by Tonya Craft
We’d had court dates before where nobody came from the other side, including Joal, despite the fact that the case involved our children. Now all of a sudden when I’m in shackles and handcuffs they all just happen to show up? I was fuming inside.
A man I’d never seen before walked to the front of the courtroom and slammed the little flip-door between us before heading to the prosecutors’ table. Scott leaned over to me and whispered, “That’s Len Gregor. He’s another ADA now assigned to your case.”
Great, I thought. Now I’ve got two ADAs working against me?
When Judge Van Pelt came in and said, “Please be seated,” I took my seat between my attorneys and we went through the motions to get the bond all worked out. The fact was, I’d already been arrested before, we already knew this was going to trial, I already had about as many restrictions as a person could have on them, and I’d been following the judge’s orders to the letter since day one. So it all got worked out pretty quickly. I still wouldn’t get to see Ashley, though. At that point, it felt like a given. A devastating conclusion, but a given one.
The judge slammed his gavel and told everybody to remain seated until I was out of the courtroom. I stood up, and a police officer came and grabbed my arm. I started shuffling out in front of that whole gallery full of people—and I tripped.
That was when I heard a sound that I would never forget for the rest of my life: the sound of Sandra and the others laughing. I swear I heard a familiar laugh among them, too: the laugh of the father of my children. Not just snickering but hee-haw laughing. At me. It was loud, and a whole group of their friends and family around them joined in. The judge didn’t throw his gavel down to stop it. It went on and on.
Those shackles made it feel like someone was using a meat slicer on my ankles and both of my Achilles tendons, yet I regained my footing as best I could and headed toward the elevator, humiliated. Even though I’d been bonded out, they still had to take me back to the jail in handcuffs and shackles and put me through a whole official dismissal process before I’d be allowed to leave the jail.
That meant something I didn’t see coming. Even though the officers had been with me the whole time, protocol said they had to strip-search me again. So that was what they did. I went back into that room. I stripped down naked as the day I was born, put the soles of my feet on that icy concrete, bent myself over, and went through the process a second time.
I cried just as hard as I had the first time.
I thought about the charge of “digital penetration” that had been made against me. I had yet to face a jury of my peers. I had yet to have my case heard. I had done absolutely nothing. And yet there I stood, receiving a grotesque and humiliating eye-for-eye punishment for the very crime I did not commit. Twice.
In the days and months ahead, some people would ask me, “Well, why don’t you let this go? Why don’t you just pretend like it didn’t happen?”
You know what I feel like telling them? You go through that and try to pretend like it didn’t happen. Just try. Being violated? Being treated like an animal? A person does not forget that. Ever.
David picked me up in front of the jail. I hadn’t eaten in more than twenty-four hours. I was exhausted but so famished that I couldn’t make it all the way home. So we stopped at Karl’s, a little Southern-style restaurant on the way back to Soddy Daisy.
David and I didn’t talk much initially. He could see how exhausted I was. He could tell how distant I was, so he didn’t push it. In fact, the only thing that really got me talking was the memory of Sandra and those others laughing in that courtroom.
“There’s nothing funny about it,” I remember saying. “If that were me in that courtroom, looking at somebody who I thought molested my child, I would not be laughing no matter what happened. I’d be glaring. But to them? It was just funny to see me in shackles and handcuffs.”
David was smart enough to keep quiet and just let me vent. I get crabby when I’m hungry anyway, so my physical condition only exacerbated my rage. I ordered some meatloaf and mashed potatoes with a side of macaroni and cheese. I cleaned my plate before we headed back up to the house.
That night, all I could think about was the cell they’d locked me in. I thought about going to prison, and it felt like planning my own funeral. How do you prepare to be buried alive? In a cell? To live in that awful space for the rest of your life? I didn’t know how to prepare for that.
The next day, David was rubbing my legs on the couch and he stopped and asked, “What is that?”
I looked down and saw what he was talking about: There were scabs starting to form on my ankles where the shackles had rubbed me raw and cut into my skin. I shook my head and tried to hold back the tears.
They’d finally managed to scar me on the outside, too.
Chapter 32
In total, the DA’s office charged me with twenty-two counts of child molestation, aggravated child molestation, and aggravated sexual battery. My lawyers said that if I were to be convicted on all counts, I’d be looking at a minimum of 400 years in prison.
I knew I was up against something awful, but there is nothing quite like sitting down and reading twenty-two counts of horrendous crimes with your name on them.
Each count of the indictment started by saying the grand jury “in the name and behalf of the citizens of Georgia, charge and accuse Tonya Craft, AKA: Tonya Henke …”
Each count listed a date range during which the supposed “offense” took place. Not one of them had a specific date attached to it.
And each of those counts said I “did commit an immoral and indecent act” to “a child under the age of 16 years.”
I did my best to stop my hands from trembling as I read the first page.
The first count said that I “penetrated the vagina” of Brianna Lamb sometime between August 2005 and the 30th day of June, 2006, “the exact date of the offense being unknown to the Grand Jury.”
