of librarians and booksellers by reciting letters she's gotten from her readers, mostly 7- and 8-year-olds. They also send her apples and marshmallows. One fan wrote that he, too, was writing a novel. "It's going to be really scary," he warned, "but I'm not done yet. It's called The Septic System." Osborne wrote back, requesting a copy. She's yet to get it. - Minzesheimer (@bookbobminz)

Thrilling advice from crime writers: Author Marcia Clark, the former prosecutor (remember the trial of O.J. Simpson?) posed a question to a panel of four of the most popular crime novelists: "What would you tell an aspiring novelist NOT to do?" Don't "stop," barked Scott Turow (Identical, out Oct. 15). In writing, "the race doesn't go to the swiftest, but to those who keep going." "Never lick your finger to test where go the winds of commercial fiction," said Michael Connelly (The Gods of Guilt, Nov. 21). The material "has got to come from inside you." "Leave the business stuff to the professionals," counseled George Pelecanos (The Double, Oct. 8). "Write what you're passionate about." "In our nano-second world…take your time," advised David Baldacci (King and Maxwell, Nov. 19). "Don't start with a preconceived timetable. Get up each day and write, whether it takes a year, or two years, or six years." - Minzesheimer

No apple for the teacher-turned-author: Unlike Pope, Rick Riordan, who's hit it big with his mythology adventure series (The Heroes of Olympus, Book Four: The House of Hades, is out Oct. 8) says his middle-school readers never send him sweet notes or edible treats. "I've never gotten an apple," Riordan, a former 8th grade teacher, reported. "And I did, I don't think I would eat it." He also noted that one young reader, writing online, referred to Riordan's new novel as "The Hoes of Hades." "That's an entirely different book," Riordan dead-panned. "Part of my new young 'adult' series," as he used his hands to signal quotation marks around adult. - Minzesheimer

'Potter' gets a makeover: Scholastic unveiled a brand-new cover for a paperback edition of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets at BEA. The cover, by artist Kazu Kibuishi, features Harry and Ron in the Weasley's flying car, in front of the Weasley's rambling house, "The Burrow." The editor of the American versions of the Harry Potter books, Arthur A. Levine, also appeared at the cover reveal on Thursday. The book goes on sale Aug. 27. - Lindsay Deutsch (@lindsdee)

Amy Tan's friends in high places: Leigh Haber, Books Editor of 'O' The Oprah Magazine, on Friday interviewed author Amy Tan, best known for her 1989 novel The Joy Luck Club, about her upcoming book, The Valley of Amazement (Nov. 5). Tan said she got the title from a painting at a museum in Berlin and that the book takes place "in a high-class house of prostitution." But the standout story of the speech came from a spectator's question, with which Tan shared an anecdote. A few days ago, Tan said, she had lunch with Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor in her Washington, D.C. chambers. "We talked about strong mothers who worry about their daughters, children who deny their race and the best snorkeling in the world." (For politics-loving snorkeling aficinados, Sotomayor recently visited Dry Torugas in Key West, Fla.) - Deutsch

Fall books that caught our eye: Valerie Plame is now a novelist. The CIA operative whose cover was blown has penned Blowback (Blue Rider Press, Oct. 1, written with suspense writer Sarah Lovett). It's a thriller about undercover CIA agent Vanessa Pierson, on the case to determine who is building a nuclear weapon in Iran….Late Night host David Letterman and artist Bruce McCall have teamed up for This Land Was Made for You and Me (But Mostly Me), an "illustrated parody of the American 1%'s outrageous lifestyle and vacation homes" (Blue Rider, Nov. 5)…Speaking of late-night kings, the bio Johnny Carson, by Henry Bushkin, Carson's legal adviser, is due from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt on Oct. 15…And, to the ever-growing genre of historical fiction about famous men and the women in their lives, add Mrs. Poe by Lynn Cullen (Gallery, October). It's about a triangle involving Edgar Allan Poe, a struggling female poet named Frances Osgood, and Edgar's frail wife, Virginia. – Jocelyn McClurg (@JocelynMcClurg)

Tartt's secrets: A book by Donna Tartt is an event -- in no small part because it takes her so long to write one. The author of The Secret History and The Little Friend joked about her own slow pace at a lunch Friday. She said it took "11 years going on 12" to write The Goldfinch, which Little, Brown will publish on Oct. 22. The novel is set in the world of New York art dealers (and drug dealers, Tartt says). The novelist says she doesn't really know why it takes her so long to write, except that her books are "huge." "I really don't have any control over the way I work," she said. She spoke eloquently about the fact that she doesn't enjoy talking about her books. "To me a novel is an invention, an entertainment, an illusion. And how do you talk about an illusion without spoiling it?" -- McClurg

More to come from 'Hunger Games' author: Suzanne Collins, author of the best-selling The Hunger Games trilogy, plans to write another teen series but isn't ready to reveal more. First, she says, she's consulting on the scripts for the third and fourth film adaptations of her dystopian series that has more than 50 million copies in print. (Catching Fire, the second movie, again starring Jennifer Lawrence, will be released Nov. 22. And nearly four years after the book's publication, the paperback of Catching Fire finally hits stores Tuesday. Mockingjay, the series finale, will be split into two films, out in 2014 and 2015). On Sept. 10, Collins releases an autobiographical picture book, Year of the Jungle, illustrated by James Proimos, about her memories of 1968, when she was 6, and her father had "to go to something called a war…in a place called Vietnam." At a discussion Thursday night on writing about war for young readers, sponsored by her publisher, Scholastic, Collins said if kids "have no idea what propaganda is, how will you ever know when it's being used against you?" She was joined by Walter Dean Myers, whose World War II novel, Invasion (out Oct. 1), is a prequel to Fallen Angels (about Vietnam) and Sunrise Over Fallujah (Iraq). Myers, whose brother was killed in Vietnam and whose son served in Iraq, was asked why he keeps writing novels that depict the horrors of war. He replied, "because we keep having wars." – Minzesheimer

Opinion: One big problem in Joe Biden's first year - CNN

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(CNN) Minutes after Joe Biden placed his hand on a five-inch thick family Bible and took the oath of office last January, the new President told the nation that overcoming America's challenges required one thing:

Unity.

"For without unity, there is no peace, only bitterness and fury," Biden said. "No progress, only exhausting outrage. No nation, only a state of chaos. This is our historic moment of crisis and challenge, and unity is the path forward."

