by Tonya Craft
I hid myself in the motor home. I refused to eat. I refused to answer my phone. I blocked out the world and tried to make myself disappear. For days.
Diana came in and took photos of me lying in bed, practically comatose with the shades all down. She wanted to document everything I was going through. They were worried to death, and none of their kind words or even Diana’s home cooking made me snap out of it. Finally, her husband, Michael, came in and got mad at me.
“Okay, Tonya,” he said. “You’ve had your cry. Now it’s time to put your big-girl panties on and get out of that bed. Do you hear me?”
Michael’s about the gentlest man you could ever meet. He’d stayed pretty quiet throughout this whole ordeal. He stood behind Diana, and I wondered sometimes if he was secretly mad at her for taking me in and putting his family through all of this. But he’d never said a harsh word, ever. His tough talk startled me.
The thing is, he was right. They say you never know what you’re capable of until you’re put to the test, and clearly this test was not over. I needed to go get my kids back. I needed to get up and find a way to get strong again.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him looking at me, waiting for a response. He shook his head when I didn’t move.
“Tonya—I have something very important to tell you,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“I love you,” he said. That took me by surprise, too. Then he turned to go.
“Michael,” I called.
“Yeah?”
I lifted my head and propped myself up. “Would you do something for me?”
“You know that I will. What is it?”
“Can we go get my treadmill?”
Chapter 24
On September 13, Michael and Diana drove me down to Chickamauga in their pickup truck with a trailer on the back. It was the first time I’d stepped foot in my house since I’d first come to Diana’s for “just one night” on June 1. It felt like I was walking into a dream, stepping back into some long-ago life that didn’t exist anymore. I looked at the pictures on the walls and some of the photos in little frames on the tables and everywhere of what had been my family. One second I would stare at my kids’ smiling faces and feel flushed with joy, and the next it’d be too painful to look at them. I decided to take some of those photos back with me, just so I could look at them when I wanted to—or when I needed to.
It struck me as strange that the house had just sat there, basically untouched. Why have they never searched my home? Surely they could have gotten a search warrant in all that time. If they believe that I’m a child molester, wouldn’t they want to search my house? Search through my photos? Seize my computer? Something?
I made a mental note to myself that I’d better back up all of my computer files in case anyone ever came after my trusty black laptop.
I tried to focus on the task at hand and get out of that house as soon as possible. The whole time I was in there I kept worrying that the doorbell was going to ring. I kept worrying that someone would report that we were there, and that somehow they’d find a reason to come out and arrest me.
We had another friend meet us at the house to help with the lifting, and they managed to get my treadmill, my elliptical, the free weights, and all the rest of that heavy equipment loaded up in a few painstaking hours. We set them up in Diana’s garage on the very same day. Diana took a picture as I stepped foot onto that treadmill for the first time in months.
I don’t think I had realized quite how important it was to me before. That treadmill had been my therapist and psychologist. Instead of lying on a couch telling some stranger my innermost thoughts and struggles, I would pound away on the treadmill—and talk to God. For years, that’s where I’d found my peace, where I pushed my body as hard as it could go while I had my private internal conversations.
I was apprehensive as I turned it on. I started real slow. Then I pushed my speed up a little bit. My legs got sore in no time at all, but I didn’t stop. I pushed myself, faster and faster. I woke the next morning in agonizing pain, but I pushed myself through it and ran again. I prayed to God with every stride I took. I prayed for Ashley. I prayed for Tyler. I prayed for my life. I prayed for Sandra Lamb, and Sherri Wilson, and Kelly McDonald, and even ADA Chris Arnt. I prayed for Joal and Sarah, too. I prayed for them to find peace, to find wisdom, to find truth, and to let go of whatever demons were driving them to make the appalling choices I thought they were making. I prayed for Chloe. I prayed for Brianna, too. I prayed that nothing had happened to those little girls, and I prayed that they’d find the strength to get through the awful pressure that they must be under.
Then, even after all that time, even after all that hurt, I prayed once again for reconciliation with my husband, David.
The running made me hungry, so I ate Diana’s food. The next day I ran on the treadmill some more. Then again the next day. And again. A few days later, I worked up the courage to take a run around Diana’s neighborhood. I let myself feel the September chill in the air, and I noticed the different hues of the sky. I got on the phone and talked to my attorneys, and I talked to Kim Walker, Dee Potter, Tammy, and Shanica Lewis. I talked to P.I. Eric Echols about the interviews we’d conducted and brainstormed about whom we should interview next. I started doing some research again, typing away on my little black laptop deep into the wee hours of the morning.
I began to wrap my head around the fact that I would need to keep working in order to build my defense. I started feeling less than horrible about the case we’d built so far and the fact that I had actually made some progress along the way. I had a solid team of attorneys now. I had more allies in the community than I’d once believed. The more I heard from them, and the more they opened up on the record, the more fishy this whole “investigation” against me became. I realized that I still had lots of questions that I needed to find answers to, and that I was the one who needed to lead the search.