The second count said I did the very same thing to Ashley, my daughter, sometime between the 17th day of January, 2002, and the 30th of June, 2006. The 17th of January, 2002, is the day that Ashley was born! (Her name is blocked out in this particular copy, which was put out through local media at the time of my arraignment.)
The third count was about Chloe. It accused me of “touching” her vagina.
Counts four and five were both about Brianna. The fourth one was written exactly like the previous charge about Chloe, saying I’d “touched” her vagina, which was apparently different from “penetrating” her vagina in the first count because each of these counts had a disclaimer near the bottom saying that it was not the same act described in any other count. It seemed confusing to me, that touching and penetrating were two separate acts, but the confusion was nothing compared to the nausea I felt as I read them. Count five said that I, Tonya Craft, “did intentionally penetrate the anus of Brianna Lamb with her finger, a foreign object, without the consent of said victim.”
Count six said that I used my finger to “penetrate the sexual organ” of my daughter, Ashley, during the same date range listed in the second count—basically the whole first four years of her life. And the counts went on and on. The date ranges made no sense. Not one of the counts listed where any of the alleged incidents took place.
The nausea nearly overtook me. Chloe. Brianna. Ashley. Chloe. Brianna. Brianna. Brianna. Over and over and over.
Unless we could get some of those indictments dropped before a trial took place, a jury of twelve people would have to agree to find me “not guilty” on all twenty-two separate charges in order for me to walk out of that courtroom and back into whatever was left of my life. This wasn’t one fight. This wasn’t even the three fights against the charges of the three girls. My fight for the truth would have to prevail twenty-two times in order for me to walk free and get back to Tyler and Ashley.
I’d waited all that time, hoping and praying to finally know what the charges against me might be, but as I sat there rea
ding those pages in Scott and Cary’s office, I wished I’d never seen them at all. The charges made me sick, yet they still didn’t tell me anything about what Brianna or Chloe or my precious Ashley had told those detectives. I guess it was my own naiveté to think that I’d actually learn something from those indictments. All I learned was that I was facing more adversity than I could have possibly imagined and that I would now have to overcome more obstacles than even my worried mind had managed to believe before that point in time.
When I finished reading those indictments, the first thing I did was thank God that I had found Doc. Before my second arrest, I had felt in my heart that I needed him. Now I knew just how badly we needed every shred of his experience and expertise.
I’m pretty sure I was the only one who was happy to have him aboard. When Doc finally flew down the first time to meet the team, he immediately rubbed Cary the wrong way. He rubbed Scott the wrong way. He rubbed Eric the wrong way. It wasn’t long after that we hired a well-respected jury consultant, and Doc rubbed her the wrong way, too. No one could see past his arrogance to see the genius he was and the expertise he brought to the table. “Tonya, he’s awful,” they said. “He’s going to send you right to prison.”
They assumed that the arrogance he showed in our meetings would carry over to the courtroom and that his attitude alone would tick off the jury and lead them to convict. People I trusted and believed in said, “Tonya, this is stupid. You’re screwing up.”
I had to sit there in the middle of this battle with my life on the line and find the strength and conviction to say, “You know what? Doc’s the best, so this is how it’s going to be.” God only knows how I found the resolve to do that when I was under so much pressure.
On top of everything else, in the wake of my arrest, my attorneys were tasked with filing a slew of motions on my behalf in Tennessee.
First of all, we had to file a motion for contempt and/or to compel Joal to submit my children for an unbiased forensic evaluation. We did that in May. The Tennessee court had ordered that exam back in April, and Joal had begun the process but refused to complete it.32 We also had to file a motion to compel the deposition of Joal, because although he had begun it, he refused to finish it. The court had appointed a new therapist to see my children in Tennessee, but I was concerned that therapist was only gathering information from Joal and Sarah at that time.33 She hadn’t contacted me or anyone else I knew to find out about how my children were really doing through all of this. In fact, I showed up at her office, and her office declined my requests to speak to her even though I was paying for her services. So getting Joal and Sarah to complete their depositions and to get Tyler and Ashley in for an unbiased evaluation weighed heavily on my mind.
When I faced my arraignment in Georgia—where I officially pled “not guilty” to all of those charges—the motions we put forth were plentiful. One of the biggest was a “Defendant’s Special Demurrer to Felony Indictment,” contending that the State’s twenty-two counts against me were mostly so vague and repetitious, it was impossible for me to mount a defense. What we said was that the DA’s office was essentially forcing me to guess at what I was defending myself from. We also made a Motion for a Speedy Trial, a Motion for Change of Venue (due to small community size and excessive press coverage), a Motion for Trial by Jury (to ensure that my life wouldn’t be left in the hands of a single judge), a Motion for Discovery (for any statements I may have made while in custody or any scientific reports they might be using against me), a Motion and Brief for Examination of Physical Evidence (if they had any), a Motion to Opt In to Reciprocal Discovery (which meant we would share documents with the DA’s office just as they would share documents with us), a Brady Motion for Information Necessary to Receive a Fair Trial (a technical matter meant to ensure there wouldn’t be any surprises in the courtroom), a Giglio Motion for Information Relating to Promises of Immunity to State Witnesses (since, as we all know from TV and movies, promises of immunity can lead some witnesses to skew their testimony in the prosecution’s favor), and finally a Demand for a List of Witnesses (so we’d know who the ADAs planned to put on the stand, so we could research everything we could about them and be prepared to refute whatever they might say against me).
