by Amy Lloyd
Officer: Can you tell me why you’re certain the date was May 29th?
Bonnie: It was the day after my birthday. I remember because there were still balloons – my friends put up balloons for my party – I remember because of the balloons.fn2
In addition, the defence asked why Bonnie, aged thirty-six, was hosting a seventeen-year-old boy at her house on a Friday evening and why it had taken her over four months to bring this confession to the attention of the police. Within twelve minutes of questioning her account of the supposed confession was dismantled so thoroughly that the defence – and Dennis – felt there could be no way for the prosecution to overcome it.
Similarly, when a cellmate of Dennis’s, Jason Gunner, was called to the stand, the details of his story were quickly torn apart. Jason claimed Dennis confessed that he had killed Holly Michaels by way of manual strangulation, which was confirmed as the cause of death during the post-mortem. However, Jason further described how Dennis had confessed to mutilating the body, carving a pentagram into the flesh to ‘make a deal with the devil so he didn’t get caught’.fn3
This salacious statement did not hold up under questioning, nor did it correlate with the facts of the case – there was no pentagram or any ‘carving’ on Holly’s body.
Dennis was aware of the spectacle of the trial. Each day he entered the court with his head lowered, passing through a crowd of baying reporters all shouting his name, his attorney shielding him from the flashes of their cameras. Once inside the court the spectacle faded and in the quiet, the long stretches where the lawyers spoke quietly with the judge at the front of the room, the recesses, the endless rituals and procedures, Dennis felt a profound boredom. When he wasn’t listening to people tell stories about him that weren’t true, or cringing while his life was put on display and picked apart, he could only think of how desperately he wanted to get out of there. ‘I wasn’t thinking right,’ he says now, ‘I even used to think jail was better than the court because at least there I could read, I could talk to the guys or even do chores. Anything had to be better than court.’fn4
Dennis’s attorney – Charles Clarkson – assured him it would be over soon. Dennis wondered what would happen to him when it was over. On day one he had looked over his shoulder to the faces of those in the gallery, his parents not amongst them. It had been months since he’d spoken to his mother or father, who had all but disowned him as they believed him to be guilty. When this was over, where would he go?
The defence called upon forensic experts, each of whom concluded they could not with any confidence place Dennis at the scene of the crime. As the trial came to its end Clarkson assured Dennis that this was a done deal, he would be out in a matter of weeks. But public perception of Dennis didn’t change, even in the face of such strong evidence of his innocence. Perhaps this should have been a warning for the defence, that in this case an argument of reason and fact would not be enough. They were competing with pure emotion, and there was no reasoning with feelings.
Red River Tribune
June 12th 1993
It has been revealed that just last year Danson’s attorney was responsible for the release of known sex offender Lyle Munday. Mere weeks after his release Munday went on to rape and kill an eleven-year-old girl. The attorney, Charles Clarkson, stated he was not regretful about his part in this tragedy, saying at the time, ‘It’s a tragedy that Lyle went on to take a life, I think of it every day. But he was found not guilty by a jury for a crime he didn’t commit. We can’t imprison people for crimes they have not committed, we can’t speculate that someone may commit a crime in the future and lock them up, this isn’t how the law works.’
In the eyes of the public, Charles Clarkson was a defender of child killers. The people of Red River feared what might happen if the jury were to find Dennis not guilty. Would their own children be in danger?
The defence stayed their course. They asked the jury, could you find Dennis Danson guilty beyond any reasonable doubt? Not whether they liked Dennis, not whether they found him untrustworthy or cold or suspicious. Simply, looking at the evidence presented to them, could they say with absolute certainty that he killed Holly Michaels? ‘I couldn’t,’ Charles Clarkson said. ‘I urge you to think this through, carefully, without any personal bias. The evidence is not there. Dennis could not have killed Holly Michaels.’fn5
The jury deliberated for just six hours. ‘Guilty,’ the foreman said. Some started clapping in the gallery. Dennis felt ‘blindsided’fn6 by the verdict and returned to jail unable to fully comprehend the outcome. Then, the next day, he was taken to the warden’s office. His mother had been found in the garage, her skin duck-egg blue. The car had been running all night. By the time they found her there was nothing they could do. The warden said he was sorry, his voice low, eyes softened in solemnity, and Dennis was taken back to his cell.
