by Tracy Brown
“And this abuse took place all throughout your childhood?”
He nodded. “Yes, it did.”
Camille couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Frankie’s reluctance to be a father was beginning to make perfect sense.
Teresa started pacing slowly again.
“So from as far back as you can remember, your father terrorized your family. Is that fair to say?”
Frankie sighed. “Yes.”
“So when you turned eighteen, you must have been in a hurry to move out,” Teresa said, already knowing that Frankie hadn’t lasted in his father’s household past his freshman year of high school.
Frankie shook his head. “I left my parents’ house when I was still in school,” he said.
“Which month and year was that, Mr. Bingham?”
Frankie thought about it, trying to recall when he’d fled his parents’ home for the last time. He recalled he had spent his first Christmas at the Nobles family home that year, that he had arrived two weeks before the holiday and had been amazed at how jolly everyone was in Baron’s house. His own home had been such a hotbed of conflict that it had come as quite a shock to find that some households were actually merry at Christmastime.
“December 1987,” he answered.
“So you were only fourteen at the time. And you were still attending school?”
Frankie shook his head. “I was at first. But eventually, I dropped out and started working odd jobs.” He had actually started selling hard drugs.
“Where were you living?”
“At my friend Mikey’s house at first. Then his mother got arrested, he got put into foster care, and I started staying with my friend Baron and his family.” Frankie left out the fact that Baron’s father had been the notorious Doug Nobles.
“Did your parents know where you were?” Teresa asked.
Frankie shrugged. “I don’t think my father really gave a shit. I came around to see my mother from time to time when I knew my father wasn’t there. So she knew that I was okay.”
“And Steven remained in the custody of your parents?”
“Yes,” Frankie said, his eyes downcast. He was still tormented by the fact that he’d been forced to leave Steven behind.
Teresa pulled out a file folder stuffed with papers. “The defense presents exhibit A, documentation outlining seventeen emergency room visits by Steven Dennis Bingham escorted by his mother Mary to Kings County Hospital with dates ranging from December 1987 through April 1988.”
Frankie frowned, glanced at his mother and saw that she was crying. He was confused. Teresa didn’t leave him puzzled for long.
She looked at Frankie. “Your mother escorted your brother, Steven, who was only nine years old at the time, to the emergency room seventeen times with injuries ranging from black eyes to broken arms in the months following your departure from your family home. So it seems that once you left the family home, Steven became the object of your father’s rage.”
Frankie felt his blood boiling. His mother seemed distraught as she cried silently in her seat. Gillian had wrapped her arm around Mary but it seemed to do little to comfort her as tears continued to fall.
“Your mother, Mary, brought Steven to the ER so often that she was warned that the next visit would result in a call to child protective services,” Teresa continued. “After that, Steven was never seen in that hospital’s emergency room again. Were you aware of that?”
Frankie sipped his water again. “No, I wasn’t.” He bit his lower lip to keep it from shaking.
Teresa pulled out a second file. “Defense exhibit B, your honor.” She plopped the folder down in front of Frankie, and opened it up to page one. “This is Steven’s school attendance record.” She pointed to a highlighted section. “Can you read this part aloud to the court, Mr. Bingham?”
Frankie stared at the paper before him and felt his palms sweating, his pulse quickening. He cleared his throat and spoke into the microphone in front of him.
“It says that he had twenty-eight absences that marking period,” Frankie said.
“Please read the note attached to the page, Mr. Bingham.”
Frankie took a deep breath and read it.
“ ‘Steven Bingham has been excessively absent, and appears listless and unfocused on the few occasions he does make it to school. A number of his fellow students taunt him, making fun of his shyness and teasing him about his clothes. Bruises have also been observed on his legs and forearms on occasion when he changes clothes for gym class. A recommendation is being made to follow up with his parents to determine if there is an issue at home.’ ” Frankie finished reading. “It’s signed Christine Mahon.”
“Let the record show that Ms. Mahon was Steven’s fifth-grade teacher, and that she made this recommendation to the principal of PS 236 on April 15, 1988.” Teresa looked at Frankie. “A visit was made to your family’s home and the principal spoke with your father, who assured him that everything was fine and that Steven was just a clumsy kid who played too hard and injured himself from time to time. But that wasn’t really the case, was it, Mr. Bingham?”
Frankie looked at the file in front of him and felt like shit. “Probably not.”
“Isn’t it true that you allowed Steven to stay with you as an adult, to live off of you and to take advantage of you and your wife’s generosity because you felt guilty about leaving him behind to be abused as a child?”
Frankie’s hands fisted involuntarily. “No.”
“Isn’t it true that you suspected all along that your father had substituted one punching bag for another once you moved out?”
“No!” Frankie yelled. “I spoke to Steven all the time and I asked him if my father was still hitting him and my mother. He told me that he wasn’t.”
“And you believed him?”
Frankie couldn’t stop the tears from plunging forth then. He looked at his mother and knew that he couldn’t run from the truth anymore. “No,” he said honestly, his voice full of emotion. “I thought he was lying. But I couldn’t prove it. And even if I could, I couldn’t stop it. I was just a kid myself.”