The motion for a speedy trial was basically a backup plan, so they wouldn’t keep delaying and delaying this to drag it out, but they put my trial on the calendar for September right there at my arraignment. The rest of the motions in Georgia would have to wait until we had a pre-trial motions hearing—and that would take months.
There was some good news that came out of the motions we filed in Tennessee, though. Joal was finally compelled to complete his depositions and to bring Tyler and Ashley to complete their forensic evaluations with a new, unbiased interviewer named Ann Hazzard. I could hardly wait for that process to move forward. I couldn’t wait to see some unbiased reports by an expert who could tell us how the children were really doing—and who I hoped would get to the bottom of what hadn’t happened to Ashley with me and what did happen at Joal’s house.
Chapter 33
In the wake of my second arrest, my friend Diana pushed me to rally some public support for my case. For months she’d been trying to get me to let her put up a website. She even went so far as to register a domain name: TruthForTonya.com. My attorneys (except for Doc) wanted her to hold off because they didn’t want to rock the boat. They were nervous about causing a public ruckus. “You don’t want to do anything to tick off the judge or the DA,” they told me. “You don’t want to make matters worse.”
Allowing my case to exist in isolation seemed to have only made matters worse. So I finally told Diana to go ahead and do it. It was her site. I never ran it. But I was strict about what she could put on that site and what she couldn’t. For instance, she couldn’t name any children, including my own. She couldn’t put up any pictures of my own kids or anyone else’s. She should keep it simple. She should describe the basics of what had gone on and simply ask people to support my desire to seek the truth. Anyone who looked into it could come to their own conclusions. All I wanted was for the public to be made aware of the case and to give my supporters an outlet through which they could reach out to me if they wanted to, without giving out my personal email address or phone number. The site also allowed people to make donations.
Honestly, I didn’t think we’d get any donations. Who in their right mind would donate money to an accused child molester? But I let Diana post a donation link nonetheless.
Oddly enough, there seemed to be a shift in momentum among all of my supporters once the indictment came down and once we had a potential trial set for September. I’m not sure if it became more daunting or what, but it just hit home with a lot of people around me. The whole thing, which had been so real and so devastating to me from day one, became that much more real and horrifying to those who knew me.
It even seemed to affect David in a new way. He came home from work one day and handed me a little stainless-steel cross with the word “truth” neatly cut into it. He had a high-powered water jet at work that could cut through metal, almost like a laser. It was quite the machine, and it was difficult to use. It took time and skill and patience. And for some reason, he’d felt driven to make that Truth Cross for me with his own hands.
It was a flat piece of metal, about three inches tall and not much thicker than a credit card. It was polished and shiny. David said he wanted me to carry it in my pocket as a reminder—to give me something I could hold on to when it seemed like the truth was never going to come out. Almost like one of those “hope stones” you see people carry sometimes, that they rub with their thumb. I could rub my thumb over the word “truth” and feel the power of that word within the shape of the cross.
I showed it to Diana, and she immediately asked if David could make one for her. Tammy wanted one the moment she saw it, too. My parents each wanted one. Their longtime neighbors across the street wanted a couple. Other friends—Jennifer, Co
urtney, everyone—started clamoring for them. David wound up making a whole bunch of these Truth Crosses to give to our family and friends, and they all wound up carrying them wherever they went.
At the same time, we started getting dozens of comments, emails, and donations through the website. People actually opened up their wallets—for me. People whom I’d never even met. It wasn’t a lot of money at first, but every little bit made a huge difference in my life. We set all of that money aside for my case, to be used for travel or unforeseen expenses that might come up.
Finally, Diana asked if we could offer the Truth Crosses on the website, so people could have them as a prayer token. In the coming months, David would make more than a thousand of those little metal reminders, which would be carried by people all over town, all over the region, and all over the country before we were through.
The momentum seemed to carry over into my case directly, too. Eric was having phenomenal success unearthing all sorts of records and facts about some of the key players. We gathered details on the standard operating procedures of DFACS and Four Points and more—all of which seemed to have been flaunted, ignored, or overridden during the course of the “investigation” of these charges against me.
Through our digging, we discovered that Brianna, Chloe, and Ashley had all been taken in for medical exams to look for physical evidence of molestation. We discovered the name of the nurse who had performed those exams, a woman named Sharon Anderson who had testified in many abuse cases in the region. We would use that information to request copies of the exams, of course, but Doc was extremely interested in looking into Sharon Anderson’s qualifications and experience as a sexual assault nurse examiner (SANE). It was a shock to me, but Doc said that his research of other cases around the country found many cases of wrongly diagnosed physical examinations for “sexual assault,” just as he had found numerous faulty interviews in which children were coerced (whether purposefully or not) into claiming that they’d been abused. In either case, whether medical or verbal, the examinations were performed by so-called “experts,” who in reality had very little training and very little understanding at all of the area in which they called themselves “experts.”
