I added a copy of the letter Brock Turner sent to the Judge down below. Brock Turner basically blames his behavior on drinking and promiscuous college partying culture.
|Brock Allen Turner Brock Turner Daniel A Turner Daniel Allen Turner Dan A Turner|
06/09/2016: Official prisoner registry information was just updated to show he will be released September 2, 2016. I've found in high profile cases they generally sneak them out a day or two before hand in the middle of the night to avoid media.
Offender Name: TURNER, BROCK A
Custody Status: In Custody
Location: Santa Clara County Sheriff's Office
Contact Facility: Santa Clara County Sheriff's Office
Request a Registration for Notification of Status Changes
Offender ID/CDCR: EDE393
Date of Birth: 08/01/1995
Scheduled Release Date: 09/02/2016
|Brock Turner, Brock Allen Turner, convicted felon sexual assault Stanford California|
|Brock Turner, Brock Allen Turner, convicted felon sexual assault Stanford California|
06/08/16: Brock Turner is being held in a protected part of the Santa Clara County jail away from the general population. He's being held with prisoners convicted of sexual assault, LGBT and gang dropouts. These offenders are generally targeted in prison for assault. There will be extra security when he moves about the prison.
06/07/16 Brock Turner's father Dan A Turner is an engineer and worked for the air force. He graduated from Bellbrook High School in Ohio 1980. His nickname was "Mooner." I assume this means he mooned people a lot. He received an award for "Best defense" in football. He and his sister went to the same high school and college.
|Dan Turner, Brock Turner,, mooner, convicted, felon, sex offender, ohio|
|Dan Turner, Brock Turner, , mooner, convicted, felon, sex offender, ohio|
Information about Judge Aaron Persky from past election. I do believe he may have been persuaded by the fact that Judge Persky was an athlete at Stanford. From his bio "I focus on the prosecution of sexually violent predators, working to keep the most dangerous sex offenders in custody in mental hospitals." He also worked for the Battered Women organization.
Brock Allen Turner was born August 1, 1985 in Dayton, Ohio. His father is Daniel Allen Turner born apx 1962 in Ohio. His mother is Carleen M. Bradfield Turner born November 1, 1961. Brock Turner's paternal grandfather is Robert A Turner 1924 - 2005. He has an older brother Brent Turner 1991 and older sister Caroline. Brent is also a swimmer and looks exactly like Brock Turner.
|Daniel A Turner, Brock Turner, convicted , sexual predator, sentence|
|Brock Turner, Carleen M Turner, convicted , California, sentence|
Brock Allen Turner Felony complaint DA NO: 150102055, CEN 15002487, Bat Bail 02/02/2015.
"On January 18, 2015 in Santa Clara County, California, the crime of "rape by an intoxicating, anesthetic or controlled substance," in violation of penal code section 261(a)(3), a felony, was committed by Brock Allen Turner who did accomplish an act of sexual intercourse with Jane Doe, a person not the spouse of the defendant, where the person was prevented from resisting by an intoxicating and anesthetic substance, and a controlled substance, and this condition was known, and reasonably should have been known by the defendant."
"On January 18, 2015 in Santa Clara County, California, the crime of "rape of a victim unconscious of the nature of the act, in violation of penal code section 261(a)(4), a felony, was committed by Brock Allen Turner who did accomplish an act of sexual intercourse with Jane Doe, a person not the spouse of the defendant, where the person was prevented from resisting by an intoxicating and anesthetic substance, and a controlled substance, and this condition was known, and reasonably should have been known by the defendant."
"On January 18, 2015 in Santa Clara County, California, the crime of assault with intent to commit felony, in violation of penal code section 220(1)(1), a felony, was committed by Brock Allen Turner who did accomplish an act of sexual intercourse with Jane Doe, a person not the spouse of the defendant, where the person was prevented from resisting by an intoxicating and anesthetic substance, and a controlled substance, and this condition was known, and reasonably should have been known by the defendant."
"On January 18, 2015 in Santa Clara County, California, the crime of sexual penetration when the victim was intoxicated or anesthetized in violation of penal code section 289(e), a felony was committed by Brock Allen Turner who did accomplish an act of sexual intercourse with Jane Doe, a person not the spouse of the defendant, where the person was prevented from resisting by an intoxicating and anesthetic substance, and a controlled substance, and this condition was known, and reasonably should have been known by the defendant."