A year later, Biden can tout the bipartisan infrastructure law as an example of unity producing results. But his more ambitious goals of uniting America around fighting the Covid-19 pandemic , securing racial justice, confronting climate change and opposing political extremism remain unfulfilled. Biden's approval ratings have fallen sharply, and he's been unable to achieve unity even among Democrats in the Senate, where the Build Back Better bill and a filibuster carve-out for voting rights bills lack enough support to pass.

Biden's vaccine mandate for large companies was struck down by the US Supreme Court Thursday. The court's ruling "does not bode well for those people—including the court's three-justice liberal wing—who are in favor of leaving important decisions, like vaccine requirements, to the experts in federal agencies, " observed

Whose side are you on?

The President gave a fiery voting rights speech in Georgia Tuesday. As Julian Zelizer wrote, "He asked elected officials, 'Do you want to be on the side of Dr. King or George Wallace?' in what appeared to be a question implicitly targeting Sens. Joe Manchin of West Virginia and Kyrsten Sinema of Arizona, who still refuse to accept the filibuster carve-out that would allow the voting rights legislation to overcome Republican opposition." Manchin and Sinema were unmoved, while Republicans howled at the comparison between opponents of the voting rights bills and segregationists like Wallace.

Presidents Ronald Reagan, Bill Clinton and Barack Obama were able to overcome rocky stretches early in their presidencies, noted Julian Zelizer. "While Biden's current challenges are very real, they shouldn't be seen as a clear indication of where his presidency is headed," Zelizer wrote. "This challenging moment is a snapshot of his term rather than the conclusion . In modern times, we have seen many presidents recover from a difficult start."

David Von Drehle said Biden needs to change course. "A year into his presidency, Biden is too small for the office. Elected by the largest turnout in US history and by voters who thought he would restore mature, measured leadership to the White House, he has instead dwindled in the job. Presidents and their running mates are the only people elected by the entire country. That gives them the duty, and the opportunity, to rise above the Washington fray — yet Biden is being whipsawed by it. In the Washington Post,said Biden needs to change course. "A year into his presidency, Biden is too small for the office. Elected by the largest turnout in US history and by voters who thought he would restore mature, measured leadership to the White House, he has instead dwindled in the job. Presidents and their running mates are the only people elected by the entire country. That gives them the duty, and the opportunity, to rise above the Washington fray — yet Biden is being whipsawed by it. A successful president explains the present, paints the future and boosts confidence in a path from here to there. Biden is doing none of that.

Peggy Noonan in the Wall Street Journal. "It seemed prepared by people who think there is only the Democratic Party in America, that's it, everyone else is an outsider who can be disparaged. Biden's voting rights speech "was aggressive, intemperate, not only offensive but meant to offend," wrote former Reagan White House speechwriterin the Wall Street Journal. "It seemed prepared by people who think there is only the Democratic Party in America, that's it, everyone else is an outsider who can be disparaged. It was a mistake on so many levels ... If a president is rhetorically manipulative and divisive on a voting-rights bill it undercuts what he's trying to establish the next day on Covid and the economy."

Jaime Harrison noted the late Rep. John Lewis "described democracy as an act. When he passed, there was bipartisan praise of his legacy. Yet there was ample support for Biden's emphatic embrace of the voting rights cause. Democratic National Committee chairmannoted the late Rep. John Lewis "described democracy as an act. When he passed, there was bipartisan praise of his legacy. But he would not have wanted our empty words. He would have wanted action. And those of us who fail to meet this moment should think twice before invoking the name of Lewis or any other heroes who dedicated their lives to free the vote."

MLK's warning

Victor Ray, a professor at the University of Iowa, wrote that "by blocking voting reform today, Sens. Joe Manchin and Kyrsten Sinema From the Birmingham, Alabama, jail in 1963, Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. wrote, "I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in the stride toward freedom is not the White Citizens Councilor or the Ku Klux Klanner but the White moderate who is more devoted to 'order' than to justice.", a professor at the University of Iowa, wrote that "by blocking voting reform today, Sens. Joe Manchin and Kyrsten Sinema are the white moderates Dr. King warned us about.

As we honor King on Monday, people should also recognize the impact of the civil rights leader's mother, Alberta Christine Williams King, wrote Anna M. Tubbs. Alberta King, "a powerful organizer, was also a singer and an instrumentalist who trained hundreds of students. She had a bachelor's degree as well as a teaching certificate, and she even tutored her husband through his own education..."

"All of us are shaped by our mothers to some extent, but in King's case, the presence of his mother's teachings in his work was profound and the similarities between her passions and his are readily apparent ... She didn't call it non-violence, but she believed that you could fight Jim Crow through faith, marches and boycotts."

The dangers of letting Covid rip

As the Omicron variant swept across the US in recent weeks, two adult sons of Dr. Kent Sepkowitz, an infectious disease expert, came down with Covid-19. They "had the usual symptoms: first a sore throat, then some fever and aches and fatigue for several days. Within a week, they were mostly back to themselves ... In fact, they got so well, so (relatively) quickly that I began to wonder whether it might be more expedient from a public health perspective if we just quit trying to stem the pace and extent of the pandemic and just, well, let it rip."

It's not so simple, Sepkowitz wrote.

Opening the gate to more infections is a very terrible idea ; even if it might improve the Covid-19 statistics transiently, it would leave a trail of individual tragedies. First, there are the sheer case numbers: The statistics of death and severe illness would become mighty big numbers if a million people a day were to catch the infection." Beleaguered health care workers would be swamped by the onslaught of sick people. The virus would have more opportunities to mutate. And the risks to the immunocompromised would multiply.

Kara Alaimo, who has two daughters under the age of 5, won't take them into retailers for fear of exposure to Covid. "While Covid-19 poses risks to all of us, children 5 and older are at least eligible for vaccines -- and aren't seeing much of an increase in hospitalizations," Alaimo noted. "But the parents of younger kids -- vulnerable little ones who don't have these protections and are getting hospitalized with this virus in alarming numbers -- , who has two daughters under the age of 5, won't take them into retailers for fear of exposure to Covid. "While Covid-19 poses risks to all of us, children 5 and older are at least eligible for vaccines -- and aren't seeing much of an increase in hospitalizations," Alaimo noted. "But the parents of younger kids -- vulnerable little ones who don't have these protections and are getting hospitalized with this virus in alarming numbers -- are truly in terrible situations.

Jaime Green wrote for Slate, " wrote for Slate, " There is a knife hanging over our heads, as there is for every parent of a kid under 5. The text alert will come, or the phone will ring with a call from school. An exposure. A symptom. Come get them. Come get them and stay home."

