by Tonya Craft
You’re my baby girl
You’re the one that God
created
No one in this world
could ever be like you
Guess what?
… I love you
The more I learned about how the charges against me got started, the more my original gut instincts seemed to bear themselves out. The phone records, the interviews with Kim Walker and Dee Potter, the work of my private investigator, Eric Echols—everything pointed me and my attorneys to some sort of something that started with Sandra Lamb and Sherri Wilson and spiraled over to Kelly McDonald and Joal and Sarah, coupled with a system that began by treating me as guilty from the start.
Yet every once in a while I would step back and ask myself, “Why does any of that matter?”
I’d argue with my attorneys about it: “Once three little girls—including my own daughter—get up there and testify that I’ve molested them in who knows what kind of horrible ways, why would a jury care about whether or not the parents of those kids despised me? Or whether the lead investigator happened to be close personal friends with Sandra Lamb? Or whether Skyler said nothing happened to her? Who cares? The only thing that’s gonna matter is that those three girls said I did something, right?”
Scott and Cary would both hem and haw over it. They said we would show the court my history and my character. Evidence and witnesses would show how this had all been some sort of planned agenda and would raise enough doubt in jurors’ minds to set me free.
I tried to put myself in a juror’s shoes, and quite frankly, I doubted whether I’d have listened to any of those arguments. How on earth could I disprove a negative? How in the world were we going to convince a jury that these girls were mistaken—or worse, that these innocent children had been manipulated into saying things that weren’t true? Who was gonna believe that? I didn’t think I would’ve believed it before all this started, and as a teacher, I was well aware of the stories that kids could spin out of the blue with no prompting at all. Kids made stuff up all the time. They would fill in details and craft whole elaborate stories about things that never even happened. But a jury wasn’t going to take my word for it. I could imagine convincing a jury that one kid told a wild story just to get some attention, or because her daddy told her to do it, or because she’d been caught in a lie about something else, or for just no reason at all. But how were we going to convince anybody that three kids were all making up stories about the same alleged child molester? Namely me?
Despite all of their hard work and through no fault of their own, it became apparent to me that Cary and Scott did not have answers to all of those questions. They weren’t experts in child behavior. They certainly weren’t experts in the factors that lead up to false allegations of sexual abuse. They assured me that they would find experts to come in and testify when we went to trial, but I started to think that we needed an expert to come and help us prepare for what we might face at trial—now. More than that, I truly believed that if I was going to prove my innocence, I needed to find the best expert—the most knowledgeable, well-researched, well-educated person I could find in the whole country to explain to us, and eventually a jury, how on earth three children could accuse me of something I didn’t do.
Once again, I dug deep into my little black laptop. I threw myself into the world of false-accusation cases I found on the Internet. I pulled up media reports on attorneys and academics who had expertise in this area, and I found one guy in California who seemed to be just what I was looking for. I called him—only to find that his phone had been disconnected. What if the person I’m looking for doesn’t exist? I panicked.
I dug a little deeper and started watching some videos from actual trials. I managed to find one man who had testified passionately and expertly about research having to do with false allegations. He had an unusual name: Demosthenes Lorandos. I hadn’t the slightest clue how to pronounce it, but he was definitely a top expert in this very specialized field. Maybe the top expert. I read as much as I could find about him and learned that he was a child psychologist with a PhD. Finally, I watched some of his testimony in a child molestation case. I could tell just by watching and listening to him that he knew what he was talking about. He spoke so clearly. He made perfect sense. He explained to the jury in that case exactly how a child could be misled into answering questions in a false manner. He made it seem easy to understand. He started to make me understand how something like this could happen, just from that one instance of testifying.
I need him on my team. I absolutely knew it.
I tried calling him. I left messages. He never responded. I found an email address for him. I emailed. No response. I prayed some more, and that was when I knew that I needed to go see him in person. There was no way a phone call from me was going to get through to a man of his stature and prominence, so I decided to go knock on his door.
Chapter 30
“Pack your bags. We’re going to Michigan.”
My mother thought I was crazy. David thought I was crazy. Everyone thought I was nuts to go traipsing off to some far-off state in search of an “expert” who wouldn’t return my calls. Nonetheless, my mother agreed to drive me up to Ann Arbor in April 2009.
I piled my binders and flash drives full of information into her gold Expedition, along with a change of clothes or two, and together we made the nearly ten-hour trek to the office of Demosthenes Lorandos. We arrived at our hotel late at night, and I woke up extra early in the morning so I could spend some time on the treadmill at the hotel gym. I reflected on everything that had led me to make that journey and prayed to God that I was doing the right thing as my feet thudded along that whirring belt at a thunderous nine miles per hour that morning. I hopped off completely exhilarated. I showered, I put on my best professional-looking business attire, gathered up my documentation, and off we went.