"On January 18, 2015 in Santa Clara County, California, the crie of sexual penetration where the victim was unconscious of the nature of the act, in violation of penal code section 289(d), a felony, was committed by Brock Allen Turner who did accomplish an act of sexual intercourse with Jane Doe, a person not the spouse of the defendant, where the person was prevented from resisting by an intoxicating and anesthetic substance, and a controlled substance, and this condition was known, and reasonably should have been known by the defendant."
Two men who saved the woman were Peter Lars Jonsson, Carl-Fredrik Arndt. Two others named Sinclair and Barnett helped them. The woman's body was found next to Kappa Alpha at 664 Lomita Ct, on the Stanford campus. As per the police report attached to the complaint below the suspect admitted to "penetrating the victim's vagina with his fingers while she was unconscious."
Per the police report the suspect is Brock Allen Turner white, male born August 1, 1995, 6'3" 165 lbs, blonde hair, blue eyes. He was an undergraduate student at Stanford University. He lived at Lagunita Court, Eucalipto dormitory.
The police report is pretty graphic in nature. The predator had an erection while he was being detained by the two men when the police went to cuff him! he two men found him on top of the woman "thrusting," Brock Turner got up and ran away. Brock Turner obviously lied about what happened to the police per this report.
Here is a copy of the initial criminal complaint against Brock Turner.
Here is the press release from the Santa Clara District Attorney office.
Mother Carleen M Turner was a nurse.
His father stated that his son's jail sentence was "a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action". This is a letter to the Judge in the case. The full letter is down below.
She was on Facebook
|Carleen Bradfield Turner|
|Brock Turner, Daniel Turner, Car|
|Brock Turner, Daniel Turner, Linsey Graham.|
|Brock Turner, mugshot, Brock Allen Turner, mugshot|
They had a page for Brock Turner. It was here.
These revolting posts were on that page in May, April 2016.
1 April ? ? Politics
In a tragic miscarriage of justice, Brock has been found guilty by some betas who probably never got any play in college. This sends the message that only men are capable of making decisions after they've had a few drinks, which belittles women everywhere. Everyone needs to be held accountable for their actions and it saddens us to see that the "justice" system gives one gender a free pass but holds the other gender totally accountable for both parties' actions. Hopefully, this patronizing verdict does not encourage more women to "be that girl," but unfortunately it probably will, just as long as they can get media attention and maybe a payout.
Go with God, Brock! We'll be voting for Trump in the hopes that he will fix things by giving you a well-deserved pardon."
"Brock Turner For 2016 Olympics From what we've gathered, Brock heard her say the word "yes" before she went unconscious. Why can't a girl consent after she's had a few drinks? It's so patronizing to deny girls the right to have fun!
Like ? Reply ? 6 ? 14 May at 08:58"
Here is another Facebook page to help raise money for their son, not the victim. The phone number listed on the page is their home phone number 937 298 4485. It also had the mother's email address email@example.com and firstname.lastname@example.org email@example.com firstname.lastname@example.org. Who would raise money for a convicted criminal? Why not raise money for the victim? They claim to be very religious.
Turner Family Support Fund - Facebook
Turner Family Support Fund. 44 likes · 17 talking about this. They are dealing with a monumental life-changing and tragic situation and their expenses...
|Brock Turner, Carleen Turner, Dan Turner, Ohio, convicted|
Below is image of main post
|Turner Family Support Fund, Brock Turner, Dan Turner, Carleen Turner, mizoakwood|
"Hello my fans, I am just posting my first SnarkyMomma comment. I love to bake. I love to eat what I bake. My thighs, however, choose to torture me by expanding their sustainable imprint on our planet when they sample my baking victories.
I will learn and enjoy this blogging process.
This evening, my plans include watching the super-dee-duper wedding of Ashley and JP. I am a totally addicted fan of The Bachelor/Bachelorette series of sharing several undiagnosed strains of venereal disease and televised fake-passion!
Can't wait for the cutie wedding!"