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Michael T. Osterholm and Cory Anderson for the Washington Post, but the reality of the Omicron variant could change the picture. "We must prepare for the possibility that some schools may have to close. In-person learning is better, wroteandfor the Washington Post, but the reality of the Omicron variant could change the picture. "We must prepare for the possibility that some schools may have to close. This isn't a political statement; it's a simple reality ... . Unlike the series of rolling geographic surges that accompanied previous variants, omicron represents a viral blizzard of widespread infections spanning the entire country. For the next three to five weeks, the sheer number of cases will pose significant challenges to US health-care systems, public safety operations, critical infrastructure capacities, food distribution and services, and educational programs. Each could temporarily lose 25 to 40 percent of their workforce because of isolation and quarantine."

Paul Begala wrote, Fauci offered "a theory behind Paul's attacks. He displayed screenshots he said were from one of Paul's political websites, seeking to raise campaign donations from his attacks on Fauci. Having been through more political song and dance than I care to recall, I think I can spot insincerity. Dr. Anthony Fauci, director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, pushed back Tuesday when Sen. Rand Paul harshly criticized the scientist's approach to fighting Covid-19. Aswrote, Fauci offered "a theory behind Paul's attacks. He displayed screenshots he said were from one of Paul's political websites, seeking to raise campaign donations from his attacks on Fauci. Having been through more political song and dance than I care to recall, I think I can spot insincerity. Fauci's response, I believe, was real. It was raw. And it was righteous ."

Boris Johnson's apology

Working from home wasn't an option for Shaun Brady, a factory worker in the North West of England. As his daughter Hannah Brady wrote, he came down with Covid-19 and died after weeks in the hospital.

"A year and a half later, I found myself sitting in the Downing Street garden, talking to the Prime Minister, Boris Johnson. I and four other members of Covid-19 Bereaved Families for Justice, the campaign group that I'm part of, were telling Johnson about the loved ones we'd lost to the pandemic ... I showed the Prime Minister a picture of Dad, and Johnson looked me in the eye and said he had done everything he could to protect my father."

But last week, people learned that on May 20, 2020 -- the day a doctor signed Shaun Brady's death certificate -- "in that same garden at Downing Street," Johnson "had been to a party with dozens of other members of his staff. One of his most senior team members had emailed staff telling them to bring their own booze so they could make the most of the lovely weather, and Johnson joined them for 25 minutes ... On a day when both the government and the police were reminding us that they would prosecute us if we had a picnic or went for a walk with more than one person outside our household -- and the vast majority of us were sticking to those rules -- the Prime Minister was at a party..."

Johnson apologized last week, but Brady wrote, " The hypocrisy of the prime minister sticks in my throat. It shows there's one rule for him, and another for the rest of us. As long as Johnson is in that job, he's undermining the legitimacy of the rules, and he's a threat to the safety of the country."

editors of The Economist were thinking along similar lines when they wrote: "Britain chose a party animal for its leader. Thewere thinking along similar lines when they wrote: "Britain chose a party animal for its leader. Now comes the hangover.

Novak Djokovic

A seesaw battle over whether Novak Djokovic should have been allowed to remain in Australia and compete in the tennis open tournament played out last week, amid growing criticism of how the nation and the star player handled the situation. "The episode has already proven to be an absurd political drama befitting of a Netflix saga during lockdown," Tim Soutphommasane and Marc Stears wrote.

"The Djokovic family has played a fine supporting role, with patriarch Srdjan Djokovic declaring his son Novak the 'Spartacus of the new world.' Never one to miss out, British politician and high-profile Brexiteer Nigel Farage even flew to Belgrade to offer his support to the Djokovic clan. Much of the saga's ridiculousness, however, is rooted in Australia's own peculiar reaction to the Covid-19 experience ."

"This echoes the broader experience of the pandemic. Australia has resembled less of a nation-state, with a clear-sighted leader at its helm, as it has a collection of states led by warring premiers from different parties and different factions over these past three years. Whether it is between federal and state governments, or between the various state governments, health advice and policy have at times varied wildly." After losing his appeal, Djokovic left Australia Sunday.

Kevin McCarthy and Mike Rounds

What Sen. Mike Rounds, of South Dakota, said last week about 2020 wasn't remarkable: "The election was fair, as fair as we have seen. We simply did not win the election, as Republicans, for the presidency."

SE Cupp observed, "Now, everything Rounds said is uncontroversial and...true. But the fact that a prominent Republican said it, and attracted some support in the Senate in the face of former President Donald Trump's inevitable attacks, was worthy of note.observed, "Now, everything Rounds said is uncontroversial and...true. But we know nothing hurts Trump's feelings more than calling him a sore loser and saying outright that Joe Biden won fair and square." By contrast, House Republican leader Kevin McCarthy threatened to throw prominent Democrats off committees and reinstate committee assignments for extremist Republican backers of Trump. Republicans need more of what Mike Rounds represents, and less of McCarthy, said Cupp.

Jill Filipovic wrote. "But instead, the party's leaders are taking vengeful aim at Democrats with threats of stripping them from committees." Republicans could clean house and declare that no one who attempts to undermine a free and fair election -- let alone the American democratic system itself -- should serve in Congress with an R next to their name,"wrote. "But instead, the party's leaders are taking vengeful aim at Democrats with threats of stripping them from committees."

McCarthy is also refusing to cooperate with the House select committee investigating the January 6, 2021, attack on the Capitol. An even more prominent GOP figure could soon be faced with a choice about whether to cooperate -- former Vice President Mike Pence. "The commission investigating the January 6 attack on the US Capitol by Trump loyalists intent on overturning the 2020 election, is considering asking for his testimony," wrote Michael D'Antonio.

"A year ago, then-vice president Pence escaped the House chambers as the mob shouted, "Hang Mike Pence," and then courageously returned to lead the proceedings that certified President Joe Biden's election. The question now is: Can Pence be brave a second time?

For more:

Dean Obeidallah: Even Canadians fear US democracy could end soon

Putin's miscalculation?

Frida Ghitis noted. "A senior US official declared ominously that the 'drumbeat of war is sounding loud,' as both sides made pessimistic statements. This is hardly a surprising outcome." There was no apparent breakthrough in last week's talks seeking to forestall a Russian invasion of Ukraine , asnoted. "A senior US official declared ominously that the 'drumbeat of war is sounding loud,' as both sides made pessimistic statements. This is hardly a surprising outcome."