After all, who had more at stake here than I did? Who was going to fight harder for me than me? This fight wasn’t even about me, in the end. This fight was about my children. I needed to rescue them from this horrible ordeal.
I got so fired up one night that I said to Diana, “You know what? I didn’t mess with the wrong families. They messed with the wrong mother’s kids!”
Diana seemed thrilled to see me charged up again.
From that day forward, I ran. I was sure I would continue to collapse now and then. I was sure I would continue to have plenty of down days. In the back of my mind, I also knew that there would be a very long road ahead. This was going to be a marathon longer than anyone could anticipate. I just prayed that every time I got knocked down, I would somehow find the strength to get back up.
And I ran, and I ran, and I ran.
As my strength improved that month, so did my understanding of some of the circumstances that led to the charges against me. We’d managed to set up a series of on-the-record, videotaped interviews with colleagues and friends who all provided valuable information. My P.I., Eric Echols, conducted the interviews with one of my attorneys and a court reporter present—as official as could be. (And as expensive as could be. I often asked myself, How does anybody defend themselves against these sorts of charges if they don’t have these sorts of financial resources?)
Dee Potter, whose kids were still enrolled at Chickamauga, turned out to be full of valuable information. She still saw Kelly and Sandra and everybody who was involved in this on a regular basis. She knew more than I realized. She had also been one of the friends who had heard Sandra spouting off about me at the ball fields.19
Kim Walker was a huge fount of information for us as well. She told us—on the record—that she had been threatened and bullied into forcing her daughter to talk to the detectives about me.20 She helped us to get a handle on when the allegations first seemed to arise, too. They were prompted in part by something her daughter had allegedly written in sidewalk chalk over at Sherri Wilson’s hou
se one day. Something that rubbed both Sherri and Sandra the wrong way. Her little girl supposedly wrote the word “sex.” Apparently those parents got all upset about it, and they wound up grilling Skyler and Brianna about a game they’d allegedly been playing with my daughter, Ashley. They apparently called it the “boyfriend-girlfriend game.” It involved the girls kissing each other on the cheek, and it may or may not have involved some touching. It was very unclear. All I could think was I wished someone had spoken to me about it at the time, because I have no idea if Ashley was really involved in such a game or not.21 I never got the chance to ask her myself.
Kim said the allegations against me built from there, after Sandra spent three days grilling Brianna about whether or not something more had happened—and whether I’d “done something” to her daughter.
Kim also shared that Sandra and Kelly had coached their children on what to say about me before their interviews with the detectives. Both of those mothers tried to insist that Kim “remind” Skyler about what I had supposedly done to her as well. It was shocking, sickening, but incredibly valuable information.22
My attorneys assured me that all of those interviews were very good news.
On September 27, I went along with Eric to a series of interviews we’d set up at a local hotel. We used a hotel so it would be neutral ground for everybody involved. The fact that I got a room at that hotel for the night was a fluke, really. It came included as part of the rental rate for the conference room we were using. I certainly wasn’t going to turn that down. It would allow me a little bit of reprieve from the motor home: a real bed, a real bathroom, and some luxurious bedding.
The interviews flowed smoothly and drew to a close around dinnertime, so Eric and I decided to grab a bite before he headed back to Atlanta. There was a favorite chain restaurant of mine nearby called Bonefish Grill that I hadn’t been to since this all began, so we decided to go there, just the two of us.
As we walked in, I noticed lots of glares thrown our way. I think I know the reason: Eric is African American, and I’m Caucasian. We were in the Deep South. Judgment ensued. I found it almost entertaining. I wondered if the people staring knew who I was. If they knew the charges that have been made against me, would they be more incensed by those accusations or by the fact that I’m standing next to a black man?
My mood was almost light as we sat down. I was determined to benefit from this rare opportunity for a good meal out with some good company.
All that changed seconds before the food arrived. I looked up—and I saw David. My husband, David. He saw me, too. He was walking right toward us. He glanced at Eric, looked at me, and then rolled his eyes and laughed a little bit. He laughed and then kept on walking.
I froze. Eric immediately noticed my mood change. I’d gone from talkative to mute in two seconds flat. He asked me several times what the matter was before I finally responded.
“That was David,” I said. I said it with a gamut of emotions. I didn’t know what emotion I should feel.
“We need to leave,” I said. I stood up and walked out. Eric called a waitress over and boxed up our food as I rushed outside to catch my breath. He drove me back to the hotel. He walked me to my room. I was silent the whole time. So was he. I don’t think he knew what to do. I certainly didn’t know what to do. The flood of emotion was awful. I stared into space as if no person was present in my body.
Eric sat in a chair and I sat cross-legged on the corner of the bed until he finally spoke a few simple words. “Tonya, this will all be okay,” he said—and I lost it.
“How do you know this will all be okay? Can you guarantee me I will not go to prison for something I did not do? My husband just walked by me and laughed. What is funny about this situation? Tell me!” My tirade continued as Eric sat with his index fingers touching one another, covering his mouth. He listened patiently until I finally said, “Just leave, because you don’t care either!”