Below is the victim's statement in full. It was part of the public case. I actually read it months ago. Never would I have thought the convicted predator would get such a light sentence. Below that is the FULL letter written by the dad saying how great his predator son is. Below that is most of a letter Brock wrote to the Judge.
"Your Honor, if it is all right, for the majority of this statement I would like to address the defendant directly.
You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today.
On January 17th, 2015, it was a quiet Saturday night at home. My dad made some dinner and I sat at the table with my younger sister who was visiting for the weekend. I was working full time and it was approaching my bed time. I planned to stay at home by myself, watch some TV and read, while she went to a party with her friends. Then, I decided it was my only night with her, I had nothing better to do, so why not, there’s a dumb party ten minutes from my house, I would go, dance like a fool, and embarrass my younger sister. On the way there, I joked that undergrad guys would have braces. My sister teased me for wearing a beige cardigan to a frat party like a librarian. I called myself “big mama”, because I knew I’d be the oldest one there. I made silly faces, let my guard down, and drank liquor too fast not factoring in that my tolerance had significantly lowered since college.
The next thing I remember I was in a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages on the backs of my hands and elbow. I thought maybe I had fallen and was in an admin office on campus. I was very calm and wondering where my sister was. A deputy explained I had been assaulted. I still remained calm, assured he was speaking to the wrong person. I knew no one at this party. When I was finally allowed to use the restroom, I pulled down the hospital pants they had given me, went to pull down my underwear, and felt nothing. I still remember the feeling of my hands touching my skin and grabbing nothing. I looked down and there was nothing. The thin piece of fabric, the only thing between my vagina and anything else, was missing and everything inside me was silenced. I still don’t have words for that feeling. In order to keep breathing, I thought maybe the policemen used scissors to cut them off for evidence.
“You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me, and that’s why we’re here today.”
Then, I felt pine needles scratching the back of my neck and started pulling them out my hair. I thought maybe, the pine needles had fallen from a tree onto my head. My brain was talking my gut into not collapsing. Because my gut was saying, help me, help me.
I shuffled from room to room with a blanket wrapped around me, pine needles trailing behind me, I left a little pile in every room I sat in. I was asked to sign papers that said “Rape Victim” and I thought something has really happened. My clothes were confiscated and I stood naked while the nurses held a ruler to various abrasions on my body and photographed them. The three of us worked to comb the pine needles out of my hair, six hands to fill one paper bag. To calm me down, they said it’s just the flora and fauna, flora and fauna. I had multiple swabs inserted into my vagina and anus, needles for shots, pills, had a Nikon pointed right into my spread legs. I had long, pointed beaks inside me and had my vagina smeared with cold, blue paint to check for abrasions.
After a few hours of this, they let me shower. I stood there examining my body beneath the stream of water and decided, I don’t want my body anymore. I was terrified of it, I didn’t know what had been in it, if it had been contaminated, who had touched it. I wanted to take off my body like a jacket and leave it at the hospital with everything else.
On that morning, all that I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get retested for HIV because results don’t always show up immediately. But for now, I should go home and get back to my normal life. Imagine stepping back into the world with only that information. They gave me huge hugs and I walked out of the hospital into the parking lot wearing the new sweatshirt and sweatpants they provided me, as they had only allowed me to keep my necklace and shoes.
My sister picked me up, face wet from tears and contorted in anguish. Instinctively and immediately, I wanted to take away her pain. I smiled at her, I told her to look at me, I’m right here, I’m okay, everything’s okay, I’m right here. My hair is washed and clean, they gave me the strangest shampoo, calm down, and look at me. Look at these funny new sweatpants and sweatshirt, I look like a P.E. teacher, let’s go home, let’s eat something. She did not know that beneath my sweatsuit, I had scratches and bandages on my skin, my vagina was sore and had become a strange, dark color from all the prodding, my underwear was missing, and I felt too empty to continue to speak. That I was also afraid, that I was also devastated. That day we drove home and for hours in silence my younger sister held me.
My boyfriend did not know what happened, but called that day and said, “I was really worried about you last night, you scared me, did you make it home okay?” I was horrified. That’s when I learned I had called him that night in my blackout, left an incomprehensible voicemail, that we had also spoken on the phone, but I was slurring so heavily he was scared for me, that he repeatedly told me to go find [my sister]. Again, he asked me, “What happened last night? Did you make it home okay?” I said yes, and hung up to cry.