Few doubt that Russia would have the upper hand in a conflict, given its military advantage. But an invasion could backfire on Putin, wrote Ghitis. "Russia's menacing stance toward Ukraine, its continuing threats even as the talks proceeded, are solidifying the Kremlin's image as that of a bully endangering its neighbors. The more Putin threatens, the more he unwittingly makes evident why Russia's neighbors believe they need to join NATO to protect themselves...

"The only threat Ukraine poses to Putin -- not to Russia -- is becoming a functioning democracy at a time when the Russian leader is seeking to cement his place as an unremovable autocrat, and now one committed to defending other autocrats."

Marilyn Monroe

Film critic Christina Newland, who appears in a new CNN original series on Marilyn Monroe that begins Sunday night, wrote "It's vanishingly difficult" for the actress "to be seen as an actual human being. Not after this many decades of being a symbol, a sex goddess, a blonde bombshell or a candle in the wind."

"Monroe was consistently typecast as vain and stupid for using her looks to her best advantage," Newland noted. "She suffered sexual assault and wrote about it, though it fell more or less on deaf ears. She lived a life that was singular and extraordinary, but women continue to identify with her... No matter what came her way, she was canny, ambitious and self-starting: far from the 'little girl lost' cliché so often attached to her ... Marilyn authored her image and her career far more than the domineering men in her life.

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AND...

Bob Saget

One day in April 2011, Paul Farahvar, a Chicago lawyer feeling the symptoms of burnout, accompanied a comedian friend who was opening a Bob Saget show in Hammond, Indiana.

"When I introduced myself as a friend and 'manager' of his opening act, Saget immediately shook my hand.

Noticing my Cubs gear, he disarmed me with a discussion about baseball and guitars, the latter of which he played in part of his stand-up set. I remember how kind and sincere he was, asking follow-up questions as we walked through the venue looking for the green room."

Saget wound up laughing at one of Farahvar's stories, and he urged him to do stand-up. " His encouragement lingered in my mind as I watched his show. It felt like some approval I had been searching for all my life... because of my newly discovered confidence in my comedic abilities, I performed at my first open mic the very next day."

"When it was my turn, I repeated the story that had tickled Saget, and it was a hit once again. I was hooked. The immediate rush of adrenaline from the audience's response far exceeded the wins I'd experienced in even high-profile cases. The power of those laughs propelled me to heights I'd never had in a courtroom. And this was an open mic with 20 people in the room, for zero pay." Farahvar eventually traded his legal career for one in comedy.

Bob Saget died last Sunday at 65.

"Along with our fellow comedians and fans," wrote Farahvar, "I'm forever grateful for the positive influence he spread."

How I became the anchor of ABC “World News Tonight”: David Muir

Susannah Hutcheson

Special to USA TODAY

Our series “How I became a …” digs into the stories of accomplished and influential people, finding out how they got to where they are in their careers.

From getting the first Hillary Clinton email apology and being the first one to sit down with President Donald Trump for an interview in the White House to winning an Emmy for his town hall on race and policing with President Barack Obama, David Muir’s job as the anchor of ABC’s “World News Tonight” has given him a front-row seat to history itself.

USA TODAY caught up with Muir – who celebrated his fifth anniversary with “World News Tonight” on Sept. 1 – to talk about chasing the passion he’s had since childhood and highlighting the unseen heroes.

Question: How did you get your start in the business?

David Muir: As a kid, I had always dreamed of seeing the world beyond my backyard and my neighborhood. That is what drew me to watch the news every night. You know, I was the one who was outside playing with everyone else but who would disappear when it came time for the news. I would watch the local news, and I would watch Peter Jennings, and I began an internship at the local TV station at 14. They would march me up to the doorway in the newsroom to measure how much I had grown from school break to school break, and they would make fun of me for how much my voice had dropped.

When I look back at it as an adult, when (I was) a kid and (I wanted) to see the world, that for me meant covering the severe thunderstorms in the next county or going to the New York State Fair with the local reporter and photographer who were willing to let me jump in the backseat of the car. Now, I am literally seeing the world. I’m grateful for that, and I could not have put words to it when I was a kid, but it’s all the same hunger that drives me today.

Q: What does a typical workday look like for you?

Muir: There’s no such thing as a typical workday. The first thing I do in the morning when I get up is check my phones, and I have more than one, which I think many people do in this business. I read the overnight notes that our editors put together at the assignment desk, and I read it quickly – what the big headlines are – and then I watch the morning shows. I don’t just watch ours; I have great respect for all our competitors and like to see really what everyone’s reporting on and what people are talking about. I have a conversation with my executive producer long before the morning meetings. We have morning editorial meetings and midday editorial meetings and I do think there was a time when the morning discussion or the midday discussion led to what you would likely see at the end of the day, but I can honestly say that this newscast is a living, breathing thing. It’s much more reflective of the immediacy and the ability to break through the noise that people crave at home than perhaps we saw years ago. There’s no such thing as building a lineup early in the day and delivering that newscast at 6:30. I think there’s an expectation today that if people are going to take time out of their own busy lives to watch us at 6:30, that we owe it to them to break through the noise, to recognize that they’ve been bombarded with tweets and abbreviated headlines on their smartphones and when they log in to their email all day long.

Q: What is your favorite part of your job?

Muir: Especially at this time, when people really feel bombarded by this constant news cycle, it really is important to take a moment and recognize the quiet heroes. They’re everywhere if you just take a moment to give them a voice. We saw this in this series that we did on the return to Normandy. We followed six veterans from every corner of the country as they prepared to go back to Normandy 75 years later. We went to their homes and they were packing, choosing what mementos to bring, and we just allowed them to tell their stories. So many of these veterans, who are well into their 90s, told me that they had never shared so much about what they witnessed and what they had experienced when they landed on the beaches of Normandy until now. Imagine carrying that with you your whole life. Many of these veterans came home, and they helped build the middle class and America as we know it, and they came back and expected little fanfare and little credit for what it was they did. I think that makes them extraordinary. They are gifts, and we owe it to them to give them the chance all these years later to talk about what it is they saw, what they witnessed, and really what they accomplished… how they changed the course of history.

There was one of them, he goes by “NoNo” Zicari, he’s from Las Vegas, and he said he brought back with him a photograph of one of his brothers from World War II; his name was Don Simmons. I won’t forget his name. He had the photograph from all those years ago of the cross where he was buried – he (Don) did not survive. This was his first trip back to Normandy and all he wanted to do was to find the cross in the cemetery in the Normandy. We were with him when he found it. That was, in and of itself, a powerful moment; but what was extraordinary was that when NoNo returned from Normandy, the family of Don Simmons, from upstate New York, all across the country, reached out to him and said “that meant the world to us. We had no idea that you were carrying that picture around of our loved one all these years.” Seventy-five years later they watched as this man, on national news, paid tribute to their loved one.