The jurors were transfixed and the courtroom erupted in chatter. Judge Felder called for order in the court.
Teresa compassionately set a box of tissues in front of Frankie and waited as he took two tissues and wiped his eyes and nose. When he had composed himself somewhat, she got back to her line of questioning.
“You felt guilty for leaving Steven behind, didn’t you, Mr. Bingham?”
Frankie nodded. “Yeah,” he said with a sigh, wiping his eyes.
“Isn’t it probable, Mr. Bingham, that Steven lied to you and to the teachers at school and to the doctors in the emergency room out of fear of your father?” Teresa didn’t wait for Frankie to answer that. “And isn’t it true that you knew all along that the abuse had continued? That you gave your brother whatever he wanted as an adult in order to make up for the fact that you left him behind as a child? That you allowed him to take advantage of you out of guilt that you were the only one in your family who escaped your father’s wrath?”
“I don’t know,” Frankie said with tears still falling even though he wanted desperately for them to stop.
“You knew that something wasn’t right about Steven, didn’t you? You suspected that he had been damaged by the abuse he suffered in a way that was very different from you?”
Frankie pounded his fist on the witness stand, startling Teresa, who jumped back. Two court officers rushed forth and told Frankie to calm down. Teresa looked at Judge Felder and softly asked, “Can you instruct Mr. Bingham to answer the question?”
The prosecutor rose to his feet and requested a recess. “I think the witness could use a break.”
The judge agreed. “Court will take a fifteen-minute recess,” he ordered, banging his gavel again.
Frankie stepped down from the witness stand feeling like he’d just gone through an emotional trauma. Gillian rushed to his side and could tell by t
he look on his face that he needed to get out of there as quickly as possible. Mary stood nearby, her face tearstained, as well.
“Come with me,” Gillian urged, leading him and Mary out of the courtroom and down a corridor to an empty case room she’d noticed earlier on her way to the bathroom. She shut the door behind them and Frankie sat down on a chair nearby. Gillian walked over to where he sat and held his face in her hands, kissing his lips gently. She loved him so much and hated seeing him this hurt and vulnerable. “Talk to your mother. She’s very upset,” Gillian said. She smiled at him, kissed him on the bridge of his nose, and walked out, leaving Frankie alone with his mom.
Mary stood against the wall, her face ashen and distraught.
Frankie looked at her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. “I used to come around all the time to bring you money when he wasn’t home.” Frankie had always avoided his father, waiting hours for him to leave the house at times before he climbed the stairs to visit his mother and brother. “You could have told me what was really going on.”
Mary’s voice was surprisingly steady as she spoke, though barely above a whisper. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Frankie.”
His brow furrowed and he licked his lips, dry after such an emotional outpouring. “What don’t I know?”
Mary all but collapsed into a nearby chair under the weight of what she’d held inside for so long. She took a deep breath and looked her only surviving child in his eyes. It was time to stop keeping quiet.
“When you left,” she began, “your father was so mad. He drove around the neighborhood looking for you, but he couldn’t find you. He came home that night and he beat Steven bloody because he thought Steven knew where you were.”
Frankie closed his eyes as if to block out the enormity of what he was hearing. He opened them again and Mary was staring at the floor as if entranced.
“Steven didn’t know where you were, though. So John got even madder and he … raped me. He beat me and raped me for so long that I passed out. When I woke up, he was gone and Steven was there with a cold rag on my head, begging me to get up and leave. He wanted us to run away like you had.” Mary squeezed her eyes shut and tears spilled forth. “But I wouldn’t go.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t leave John.”
“Why not?” Frankie asked. He had always wondered why.
“I loved him.” She seemed to laugh at how ridiculous that was now. “He was your father, and I wanted us to be a family. I thought it was better to be with him than to be without him.”
Frankie stared at his mother and felt such contempt for her. She could have left, could have spared her children the horror of growing up with a monster. But she had chosen to stay, and no matter how noble her reasons were, no matter how hard he tried not to, he resented her for it.
“After you left, he got worse. That lawyer lady was right. The school did contact us about how Steven was coming to school. So John stopped hurting him in ways that left visible marks. If Steven did anything wrong, if he moved too slowly or spoke too loudly, John would take a broomstick and beat him across his back.”
Frankie grimaced, picturing little Steven enduring such abuse. Steven had been a frail and lanky kid, skinny and weak. Their father’s blows must have all but broken him.
Mary was crying harder now. “I remember that Steven got to the point that he stopped crying when John would beat him. John didn’t like that. He took it as a challenge. So one day I came home from food shopping and found him … he had Steven tied down … and the broomstick…”
Frankie stared at his mother with his mouth agape. “Ma…” he stammered. “Please don’t tell me—”
She nodded, confirming his worst fears. “Steven was screaming and I yelled for John to stop. He did, and Steven was laying on the floor, crying and screaming. John said it was the only way he could get Steven to cry as hard as he wanted him to. He penetrated him with that broomstick and I don’t know how many times he had done that before I found out about it.” She was sobbing now. “Steven wasn’t strong enough to fight back. And I just stayed. I just stayed and kept my mouth shut!” She looked at Frankie, her face so pained. “I deserve to be the one in that grave, Frankie. I’m the one who should be dead, not Steven. He didn’t have a chance! And all I did was sit back and let it happen.”