I was not ready to tell my boyfriend or parents that actually, I may have been raped behind a dumpster, but I don’t know by who or when or how. If I told them, I would see the fear on their faces, and mine would multiply by tenfold, so instead I pretended the whole thing wasn’t real.
I tried to push it out of my mind, but it was so heavy I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone. After work, I would drive to a secluded place to scream. I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep, I didn’t interact with anyone, and I became isolated from the ones I loved most. For over a week after the incident, I didn’t get any calls or updates about that night or what happened to me. The only symbol that proved that it hadn’t just been a bad dream, was the sweatshirt from the hospital in my drawer.
One day, I was at work, scrolling through the news on my phone, and came across an article. In it, I read and learned for the first time about how I was found unconscious, with my hair disheveled, long necklace wrapped around my neck, bra pulled out of my dress, dress pulled off over my shoulders and pulled up above my waist, that I was butt naked all the way down to my boots, legs spread apart, and had been penetrated by a foreign object by someone I did not recognize. This was how I learned what happened to me, sitting at my desk reading the news at work. I learned what happened to me the same time everyone else in the world learned what happened to me. That’s when the pine needles in my hair made sense, they didn’t fall from a tree. He had taken off my underwear, his fingers had been inside of me. I don’t even know this person. I still don’t know this person. When I read about me like this, I said, this can’t be me, this can’t be me. I could not digest or accept any of this information. I could not imagine my family having to read about this online. I kept reading. In the next paragraph, I read something that I will never forgive; I read that according to him, I liked it. I liked it. Again, I do not have words for these feelings.
“And then, at the bottom of the article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own sexual assault, the article listed his swimming times.”
It’s like if you were to read an article where a car was hit, and found dented, in a ditch. But maybe the car enjoyed being hit. Maybe the other car didn’t mean to hit it, just bump it up a little bit. Cars get in accidents all the time, people aren’t always paying attention, can we really say who’s at fault.
And then, at the bottom of the article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own sexual assault, the article listed his swimming times. She was found breathing, unresponsive with her underwear six inches away from her bare stomach curled in fetal position. By the way, he’s really good at swimming. Throw in my mile time if that’s what we’re doing. I’m good at cooking, put that in there, I think the end is where you list your extracurriculars to cancel out all the sickening things that’ve happened.
The night the news came out I sat my parents down and told them that I had been assaulted, to not look at the news because it’s upsetting, just know that I’m okay, I’m right here, and I’m okay. But halfway through telling them, my mom had to hold me because I could no longer stand up.
The night after it happened, he said he didn’t know my name, said he wouldn’t be able to identify my face in a lineup, didn’t mention any dialogue between us, no words, only dancing and kissing. Dancing is a cute term; was it snapping fingers and twirling dancing, or just bodies grinding up against each other in a crowded room? I wonder if kissing was just faces sloppily pressed up against each other? When the detective asked if he had planned on taking me back to his dorm, he said no. When the detective asked how we ended up behind the dumpster, he said he didn’t know. He admitted to kissing other girls at that party, one of whom was my own sister who pushed him away. He admitted to wanting to hook up with someone. I was the wounded antelope of the herd, completely alone and vulnerable, physically unable to fend for myself, and he chose me. Sometimes I think, if I hadn’t gone, then this never would’ve happened. But then I realized, it would have happened, just to somebody else. You were about to enter four years of access to drunk girls and parties, and if this is the foot you started off on, then it is right you did not continue. The night after it happened, he said he thought I liked it because I rubbed his back. A back rub.
Never mentioned me voicing consent, never mentioned us even speaking, a back rub. One more time, in public news, I learned that my ass and vagina were completely exposed outside, my breasts had been groped, fingers had been jabbed inside me along with pine needles and debris, my bare skin and head had been rubbing against the ground behind a dumpster, while an erect freshman was humping my half naked, unconscious body. But I don’t remember, so how do I prove I didn’t like it.