Q: To what do you credit your success?

Muir: Honestly, I think the credit goes to the people who have given us a shot – the people who seem to be responding at home and watching. We wouldn’t have the opportunity to tell these stories, to go out and give these people a voice, if we didn’t have people at home who wanted to watch and to hear these stories.

I’m grateful to my parents for driving me into that TV station when I was a kid. I wasn’t nearly as good on the Little League field as I was in the newsroom, and they were willing to take me to that newsroom. I’m grateful to every one of those mentors along the way, and to the mentors here at ABC. I’ll never forget the phone call in the field as a rookie correspondent from Peter Jennings, and when they said “David, Peter’s on the line for you.”

I’ll never forget the first day I sat next to Diane Sawyer on the "Good Morning America" set, and I could not believe that I was filing a report next to Diane. She and I have become friends through this great adventure that we’re all on together, and to have learned from the best and to now walk down the same hallway of the same set of stairs that Peter (Jennings) and Charlie (Gibson) and Diane (Sawyer) walked up to go do the news; it’s not lost on me, and the privilege and the responsibility that comes with that.

Q: How do you balance work, life and such a busy schedule?

Muir: That is the challenge for anyone in this industry because it is constant. You have to love what you do, and you have to love people. I always say that to any of the young people who approach me about a career in journalism; you have to be hungry, you have to be curious, and perhaps most of all you have to love people. Because, in the end, you will be judged whether it’s in print or it’s on television by the respect you give to people who are willing to share their stories with you. People know how much you care.

Q: What have been some of your career highlights?

Muir: I have to say that I will never forget a piece of advice early on in my career. I was probably 21 or 22, and I was frustrated. I was working on a story, I wasn’t getting anybody to call me back, and a veteran reporter looked at me and said, “Well, if you want this story, you just have to go out and get the story.” It’s such a valuable piece of advice, and I share it with as many young minds as possible.

We went to Somaliland not long ago – we were there to report on the famine, and I knew it was an important story, but I did wonder: are we saddling our audience with yet something else to worry about, to be concerned about, just given the stakes of what’s happening in our own country right now? I brought this piece back from Somaliland on the famine, and within 72 hours of the report airing, we had raised nearly $2 million to help feed these children and to give them the medicine they need. I’m never surprised, but I’m always moved by the generosity of the people that are watching. It’s proof to me that they do care about their neighbors, whether they’re down the street or halfway across the world.

Q: What advice would you give to someone who wants to follow in your footsteps?

Muir: Never give up, never underestimate your own abilities and be willing to reach out because people will respond. I try to respond to as many young people as possible, and you will find that person who remembers that it’s their responsibility to turn around and provide that next person a shot at that dream, too. I know every day that when I sit in that chair, I’m just keeping it warm for the next kid who has that same dream that I had in that backyard at 12 years old.

Quick hits

• What’s your coffee order? Black coffee from Starbucks, hot. For the first coffee of the day, I’ll add half-and-half, but everything beyond that I can’t justify the half-and-half.

• What’s your favorite book? My current book is “The Nickel Boys” by Colson Whitehead, which I gravitated to because one of his previous books is one of my favorites (“The Underground Railroad”). His mastery of the English language and his ability to transport you back to a time that was not so long ago, when people were enduring incredible injustice in this great country of ours – I think it’s important to be reminded of just how recent that was. I also have to mention “Educated” by Tara Westover. When I go to the bookstore, I pick up extra copies of that memoir and have given them away because I think that is an extraordinary piece of work.

• What is your favorite song of the moment? That is an impossibly difficult question to answer because I have such an eclectic taste in music. If it’s Sunday, it’s usually Nina Simone and Chet Baker. If it’s weekdays I play the Global Top 50 on Spotify to power me through my run or my workout. Right now, I like “Senorita” by Shawn Mendes and Camila Cabello, and I’m also intrigued by the Whitney Houston release, the cover of “Higher Love.” Every day, I find a new song that I love.

• Who’s been one of your biggest mentors? It’s funny – I really began this whole adventure by writing letters in my bedroom in upstate New York. I had this old typewriter and would write letters to all of the local news people. I was lucky enough, at 12 and 13 years old, that they wrote back to me. I remember racing out to the mailbox over summer break to see who had written back this week, and they invited me into the local news station and it wasn’t long thereafter that I became an intern. I was overjoyed to be there, and remember being so happy with the most menial tasks, and I’m just grateful that they allowed me to do it. I remember all of their names, and they’re all my mentors. I’m grateful to this day, and it’s become a driving principle of what I do every day. I really, strongly believe that when we get a chance at our dreams, we have to turn around and recognize that we are keeping the seat warm for the next person who has that dream.

• What’s the coolest thing you’ve ever done? I feel, in this job, I’ve had the privilege and responsibility to witness so much history firsthand. All of it fuels me. I’m grateful to have seen everything I’ve seen, whether it’s the difficult moments or the uplifting moments. I will never forget preparing to interview the Pope for the first time – no Pope has ever sat down for an hour with American television.

Henry White Sr. spends 60 years giving back to the community that ...

By Margo C. Pope

Correspondent

10 Who Make a Difference

Today: Henry White Sr.

Editor’s note: This is the first story in The Record’s annual "10 Who Make a Difference" series during which we highlight a volunteer who has made a significant impact on our community.

Henry L. White Sr. credits 60-plus years of community service and helping youth succeed to the Sisters of St. Joseph and the Florida School for the Deaf and the Blind.

How to reenter society: Advice from experts on life post-quarantine

Megan Finnerty

USA TODAY

As many states start to relax their stay-at-home orders, individuals and families are navigating how best to reengage with what was once everyday life.

For some, the fear of contracting coronavirus feels remote. They will resume errands, shopping and appointments as they once did.

Others will be more cautious, looking to scientists for guidance on how to weigh the risks of leaving home. As part of Just the FAQs: Coronavirus Conversations, USA TODAY interviewed four specialists to get answers to some of your most pressing questions. Tim Lant and Joshua LaBaer at Arizona State University are now working on models to track the spread of the virus in Arizona. The University of Chicago's Devin G. Pope studied how the virus spreads in restaurants and bars. And Dr. Peter Alperin of San Francisco is an expert on telemedicine.

This is their advice on new ground rules for resuming common activities:

Question: Are any restaurants safer, or more dangerous, than others?