The funeral took place without him, his father not willing to sign the papers that would allow him to attend under police supervision. There was no privacy to mourn. Instead, Dennis felt himself go numb. Even at his sentencing he stood only half present, not even sure he cared what would happen any more. He’d learned to tune out the monotonous voices in the court; they became like white noise to him. So when a group started to cheer in the back of the room he snapped to life and looked at his lawyer, his eyes wide with hope. But his lawyer took his shoulder and squeezed, shook his head, no. The judge called for order but a man shouted, ‘Tell us where they are! Only God can judge you now!’fn7
Nine
The money Sam’s grandmother had left her was running low. She’d underestimated how expensive it would be and now she needed to be careful or she wouldn’t be able to afford the flight home. She said it out loud, ‘Home,’ and felt nothing. The house in Bristol was empty and she thought of renting it out, but even that would require a trip back and she wasn’t sure that it was something she could handle. There was no reason for her to go back except the money. And what would she do when she got back there? She’d left her job, her home, her family. Everything that mattered to her was here now.
She checked the mirror. The dress for the bachelorette party Carrie was throwing her looked good but her face was still puffy from crying on the phone to her mother that afternoon. ‘What are you doing?’ her mother had asked, strains of hysteria in her voice. ‘What are you thinking?’
Sam kept trying to tell her about the miscarriage of justice, the gentle man Dennis was, the group of friends she was with who were so happy for her.
‘It’s a fantasy. You can’t possibly know anything about this man,’ her mother said.
‘His name is Dennis,’ Sam said.
‘It doesn’t matter whether he’s innocent or not.’
‘Of course it matters!’
‘He is in prison. They will execute him.’ It hurt, the way her mother said it.
‘No! They won’t! Mum, you have to understand how big this is. This petition has hundreds of thousands of signatures—’
‘Oh, what good will a petition do? Samantha, be realistic. I know you aren’t as stupid as this.’
‘Even if he’s never released, even if … I will still love him. I still want to be his wife.’
‘Why? I don’t understand. Why?’
‘I love him.’
‘What are we supposed to tell people?’
‘Tell them the truth. Everyone else in the world understands what’s going on here.’
‘I’m just … ashamed. I feel so deeply ashamed. If your grandmother were alive to see this—’
Sam hung up, lay in bed and wept until her phone finally buzzed with a message from Carrie, reminding her she’d be there at six. Sam got up and ran the shower too hot, forcing herself to stay under, the spray hitting her back, until it hurt enough to forget. Once ready she sat on the edge of her bed and tried not to sweat her make-up off before she’d actually gone outside.
‘You look hot!’ Carrie told her when she arrived. They went to a nearby chain rest
aurant where balloons tied to bar stools quivered in the air. Road signs, guitars and antlers decorated the walls. The crew clapped as they arrived and each came over to shake her hand or hug her, say their congratulations. Sam took a seat in their booth, sliding next to Patrick, squeezed in further by Carrie. Her cocktail arrived with a sparkler and as it burned down the crew hushed into an organised quiet. Carrie presented her with a ring box. ‘This is from all of us. It’s not big or anything but you know …’
The engagement ring was white gold, a small diamond, delicate and simple. Sam couldn’t look at anyone for fear of crying again but Carrie hugged her. ‘Dennis is like my little brother! And you make him so happy. It’s the least we can do, really.’
‘I can’t—’
‘Oh shut up, you totally fucking can,’ Carrie said, and that was it.
Sam slipped the engagement ring on to her ring finger and posed for a photo at Carrie’s insistence, then more photos with Carrie at Carrie’s insistence, who posted them on the series’ official Twitter page. As she sat down Carrie put a veil and a plastic tiara on her head. The grips tugged her hair and dug into her skull, the warmth of the alcohol and the sugary fruit-punch was giving her a buzz and she felt present, alive.