I thought there’s no way this is going to trial; there were witnesses, there was dirt in my body, he ran but was caught. He’s going to settle, formally apologize, and we will both move on. Instead, I was told he hired a powerful attorney, expert witnesses, private investigators who were going to try and find details about my personal life to use against me, find loopholes in my story to invalidate me and my sister, in order to show that this sexual assault was in fact a misunderstanding. That he was going to go to any length to convince the world he had simply been confused.
I was not only told that I was assaulted, I was told that because I couldn’t remember, I technically could not prove it was unwanted. And that distorted me, damaged me, almost broke me. It is the saddest type of confusion to be told I was assaulted and nearly raped, blatantly out in the open, but we don’t know if it counts as assault yet. I had to fight for an entire year to make it clear that there was something wrong with this situation.
“I was pummeled with narrowed, pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life, past life, family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for this guy who had me half naked before even bothering to ask for my name. “
When I was told to be prepared in case we didn’t win, I said, I can’t prepare for that. He was guilty the minute I woke up. No one can talk me out of the hurt he caused me. Worst of all, I was warned, because he now knows you don’t remember, he is going to get to write the script. He can say whatever he wants and no one can contest it. I had no power, I had no voice, I was defenseless. My memory loss would be used against me. My testimony was weak, was incomplete, and I was made to believe that perhaps, I am not enough to win this. His attorney constantly reminded the jury, the only one we can believe is Brock, because she doesn’t remember. That helplessness was traumatizing.
Instead of taking time to heal, I was taking time to recall the night in excruciating detail, in order to prepare for the attorney’s questions that would be invasive, aggressive, and designed to steer me off course, to contradict myself, my sister, phrased in ways to manipulate my answers. Instead of his attorney saying, Did you notice any abrasions? He said, You didn’t notice any abrasions, right? This was a game of strategy, as if I could be tricked out of my own worth. The sexual assault had been so clear, but instead, here I was at the trial, answering questions like:
How old are you? How much do you weigh? What did you eat that day? Well what did you have for dinner? Who made dinner? Did you drink with dinner? No, not even water? When did you drink? How much did you drink? What container did you drink out of? Who gave you the drink? How much do you usually drink? Who dropped you off at this party? At what time? But where exactly? What were you wearing? Why were you going to this party? What’ d you do when you got there? Are you sure you did that? But what time did you do that? What does this text mean? Who were you texting? When did you urinate? Where did you urinate? With whom did you urinate outside? Was your phone on silent when your sister called? Do you remember silencing it? Really because on page 53 I’d like to point out that you said it was set to ring. Did you drink in college? You said you were a party animal? How many times did you black out? Did you party at frats? Are you serious with your boyfriend? Are you sexually active with him? When did you start dating? Would you ever cheat? Do you have a history of cheating? What do you mean when you said you wanted to reward him? Do you remember what time you woke up? Were you wearing your cardigan? What color was your cardigan? Do you remember any more from that night? No? Okay, well, we’ll let Brock fill it in.
I was pummeled with narrowed, pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life, past life, family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for this guy who had me half naked before even bothering to ask for my name. After a physical assault, I was assaulted with questions designed to attack me, to say see, her facts don’t line up, she’s out of her mind, she’s practically an alcoholic, she probably wanted to hook up, he’s like an athlete right, they were both drunk, whatever, the hospital stuff she remembers is after the fact, why take it into account, Brock has a lot at stake so he’s having a really hard time right now.
And then it came time for him to testify and I learned what it meant to be revictimized. I want to remind you, the night after it happened he said he never planned to take me back to his dorm. He said he didn’t know why we were behind a dumpster. He got up to leave because he wasn’t feeling well when he was suddenly chased and attacked. Then he learned I could not remember.
So one year later, as predicted, a new dialogue emerged. Brock had a strange new story, almost sounded like a poorly written young adult novel with kissing and dancing and hand holding and lovingly tumbling onto the ground, and most importantly in this new story, there was suddenly consent. One year after the incident, he remembered, oh yeah, by the way she actually said yes, to everything, so.