Pope's short answer: Sit-down restaurants where people spend an hour or more increase your exposure over time. And the more people you eat with, the more opportunities there are to become infected.

Long answer: “There is a surprisingly large amount of variation in the level of risk and contact across different types of restaurants. For example, our analysis … found that some restaurants (e.g. Cheesecake Factory and Olive Garden) are inherently riskier than other restaurants (e.g. McDonalds and Subway). When going to a bar/restaurant, the level of risk increases substantially with the number of people who are with you. In other words, a party of eight is more than twice as risky as a party of four.”

Q: How do we decide if a place is safe to go into?

Short answer: There is no no-risk place outside your home.

Long answer: If a business or office is doing all of the following things, it is taking safety seriously:

Patrons wearing masks.

Social distancing standing markers on floor/sidewalk.

Staff wearing masks/gloves.

Signage with protocols posted so people know how to comply and what to expect.

Touchless takeaway – i.e. your food on a table, pay via phone.

Capacity limited by tables and chairs removed or blocked

Shields between workers and patrons where possible.

– Tim Lant, director of program development, and Joshua LaBaer, executive director, Biodesign Institute at Arizona State University

Q: What should I do when I go out?

Lant: Wear a mask when not eating or drinking.

2. Stay home when you can to reduce number of people in spaces.

3. Keep washing your hands.

4. Give others personal space.

5. Be courteous to staff and patrons.

Q: When can I touch or hug someone I have not been living with?

LaBaer's short answer: It depends.

Long answer: Some people are advocating for testing every three days for individuals with public-facing jobs. This is based on the notion that incubation for the virus is three to five days, so a test every three days would likely catch someone relatively early in an infection, before they have had a chance to spread it.

A negative test is very reassuring, but there are biological (not just technical) reasons that a test could produce a false negative. For example, you could have been infected yesterday, so a test today would be too soon. (You might not test positive for three to five days from exposure – depending on the size of your inoculum and your own general response to virus.) So it is really a combination of good testing and careful attention to avoiding exposure that would be most reassuring.

If you were primarily at home and isolated, and diligent about wearing a mask and washing your hands when you went out occasionally while maintaining social distancing, and then tested negative, I think it would be OK to hug your mom. There is no guarantee here, but it is pretty good. That said, this assumes your mom is of generally good health and not in a very high risk group (other than maybe her age).

Q: Should I go for a routine or preventative check up?

Peter Alperin, vice president at Doximity and internal medicine physician: The CDC recently recommended that nonemergency medical providers delay routine or elective visits to preserve protective equipment and alleviate the risk of spreading COVID-19. And some states have rules about which appointments and procedures can proceed. These rules vary and will continue to vary as states ease restrictions.

What should we do if we don’t want to go into an office to see the doctor?

Alperin: Check with your health care provider to see what options he or she has for patients who do not want to be seen in person. They should offer one or all three of the following:

Telemedicine

Telephone (call the office)

Online patient portals, which are secure places to review lab results or send and receive messages

How do I make the most of a telemedicine appointment?

Alperin: Find a quiet room and use headphones/earbuds if possible.

2. Make sure there is good lighting so your doctor can see you.

3. Wear loose clothing so you are better able to participate in the physical exam.

4. Write down specific questions.

5. Have a pen and paper handy to write down instructions; the physician won't print out a summary as they often do with in-person visits.

How do we stay safe at the doctor's office?

Alperin: Call ahead and ask for guidance about protocols.

2. Wear a mask.

3. Ask which door is best to enter.

4. Ask if you can check in or fill out forms online.

5. Remain distant from others in the waiting room, or wait in the car and ask them to call you to come in.

6. Use a tissue or gloves to open doors.

7. Bring your own pen to fill out forms.

Pennsylvania priest abuse: How 25 Catholic Church bishops ...

In January 2004, a Pennsylvania bishop sent a letter to Pope John Paul II to tell him that an Allentown priest had an inappropriate relationship with a 16-year-old boy in 1979.

Bishop Edward Cullen noted the priest admitted the abuse in 2000. He was sending the letter to the Vatican four years later because the victim's family was threatening to go to the media if the Rev. Robert Cofenas was not defrocked.

"Currently there is great danger that this case could become public," Cullen said in his letter to the pope, according to a Pennsylvania grand jury report released Tuesday.

Cullen recommended Cofenas be removed from the priesthood, following the wishes of the victim's family.

The bishop's actions were common throughout dioceses in Pennsylvania, according to the grand jury report. When bishops were confronted with victims' stories of abuse or priests' admission of guilt, diocese leaders worked to conceal the truth.

“Priests were raping little boys and girls, and the men of God who were responsible for them not only did nothing; they hid it all," the grand jury wrote in its report after a two-year investigation.

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More:'Really sick, abusive stories': 40 Pa. priests confess their crimes

More:Lies and cover-ups: Catholic church in Pa. had 'playbook' to keep priest abuse secret

Child sex abuse was hidden for years by Roman Catholic church leaders. The coverup went all the way to the Vatican and included secret files in Pennsylvania dioceses, where state investigators found a log of abuses that dated back decades, according to the report.

Bishops, monsignors and priests often told grieving victims and families that nothing could be done because the statue of limitations had expired, meaning predator priests couldn't be charged for their crimes.

Others tried to keep families from going public, sometimes blaming the victim.

When a boy was raped, one church leader told his father, "After all, your son was over the age of reason."

In Catholic teaching, the age of reason is 7 years old, which is the age when children can receive their first holy communion.

The list below shows how 25 church leaders responded when confronted with stories of alleged abuse, according to the grand jury report and diocese records.

Diocese of Allentown

The Rev. David Connell, the Rev. Tim Johnson, Jim Gross, a former basketball coach:

When a victim told Johnson he was abused by Connell and Gross, Johnson told the victim not to report the abuse to police. The victim insisted on reporting, and Johnson severely beat the victim with a big leather belt and told the victim if he reported the abuse to the police, he would beat him even worse.

Monsignor Gerald Gobitas upon learning of the Rev. Joseph Kean's abuse:

In October 2005, the parents of a fifth victim reported to Gobitas that their son had been sexually abused by Kean. Gobitas in a diocese report described the sex abuse as "the activity" and characterized it as Kean engaging in "immature behavior," such as "wrestling, chasing each other, tying each other up with rope, etc. In the midst of this behavior there were sexual assaults."