Ann Arbor is a quaint little college town, and the downtown area is filled with adorable two-story buildings with mom-and-pop shops on the street level. I had a hard time finding the office at first. There seemed to be a number missing as I walked down the sidewalk—and then I saw it. It was just an odd door with a tiny number way up at the top, which led directly to a set of stairs that led up to a humble, yet impeccable reception area on the second floor.
“May I help you?” a kind gentleman inquired from behind a desk.
“Hi, my name’s Tonya Craft, and I’ve traveled all the way from Chattanooga, Tennessee, in order to meet with Dr. Lorandos.” (I’m positive I mispronounced his name.)
“Do you have an appointment?” the man asked.
“No, I don’t. But if he’d be willing to give me even five minutes of his time, I know he’ll want to take a look at my case. I’m fighting for my life and for the lives of my children,” I said.
“Well, he doesn’t see anyone without an appointment. We can try to set something up and have you come back—”
“I understand. I’ve been trying to call, and I’ve emailed, too, and I came all this way just to see him because I know he’s the best of the best at what he does. So if you could just tell him that I’m here and that I really would appreciate just five minutes of his time, I’d be ever so grateful.”
I don’t think he knew what to make of me, especially with my Southern accent.
“Hold on one second,” he said, and he placed a call to his office manager. He showed us to a waiting area and after a few minutes, a female staff member made my acquaintance. It was a crisp, sunny day in Michigan, and she asked if we could go downstairs, grab a cup of coffee, and maybe sit outside somewhere to talk. So we did. I gave her the basic rundown on my case, showed her some of the paperwork in my tabbed binders, and told her that everything was cross-referenced with the materials on the flash drive I’d brought. She seemed impressed. I also told her that it was my intention to stay in town until I could have a few minutes of her superior’s time.
That’s when I held up the silver pendant I’d put on es
pecially for this occasion. On it were etched two tiny pictures: one of Tyler and one of Ashley. “I am here because I am fighting for my life, as well as the lives of my two children,” I told her.
She explained to me that Dr. Lorandos wasn’t in the office that day and that he might not be in the office the next day, either. But she said she would talk to him, and she promised to call us. So my mom and I went to lunch and then back to the hotel.
Finally, the phone rang, and the office manager said we could come see Dr. Lorandos the next day.
“Thank you,” I said. “Oh, and by the way, how do I pronounce his first name?”
“Just call him Doc,” she said. “That’s what everybody calls him.”
Doc turned out to be much more than I’d anticipated. This lanky, balding man with a gray mustache and professorial looks wasn’t just a PhD psychologist. He was an attorney. He devoured the pages of my binder and sifted through my computer files, astounded at what I’d put together—and not shocked in the least by any of our thoughts about an agenda-ridden group of individuals, or small-town hysteria, or whatever it was that drove my case forward.
“It happens all the time,” Doc said. “Some prosecutors charge ahead based on nothing but some parents’ allegation, usually pushing the children through faulty interviews to make all kinds of false statements just to back up their claim. The interviewers badger the kids and ask leading questions and don’t take no for an answer, until the kids tell the investigators what they think the investigators want to hear. They’re children. They want to please whatever authority figure’s in front of them.”
We spent hours in that office.
“You’re smack dab in the middle of the Bible Belt down there, aren’t you?” he asked.
Of course we were. You could throw a rock in any direction from any point in Chickamauga and hit a fundamentalist church.
“And the parents of the accusers, the ones other than your daughter, are wealthy? Or influential?”
Some of them were, I told him.
“Look, you need me as much more than an ‘expert’ or advisor. There are three girls that are going to get on a witness stand and say you molested them. Three! I’m a trial lawyer, and the best trial lawyer around when it comes to these sorts of cases. You need to hire me as your attorney.”
I knew from the research I’d done that Doc’s arrogance was warranted. He talked a good game, sure, but he actually knew what he was talking about. I liked the sense of confidence he had. It made me feel secure. And I had a feeling he’d be able to portray all of that confidence to a jury—since, hopefully, a jury would be made up of people like me. (That’s the way it’s supposed to work, right?)
I reminded Doc that I already had two attorneys in Georgia, plus another in Tennessee, and that I didn’t have any intention of replacing them.
“That’s fine. From what you’re telling me and what you’ve shown me, they seem like very competent individuals,” he said. “But what I’m telling you is that you can’t win this case without me.”
Based on everything I knew, including the gut instinct I felt as I sat there face-to-face with the man, I believed he was telling me the truth. His child-psychology expertise, his depth of experience with alleged sexual abuse cases, and his legal capabilities combined into a presence that seemed powerful to me.
In fact, I knew as I sat there that Doc wasn’t just going to be an “addition” to my team—Doc was going to become my lead attorney.
I felt bad that Scott and Cary would have to step down a notch, but at the end of the day, this was a war I was waging. I was the captain at the helm of a battleship, and I was the only one who would go down with the ship if we didn’t win this war by proving my innocence. All the rest of them would have the sanctuary of a lifeboat. They would be able to go on with their lives. I wouldn’t. I needed to assert my power and save my own ship.