Frankie stared at his mother in disbelief. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach and he worried that he might be nauseous. Mary was trying to stop crying, but talking about what she had witnessed in silence for the first time was hard to handle.
Gillian came back in the room and saw Frankie sitting with his head in his hands and Mary sobbing quietly in the corner. She frowned. This wasn’t what she’d expected to happen when she’d left the two of them alone together.
“Court is about to reconvene,” she said. “The prosecutor says they need you back on the stand.”
Frankie couldn’t move. He stared at his weeping mother and shook with contempt and pure rage. His father had done them all a favor when he shot himself. He looked at Mary and wondered why she hadn’t done the same.
Slowly, Frankie got to his feet and walked back to the courtroom, his mother and Gillian trailing behind him in silence.
He walked up to the witness stand more upset than he had been when he left it. The judge reminded Frankie that he was still under oath and Frankie took his seat and a long guzzle of water before Teresa got started.
She picked up right where she’d left off before the recess.
“Had you ever suspected that Steven was affected by the abuse in a very different way from you?”
Frankie told the truth. “Yeah,” he said. “I could tell that it was different.” He shook his head. “He was human. Anybody would have been damaged after going through what he did.”
Teresa nodded. “Were you sexually abused as a child?”
Frankie frowned, hating that she would even suggest that. “No!”
“To your knowledge, was your brother ever sexually abused?”
Frankie looked at his hands, replaying what his mother had just told him in his head. He didn’t know how to answer the question so he said simply, “I don’t know.”
Teresa stared at him. “Your father is deceased, correct?”
“Yes.”
“How did he die?”
Frankie looked out across the courtroom, hating that his family business was being laid bare for all the world to see. He watched reporters staring at him in anticipation of his answer and knew they would cream themselves when they heard his response.
“He committed suicide. He put a forty-five in his mouth and blew his brains out.”
“How did you feel when you found out?”
Frankie shrugged. “Relieved.”
The courtroom was abuzz again and Judge Felder was banging his gavel once more.
“Just one final question,” Teresa said. She saw the look of relief on Frankie’s face. “Mr. Bingham, do you believe that Steven sodomized your nephew when he was left in his care?”
Frankie looked at his mother, thought about what she’d just revealed to him. It was entirely possible that what their father had done to Steven had warped him in unimaginable ways. He shook his head and then looked at Camille, her belly bulging with his unborn child. He thought about how cruel he’d been to her, how hearing Born describe her pregnancy cravings had made him feel like shit. He looked then at Misa and his eyes filled with tears.
Misa had never done anything to Frankie. In fact, he had practically watched her grow up in the years he’d been with Camille. He thought about Shane. Although he wasn’t much for children, Shane was a good kid. He had been so happy, so carefree, and now this. Frankie couldn’t help wondering if what his brother had been accused of was true.
“Mr. Bingham, please answer the question.”
Frankie shook his head. “I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
Teresa was satisfied with that. She had gotten him to go from absolute denial to the poss
ibility of Misa’s suspicions being correct.
“No further questions,” she said, returning to her seat.
“Your honor, may I redirect?” the DA asked.
The judge nodded and the DA stood up, addressed Frankie.
“Mr. Bingham, do you believe that Steven deserved to die?”
Frankie got choked up. Fighting back tears, he looked at his mother again and then looked at the jury. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, he didn’t.” He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. His father had done a number on them all.
One Step at a Time
“Did you know about all that stuff that Frankie went through growing up?” Lily asked. Celia, Misa, Dominique, Toya, and Lily all waited anxiously for the answer. They had gone out to eat dinner after court recessed for the day. Now, as they sat at a table in R.H. Tugs surrounded by tons of food, they were all eager to chew the fat of what they’d witnessed.
“No,” Camille answered, shaking her head. “Frankie never told me that he was abused as a kid. I had no idea.”
“It makes sense,” Celia said, looking at Misa, “that Steven had been abused by their father and then he would turn around and become an abuser. I watch Oprah faithfully, and she always says that abusers abuse others. It’s a cycle.”
Camille thought about that. She thought about Frankie and his reluctance to be a father. It all made sense to her now, and she wondered whether or not his past would affect their baby.
“I felt kind of sorry for Frankie,” Misa said, her voice low and sad. “I know that might sound crazy…”
“It doesn’t sound crazy to me,” Camille said. “Not crazy at all.”
Misa glanced at Camille and smiled at her weakly.
Lily shook her head. “Well, it sounds like he had a terrible childhood. Frankie’s mother was over there falling apart today. She seemed like hearing all of the details of her son’s life like that was too much for her.”
“She sat there and watched her husband abuse her kids and she stayed,” Toya said, thinking back on how her own mother had done the same thing. “She should feel like shit.” Hearing Frankie breaking down in court that day as he recounted his tough childhood had touched her. She understood the torment Frankie and Steven had endured at their father’s hands and her heart went out to Frankie. She agreed with Celia. Abuse victims tended to continue the cycle. Toya wondered how her own past had shaped the woman she was today.