Monsignor Alfred Schlert in reference to the Rev. Dennis Rigney's abuse:

After Rigney admitted he abused children, Schlert said in a letter to Monsignor Gobitas that Rigney was apprehensive about receiving therapy at a "special retreat" he was encouraged to attend by the diocese. "He retired without scandal, if he goes to the retreat with the other 'known' offenders, it will implicate him," Schlert said.

The diocese upon learning of the Rev. Gerald Royer's abuse:

A victim in 2002 told a priest Royer had abused him. During a meeting with a priest in the diocese, the priest acknowledged that Royer was a "bad actor," stating that the priest had counseled Royer. The priest offered no other advice for the victim and did not report the crime to authorities.

The diocese in reference to the Rev. Charles Ruffenach's case:

In August 2001, an adult victim reported Ruffenach had physically and sexually abused him. The abuse began in 1945 when the victim was in first grade and continued through eighth grade. He said Ruffenach beat, paddled and sexually abused him when he attended St. John the Baptist school.

The diocese responded by stating that Ruffenach was deceased and therefore it could not pursue the victim's claims any further, but offered the victim counseling.

The diocese in response to Father Stephen Shigo's case:

In February 2012, a victim said he was sexually abused by Shigo while he was an altar boy in eighth and ninth grades. The diocese responded by offering six months of counseling.

Monsignor Anthony Muntone upon learning of the Rev. David Soderlund's case:

After learning of Soderlund's history of sex abuse, Muntone said if Soderlund lived at the rectory at Sacred Heart and "the hospital held him more accountable for his time, there shouldn't be any problems."

Diocese of Erie

The Diocese in reference to the Rev. Michael G. Barletta's case:

A fellow priest, Father John Fischer, walked in on Barletta sexually abusing a young high school student. The priest did not call the police.

Instead, the incident was reported to Bishop Alfred Watson two months later, after Monsignor William Hastings dismissed Fischer's report of Barletta and the naked child. Both Hastings and Watson brushed him off and told him to, "Go home, be a good priest."

In 1993, Monsignor Andrew Karg received a complaint from five fellow priests expressing serious concerns about Barletta. On April 29, 1993, Karg wrote to Bishop Donald Trautman about fears Barletta could be "crossing the line" into the private lives of the students at Erie Prep. He said Barletta was known to take pictures inside the boys' locker room of "the kids' crotch area" and that Barletta maintains a book of "crotch shots" in his residence.

Priests also questioned Barletta's personal vacations with the "good looking boys" and his trips to San Francisco with students. In another bullet point, Karg said, "Father Dollinger's fear is that if the Catholic Preparatory school ever had a law suit about a pedophile, will the 18 years of Father Barletta also come to light?"

More:Pa. clergy abuse report on Catholic church puts spotlight on statute of limitations

The diocese in response to the Father Richard D. Lynch's abuse:

A victim came forward and said Father Richard Lynch touched him inappropriately while he was a senior in high school in 1978. Lynch touched him in a private area, and pushed him against the wall.

In an undated official document from the Office of the Bishop, the writer states, “There are psychological issues present in [the victim]. He receives money from Social Security because of DISABILITY…he usually calms down as you talk to him.”

The diocese in response to the Rev. Salvatore P. Luzzi's abuse:

After several years teaching at Venango Christian High School, the Rev. Salvatore P. Luzzi was moved to St. Mark's Seminary, where he filled several roles. Over the course of his 30-year ministry, he was accused of sexual misconduct by eight male victims ranging in age from early teens to early 20s.

The grand jury report states that several former juvenile victims of Luzzi received phone calls or letters of apology from the Diocese, where Luzzi’s behavior was dismissed as “Sal’s way of expressing himself,” and his “touching approach” to ministry was attributed to his “Italian upbringing.”

Director of Clergy Personnel regarding Father Gary L. Ketcham's case:

Some time prior to March 1989, allegations of sexual misconduct by Father Gary L. Ketcham became known by the Diocese of Erie. He was accused of molesting two boys while in a drunken state.

Diocesan preparation for Ketcham’s court case started later that year. The diocese loaned him money for attorney fees. In a promissory note to Ketcham from the diocese— in which they pledged to front him $25,000 for lawyer fees — the director of clergy personnel wrote, “Don’t worry…you’re good for it.”

Father John Fischer's response to the Rev. Joseph W. Jerge:

The Diocese of Erie was first made aware of sexual abuse allegations against Joseph W. Jerge in early 1989. On April 19, 1989, he was sent to St. Luke's Institute for sexual psychological therapy. He was placed back into ministry at St. John the Evangelist, but given restrictions and told to avoid contact with young boys. At that time, Father Fischer wrote several letters to the administration at St. Luke's voicing his concerns that Jerge was failing in his efforts to stay away from the youth of the diocese. Fischer reported that Jerge had admittedly offended numerous children and was coaching youth basketball, hearing confessions, and ministering at a parish that had a swimming pool.

Fischer went on to write that he felt that this swimming pool "will only nourish the sickness."

Bishop Donald Trautman's response upon learning of Monsignor James P. Hopkins' abuse:

On Aug.3, 1993, a victim wrote a letter to Bishop Trautman at the Diocese of Erie. She stated in the letter that in 1945, when she was 13 years of age, she experienced abuse at the hands of Monsignor Hopkins in the rectory of St. Titus. Whenever anyone would voice concern over Hopkins' behavior, she would always hear the conduct dismissed by others as, "Oh well, he's old, he doesn't mean anything by it."

Trautman responded to the victim saying, "Since Monsignor Hopkins died in July of 1957, there is no possible way to investigate your accusation."

Diocese of Greensburg

Bishop Anthony Bosco upon learning of Father Joseph L. Sredzinski's abuse:

Reports were made against Sredzinski in 1991 when a police office caught him parked in a cemetery alone with a young boy. The grand jury report also notes that numerous community members came forward expressing concern over Sredzinski’s behavior.

On Jan. 14, 1994, Bishop Anthony Bosco of the Greensburg Diocese wrote a letter to Sredzinski' s sister in response to her concerns that her brother was not being treated properly by the diocese.

Bosco wrote to her: “At no time did we conduct an investigation with any of the families precisely because we did not want to agitate the waters any more.”

More:News of the day in PA priest abuse: Vatican speaks, name change sought for Pittsburgh school

Diocese of Harrisburg

Bishop Kevin C. Rhodes' response to the Rev. Francis A. Bach's case:

In a letter dated May 1, 2007, Bishop Kevin C. Rhodes sent a summary of Bach's sexually abusive behavior to the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. Rhodes wrote that he did not believe there was a need for any trial or process, judicial or administrative.