They’d had an argument a few days ago, Carrie and Sam, a small one. Sam was talking about Lindsay. Perhaps she had been talking too much but Carrie had groaned, loud, interrupting her.
‘Oh my God, girl, you need to stop. Seriously. It must be so stressful inside your head.’
‘Actually, yeah, it is,’ Sam said. ‘If you wanted me to stop you could’ve just said. You didn’t need to be so … about it.’
‘I’ve tried to change the subject about a thousand times. It keeps coming back to Lindsay. Like, who cares? Dennis doesn’t even care. He forgot she even visited until you brought it up. He has no one most of the year. You want to stop her visiting just because it makes you feel shitty? Dennis won’t say it but I will: it’s pretty fucking selfish, Sam, and borderline crazy. Dennis loves you, I love you, so please, for the love of God, let it go.’
‘I get it, but—’
‘No, uh-uh, just let it go.’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘It really is.’
‘Fine.’
‘Thank you.’
It left her embarrassed, tingling from shock, unsure whether Carrie and Dennis shared secret conversations about her. What else had they said?
They ordered food; platters of nachos and wings to share, huge racks of ribs and burgers.
‘By this time tomorrow, I will be Mrs Dennis Danson!’ Sam said, draining her cocktail. The crew cheered. She had the wedding dress – brightly coloured, modest, a flattering wrap around her waist and the three-quarter-length sleeves the prison dress code demanded – and the legal team helped with the paperwork. It wasn’t the wedding she might have dreamed of, she admitted, but then she’d never cared much for weddings. The group around her were easy with their joy, which helped quell the rise of doubt that swelled in her every now and then. Dread like rising floodwater, cold and insidious.
The music was loud and everyone in the restaurant was shouting to be heard over the music, a child threw a tantrum and a group of waiters gathered to sing a birthday song to an embarrassed-looking teenage girl, her mouth twisted in a half-smile. Patrick was telling everyone about a documentary he’d filmed in Iraq when Jackson Anderson appeared and stood at the end of the table. Surprised, everybody stopped to greet him. He leaned in and gave Sam an awkward hug. ‘I heard about your engagement, congratulations!’ She thanked him and scooted over to offer him a seat but he stayed standing, his hands in his pockets, ‘I just thought I’d drop by and introduce myself before we film tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Sam slid her tiara off her head and put it on the seat.
‘We’re filming the wedding. We spoke to Dennis about it, and we agreed it was best for the story we’re telling, to show the other side of Dennis, because without your relationship he just comes across as … kind of one-dimensional. You know?’
All of a sudden Sam felt sick, her stomach swirling with booze and fried food and fear. Instantly the dress she planned to wear seemed dowdy, her skin cratered and blotchy, waist thick and lumpy.
Behind him two smiling waiters held a chocolate cake lit up with sparklers and a candle in the shape of a bride and groom. Sam blew out the candle as Jackson swung a chair around, adjusting the cap on his head.
Sam had seen Jackson before, when he was interviewed on BBC News in a beige room with drawn curtains. His adaptations of a young adult dystopian trilogy had grossed hundreds of millions. Yet it was obvious he wanted to be taken more seriously: the way he carried himself, answering questions about the films with pretentious statements. She hadn’t liked him then and she didn’t like him now as he straddled the chair, his cap low even indoors. ‘He thinks he’s Ron fucking Howard,’ Carrie had said once.
‘So anyway, we’ll be filming – since you need witnesses anyway – and then we’ll leave you be for the rest of the visit. I think you get an hour? That’s pretty good, yeah?’
‘I don’t know. Isn’t it, um, kind of personal?’ Sam looked to the others for support but they were all gazing elsewhere, twirling cocktail umbrellas and twanging tiny plastic swords, sticky from maraschino cherries.
‘You are … OK with that … right?’ Jackson asked.
‘Yeah, I’m just surprised,’ Sam said. ‘I thought I’d have to sign something.’