Silently he rose and walked out the door. He texted me when he left and said he was there if I needed him.
I collapsed onto the bed and sobbed—for the loss I felt, for the humiliation I felt, for my suspicion that David was probably on the phone with Sandra Lamb right at that moment, laughing about how his wife was out to dinner with a “black man.”
I was angry at Eric for not being able to fix it. I felt rejected by David for turning his back on me again and finding some sort of sick humor in my pain. And once again, I saw no conclusion to any of this other than my life being spent behind bars. Each and every time I thought I was as depleted as I could get, something else came along and ripped my heart from my chest.
I lay in that hotel room for hours without a wink of sleep. Finally, at 4:32 A.M., I tore myself out of bed, packed up my things, threw them into my car, and sped back toward the motor home.
As I pulled onto the interstate, four police cars came rushing up behind me. Lights flashing. Sirens blaring.
“What now?!” I screamed as I pulled over into the breakdown lane and dropped my head onto the steering wheel. The sound of the sirens got louder and louder. The screeching, whining, overlapping pitch of them rose higher and higher, assaulting my ears, and then fell away as the cars rushed by me and sped on down the freeway.
I looked up. I sat there for a few minutes, wondering if there would ever be a time for the rest of my life when I would see a police car and not panic. I suppose that was a good thought to have. Maybe there was still a slight glimmer of hope somewhere inside, some small part of me that still believed that not every second of the rest of my life would be spent behind bars.
Chapter 25
As I entered month five of not seeing my children, with absolutely no communication from anyone as to how they were doing either in school or out, I pushed all three of my attorneys to get more deeply involved.
It took us at least two court orders over a two-month period just to get the kids’ new school to release my children’s records. Subpoenas were sent to Laurie Evans, the court-ordered therapist who had been seeing Ashley and Tyler on a regular basis (as well as Chloe and Brianna), demanding her appearance in court for depositions. We brought in experts to make assessments of not only my home but my parents’ home as well, to clear them for visitation and also for taking custody of the children regardless of whether or not I would be able to see them myself. We attempted to get court-ordered evaluations of Joal and Sarah’s home, to ensure that the kids were living in a safe environment. Given the number of times we had to go back to court to accomplish anything, it seemed to me that we were facing obvious stalling tactics from the other side.
Laurie Evans, the kids’ therapist, the one person who perhaps more than anyone should have been working “in the best interest of the children,” was in my view about as bad as it gets. On the day of her first scheduled deposition, she faxed my attorneys and demanded an up-front fee of hundreds of dollars for her time before she would appear. I had them send her a check. I didn’t want any excuse for her not to show up. She cashed the check, and we set a new date, and then next time around she pulled the same thing, sending a fax again and demanding more money.
I had Eric try to unearth some background information on that woman as fast as he could. Something wasn’t right. All of a sudden, I wondered what this woman had to hide. Who is she? Is she even qualified to be dealing with my children?
On top of it all, we knew that the grand jury was convening in Catoosa County and that any day now an indictment could come down. Under normal circumstances, that wouldn’t have been a big deal. My attorneys all told me that because I had already been arrested and had already been released on bond, “You will not get rearrested when those indictments are issued.”
I told my attorneys that was hogwash.
“Believe me, if they have the chance to arrest me and put me through a perp walk for any reason whatsoever, they’re going to do it,” I said.
Cary and Scott both insisted that wasn’t true. “Look, even if there was a new
charge against you at this point, what normally happens is there’s a phone call made to the DA’s office, the new charge is tacked on to the other charges, an adjustment is made on the bond if necessary, and it’s all handled with a phone call to the judge,” Cary said.
“No, you look,” I said. “There is nothing normal about my case. If you think an indictment’s coming down, you need to tell me so we can deal with it on our terms, not theirs. There is no way I’m going to let them throw me in handcuffs in some public place and parade me around on the news.”
“Tonya, that is not going to happen. Don’t be so paranoid,” Scott said.
I shot him a look that might’ve knocked a weaker man over.
No indictment would come down that fall, or even that winter. I would be forced to wait, never knowing when that boulder would drop off the cliff and land on top of me.
I don’t know if I would have made it without my City Church family, and specifically Pastor Chapman.
When I first started living in Diana’s driveway, I’d refused to go to church. I was scared to go anywhere because of the “indirect contact” order on my bond. I was scared to death that I’d walk into that church and people would jerk their kids away and walk out. I’d said to Diana, “What if that happens?”
Diana and Michael had been going to City Church much longer than I had. They were deacons. It was like a second home to them. Yet they said to me, “Tonya, if that happens, we will get up and walk out with you and never go back again.” Their dedication to me helped convince me to try. And in fact, on the very first day I walked into that church, the opposite of what I feared might happen happened. Everybody was beyond wonderful.
As time went on, my friends and supporters held fund-raisers at that church to help me deal with my legal expenses. Pastor Chapman and his wife attended and wrote me a check out of their own pockets. I’m telling you, that church did what you dream of when you think of the Church and faith and what it’s supposed to be all about. When it came time to put up or shut up, they put up.