Mom and I made the long trek back home and started working to get the money together to put Doc on retainer. It occurred to us that we could potentially put up some sort of collateral for my bond and get the court to return the $50,000 cash payment that my parents had made on the day I was first arrested.
My friend Courtney, whom I basically grew up with, caught wind of this and mentioned it to her mother, Frances Woodard, who had known me ever since I was a little girl. Without hesitation, Frances offered to put her house up as the collateral on my bond. Her house!
It took us a few days to get all the paperwork together. When my parents first went to the Catoosa County Courthouse to ask for their $50,000 back, one of the clerks looked in the ledger and told them, “I’m sorry, we don’t have any record of a $50,000 payment coming in.”
My mother was so angry it was all she could do to keep from swearing up a storm at that clerk. Luckily my mom liked to organize things, as I did. She drove all the way home, knew right where to find her receipt, and went marching right back into that courthouse.
“Oh …” the clerk said when she saw it. I swear, if my mother hadn’t kept that receipt, that money might have conveniently disappeared. That’s just my personal feeling on the matter. I didn’t trust any of them anymore.
It was early May before we put that money together, but we did it.
David was astonished at how driven I was. He was floored that I got into Doc’s office, got him to listen, and got him to agree to represent me. Part of the reason for all of that, I told him, was because of the documentation I had brought with me. The obsessive amount of work I’d been doing on my case had paid off. My successful meeting with Doc made me all the more determined.
“I need two more bookcases,” I told David, and two bookcases showed up the next day. From that point forward, David complied with just about every request I made, no questions asked.
Of course, at home was just about the only place I was getting that result. On May 7, we would be heading back to court once again to try to get a bond modification to allow me to see Ashley. We’d also petitioned Joal via the court in Tennessee to allow me to see Tyler on Mother’s Day, that Sunday, May 10. I didn’t expect any of it to be as simple as asking and receiving. And yet, I was hopeful in that moment. My Mother’s Day in 2008 had been spent without my husband. This year would most likely be spent without my daughter. But the thought of being with Tyler, however distant he still seemed, gave me hope.
After all, we’d made good progress in Tennessee. I’d been seeing Tyler occasionally and without incident for three full months. We had Laurie Evans’s “non-credible” ruling to argue in front of the judge. I thought our chances of finally getting access to Ashley were better than they’d ever been, and my attorneys agreed.
As my mom took the wheel and drove toward Atlanta for a final pre-hearing meeting at Scott and Cary’s office on May 6, the only immediate dread I felt was over the impending discussion of bringing Doc on as lead attorney. I hadn’t officially hired Doc yet. We were getting ready to send the money. But as I sat there with my cell phone in hand, staring out the window, feeling lulled half to sleep by the road noise and the blur of the trees going by, I worried that Scott and Cary might feel blindsided by my decision.
That was when my cell phone buzzed. It was David calling. I got a very, very bad feeling.
Chapter 31
“Tonya,” David said. “Where are you?”
“About halfway to Atlanta. Why?”
“There’s a warrant out for your arrest.”
“What?!” I screamed.
It’s a miracle my poor mother didn’t get into an accident. She kept looking over, trying to understand what was happening. I couldn’t take a break to tell her as I tried to listen over the road noise.
The police were at our home. They’d rung our doorbell. They’d looked in our windows. David’s brother, who lived right next door, saw them and went to inquire what they were up to. The police called David at work. They accused me of hiding from them.
“I’m not hiding!” I said.
“I know. I t
old them that you were at a meeting with your attorneys in Atlanta. I told ’em you weren’t hiding at all.”
I started squalling. “Let me call Scott,” I said.
I told my mom what was going on as I dialed, and her face fell so hard I thought she was going to sink right through her seat.
“Scott!” I yelled the moment he picked up. “There are police at my house saying they have a warrant for my arrest. What is going on?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the car with my mother, about halfway down to see you.”
“Okay. Pull over somewhere. I’ll call you right back.”
I told my mother to pull off at the next exit and finally told her every bit of what David had told me. I ducked down in my seat and kept looking up at every car that went by, worried it was a cop coming to get me. I was shaking by the time that phone rang again.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Scott said. “The indictment came down, and they have another charge. A new charge. It’s from Brianna. You shouldn’t get arrested for this, but they’re going to arrest you. We need to turn you in.”
“I told you, Scott. I told you they were gonna do this.”
“You did. I know,” he said. Then he sighed. “It gets worse.”
My skin went cold.
“The parents want you to be put in jail for twenty-four hours, so they’re going to hold you there for twenty-four hours before the bond hearing,” he said.
“Can they do that?”
“Unfortunately, they can.”
“How can a person just have someone thrown in jail for twenty-four hours?”
“Because as the parents of a minor who’s a supposed victim of sexual abuse, they’re allowed to ask for the alleged perpetrator to be jailed for twenty-four hours, ‘for the child’s protection.’ They could have asked for this the first time you were arrested, but they probably didn’t know the law.”