Bach was living his life in "basic solitude, doing good when he can," and "spending time in prayer and penance, trying to make reparation for the harm he has caused others through his acts of sexual abuse that occurred early in his priesthood."

Father Robert Gribbin's response upon learning of the Rev. Anthony McGinley's abuse:

The diocesan file for Father McGinley contained a handwritten memorandum, dated November of 1953, by Father Robert Gribbin, who was stationed at Lebanon Catholic High School. Three high school boys reported that McGinley made "immoral advances" toward them.

Gribbin asked the boys "if they realized the terrible gravity of these charges." He asked if they "were so convinced of them, would they testify under oath to their truth." The boys notified Gribbin that two senior boys knew of the "immoral advances." Gribbin "warned them to be absolutely silent and dismissed them."

Principal of Saint Joan of Arc school in Hershey upon learning of the Rev. Timothy Sperber's abuse:

The Diocese of Harrisburg received a report in 2004 from a female alleging that a priest sexually abused her around 1979 when she was around 10 years old.

The victim told the principal that Sperber touched her in weird ways, and the principal became angry with the victim and said: “How dare you make these terrible accusations. You are a demon-child."

Diocese of Pittsburgh

Father James W. Donlon in reference to the Rev. John P. Connor's case:

Records obtained by subpoena from the Diocese of Pittsburgh, show that in October of 1984, Father John P. Connor was arrested in New Jersey for sexually molesting a 14-year-old child.

An excerpt from the grand jury report reads: Archbishop Anthony Bevilacqua (who was promoted to cardinal) and the Philadelphia Archdiocese accepted this dangerous priest readily but did nothing to ensure the propriety of his future conduct. Father James W. Donlon, the pastor of St. Matthew Church since March 1989, testified to the grand jury that Bevilacqua never told him about Father Connor's arrest or that he had been treated at Southdown for abusing alcohol and a 14 -year-old boy.

Donlon explained to the grand jury that he “would have been more careful about everything.”

Father John Markell upon learning of Father Richard J. Dorsch's abuse:

The mother of one of Dorsch’s victims learned of the abuse to her son when Dorsch was arrested between 1994 and 1995. She stated that once she became aware of the abuse, she approached Father Markell, the parochial vicar assigned at the time with Dorsch at the parish.

Markell discouraged her from pursuing the matter any further and asked her son, “What did you do?”— as if implying he was responsible for, or encouraged, Dorsch’s sexual misconduct.

Then-Archbishop Anthony Bevilacqua in reference to the Rev. Joseph D. Karabin's case:

In March 1980, the Diocese of Pittsburgh received a report from a victim who was sexually abused by Father Joseph D. Karabin while Karabin was assigned to St. Joan of Arc.

Handwritten notes by Bishop Bevilacqua on one of the memorandums in Karabin’s file stated, among other things, "I do not feel Father Karabin should be given another immediate assignment after leaving his present one. There should be some sign to him that what he did was very grave."

Father Norman E. Bevan's in reference to the Rev. Robert E. Spangenberg's case:

The documents provided by the Diocese of Pittsburgh revealed that Spangenberg was involved with at least two children, possibly more.

The diocese was first notified of Spangenberg’s ministry in 1988 when a mother contacted the diocese on behalf of her son. Father Norman E. Bevan was assisting the family in counseling. In a letter to the diocese, Bevan wrote: “If we felt them to be true, we would recognize our responsibility to remove Father X from ministry and to insist on therapeutic rehabilitation. At the same time, we realize that a priest's reputation could be irreparably damaged by false accusations.”

Father James Ruggiero upon learning of Father Paul G. Spisak's abuse:

In October 1998, parish staff from St. Dominic reported Father Paul G. Spisak to the Diocese of Pittsburgh. Parish staff had found pornographic magazines, tapes and internet material in Spisak's room that depicted homosexual and sadomasochistic activity. There were also several pictures of Spisak with two different underage boys including pictures of the boys showing their buttocks and pictures of Spisak pulling down his swim trunks and pulling down the boy's pants.

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An employee of the diocese was concerned with the relationship Spisak had with her son and reported her concerns to the diocese. In a letter dated April 23, 1999, Father Ruggiero wrote to the diocesan employee’s son and requested to meet with him to discuss disturbing information that his mother had provided to the church.

Ruggiero wrote in the letter, “I am sure revisiting these painful memories is not easy for you…I can only imagine how difficult it must have been to discuss this with your mother.”

Diocese of Scranton

Bishop James Timlin upon learning of the Rev. Robert J. Brague's case:

On June 16, 1988, that same anonymous parishioner sent a second letter to Timlin, advising that the relationship between Brague and a teenage female was still continuing even after being reported. The parishioner stated that Timlin had disregarded the previous letter and further suggested that he did not have very much control over his priests.

On Aug. 29, 1988, Timlin received a letter from the sister of the high school female. She said Brague had had sexual relations with her sister at age 17 and became pregnant. She further advised that Brague had at least two other affairs.

Timlin responded to the letter by stating that as soon as the matter was brought to his attention, Brague was removed from office. Timlin noted that it was better to say as little as possible about the circumstances surrounding his removal rather than cause greater scandal through undue publicity.

In the letter, he further noted that, "Father Brague and your sister have a long, difficult road ahead. . . What has happened is their responsibility and certainly Father Brague will take care of his obligations."

Bishop J. Carroll McCormick in reference to the Rev. Joseph Bucolo's case:

On Jan. 4, 1971, Bishop McCormick was notified that the parents of a 10-year-old boy had reported that during the previous summer, Father Bucolo took their son on a two-day vacation to the New Jersey shore area. They advised that during this trip, Bucolo committed acts with their son that were "unbecoming a catholic priest."

In a memorandum on the file, McCormick noted: “Father Bucolo called to see me this afternoon at my direction. He readily admitted the charge, insisting that once and once only did he commit an immoral act with the individual mentioned above - while on vacation last summer. He stated he had never before or since become involved in that way and said he was very sorry. He claimed that it was in a moment of weakness it had occurred.”

Monsignor Joseph A. Madden upon learning of the Rev. James M. McAuliffe's abuse:

In 2010, a victim of McAuliffe met with Bishop Joseph Bambera to address concerns that even after reporting his abuse in 1963, McAuliffe continued to serve as a priest.

McAuliffe’s file contained information regarding this report and others. The file also showed that one monsignor in the parish at the time of the abuse, Madden, had written a letter to the parents of the abused in 1963.

Madden made the following remark to the father of the victim, “after all, your son was over the age of reason.”