‘No need, it’s all sorted out, so I’ll see you all tomorrow, bright and early. Carrie, loving the cuts you sent. Keep it up.’ He swung the chair back to the empty table next door and left. The group let out a synchronised breath.
‘It’s like all our dads just showed up trying to be cool in front of our friends,’ Carrie said and the group laughed in relief. But as they cut the cake, Sam’s buzz was subsiding to tiredness and she wondered how to excuse herself, wanting to be alone.
The next morning Sam lay waiting for her alarm to go off. Her dress hung on the back of the door, the tags dangling at its side. She’d stayed out too late and drunk more than she’d meant to. Throughout the night she’d run to the bathroom and emptied her stomach until it was just the water she forced down her throat that came back up, fibrous and warm. The grease from the food still seemed to be clinging to her skin.
She brushed her teeth too hard and spat blood, scraped her hair into a ponytail and wound it into a tight bun, stabbing hairpins deep and hurting her scalp. Her skin was grey and her eyes looked watery and tired. The dress that had felt so good the week before seemed frumpy and clingy, but she ripped the tag off, threw it in the bin and decided she would only look at herself today if absolutely necessary. On her way out she bought a bottle of Dr Pepper from the machine so bubbly it burned her tongue, and waited for Carrie in the shade of an awning in the parking lot.
When they arrived in the visiting room they were greeted by the crew, headed by Jackson, along with a court official who was there to perform the ceremony.
‘Here comes the bride!’ Carrie said.
‘Nervous?’ Patrick looked as pale as she did.
‘Excited?’ Jackson said, peering through a camera.
‘I’m OK, I’m fine. Where’s Dennis? Is he …’
‘Five minutes,’ said one guard. ‘My daughter loves your movies, she’s gonna be so jealous when she hears about this!’
‘Well, leave your details with Carrie there and we’ll get something sent out to your daughter,’ Jackson told him.
Carrie nodded and waved, turned to Sam and mouthed, Dick, flicking her eyes in Jackson’s direction.
Sam felt a familiar sensation, like something pulling away from her body, as if she wanted to run. Instead she breathed deep, fixed herself to the ground. Cold feet, she told herself; everyone gets cold feet.
They heard Dennis before they saw him: the chains, the squeak of a heavy metal door like some kind of B-movie monster. He was in his whites an
d he’d had his head close-shaved, which made her want to reach and touch the short hair that glittered under the light. But they would be separated, as always, by the plastic. No exceptions, not even on their wedding day.
As they both sat down at the divide Sam looked at his arms, new contours that hadn’t been there before, the way his stomach seemed to stay flat even as he leaned in. ‘Have you lost weight?’ she asked, pulling her dress down over the roll on her own stomach.
‘Yes,’ he said, pleased she’d noticed, ‘I’ve been working out, since you got here. I didn’t realise how bad it had gotten.’
‘You look … great. You do.’
‘Thanks.’ He glanced down and twisted his arm to look at the muscle. ‘You look different too. Are you tired?’
‘Um … Yeah, we had a bachelorette thing last night. I kind of drank a bit.’ Sam looked away from him, face on fire.
‘O-kay.’ Jackson clapped his hands and rubbed them. ‘We ready?’
‘Hey,’ Dennis said, ‘sorry. You look beautiful.’
She raised her head and saw him pressing his finger to the plastic; she smiled and did the same.
As neither were religious, they had decided on a civil ceremony. A justice of the peace, a man in a beige suit with a blue tie, read from a plastic ring binder, the spine of which creaked as he turned pages and shifted on his feet. The room felt unbearably stuffy and sweat collected in Sam’s cleavage. As the official spoke, she and Dennis looked at one another. She said her vows, listened while he said his, looked into his face and wondered what he was thinking, whether he felt as weird as she did, repeating those words that didn’t suit her lips, that hung wooden in the air. She wished they’d written their own vows, so she could tell him she would be there whether he was ever released or not, that she would fight for him until all was lost, that she loved him so much it hurt her bones.
They could not kiss. Prison rules dictated they must stay on opposite sides of the divide, no exceptions. The crew hugged Sam and gave Dennis their congratulations before excusing themselves.