He said he had asked if I wanted to dance. Apparently I said yes. He’d asked if I wanted to go to his dorm, I said yes. Then he asked if he could finger me and I said yes. Most guys don’t ask, can I finger you? Usually there’s a natural progression of things, unfolding consensually, not a Q and A. But apparently I granted full permission. He’s in the clear. Even in his story, I only said a total of three words, yes yes yes, before he had me half naked on the ground. Future reference, if you are confused about whether a girl can consent, see if she can speak an entire sentence. You couldn’t even do that. Just one coherent string of words. Where was the confusion? This is common sense, human decency.
According to him, the only reason we were on the ground was because I fell down. Note; if a girl falls down help her get back up. If she is too drunk to even walk and falls down, do not mount her, hump her, take off her underwear, and insert your hand inside her vagina. If a girl falls down help her up. If she is wearing a cardigan over her dress don’t take it off so that you can touch her breasts. Maybe she is cold, maybe that’s why she wore the cardigan.
Next in the story, two Swedes on bicycles approached you and you ran. When they tackled you why didn’t say, “Stop! Everything’s okay, go ask her, she’s right over there, she’ll tell you.” I mean you had just asked for my consent, right? I was awake, right? When the policeman arrived and interviewed the evil Swede who tackled you, he was crying so hard he couldn’t speak because of what he’d seen.
Your attorney has repeatedly pointed out, well we don’t know exactly when she became unconscious. And you’re right, maybe I was still fluttering my eyes and wasn’t completely limp yet. That was never the point. I was too drunk to speak English, too drunk to consent way before I was on the ground. I should have never been touched in the first place. Brock stated, “At no time did I see that she was not responding. If at any time I thought she was not responding, I would have stopped immediately.” Here’s the thing; if your plan was to stop only when I became unresponsive, then you still do not understand. You didn’t even stop when I was unconscious anyway! Someone else stopped you. Two guys on bikes noticed I wasn’t moving in the dark and had to tackle you. How did you not notice while on top of me?
You said, you would have stopped and gotten help. You say that, but I want you to explain how you would’ve helped me, step by step, walk me through this. I want to know, if those evil Swedes had not found me, how the night would have played out. I am asking you; Would you have pulled my underwear back on over my boots? Untangled the necklace wrapped around my neck? Closed my legs, covered me? Pick the pine needles from my hair? Asked if the abrasions on my neck and bottom hurt? Would you then go find a friend and say, Will you help me get her somewhere warm and soft? I don’t sleep when I think about the way it could have gone if the two guys had never come. What would have happened to me? That’s what you’ll never have a good answer for, that’s what you can’t explain even after a year.
On top of all this, he claimed that I orgasmed after one minute of digital penetration. The nurse said there had been abrasions, lacerations, and dirt in my genitalia. Was that before or after I came?
To sit under oath and inform all of us, that yes I wanted it, yes I permitted it, and that you are the true victim attacked by Swedes for reasons unknown to you is appalling, is demented, is selfish, is damaging. It is enough to be suffering. It is another thing to have someone ruthlessly working to diminish the gravity of validity of this suffering.
My family had to see pictures of my head strapped to a gurney full of pine needles, of my body in the dirt with my eyes closed, hair messed up, limbs bent, and dress hiked up. And even after that, my family had to listen to your attorney say the pictures were after the fact, we can dismiss them. To say, yes her nurse confirmed there was redness and abrasions inside her, significant trauma to her genitalia, but that’s what happens when you finger someone, and he’s already admitted to that. To listen to your attorney attempt to paint a picture of me, the face of girls gone wild, as if somehow that would make it so that I had this coming for me. To listen to him say I sounded drunk on the phone because I’m silly and that’s my goofy way of speaking. To point out that in the voicemail, I said I would reward my boyfriend and we all know what I was thinking. I assure you my rewards program is non transferable, especially to any nameless man that approaches me.
“This is not a story of another drunk college hookup with poor decision making. Assault is not an accident.”
He has done irreversible damage to me and my family during the trial and we have sat silently, listening to him shape the evening. But in the end, his unsupported statements and his attorney’s twisted logic fooled no one. The truth won, the truth spoke for itself.
You are guilty. Twelve jurors convicted you guilty of three felony counts beyond reasonable doubt, that’s twelve votes per count, thirty six yeses confirming guilt, that’s one hundred percent, unanimous guilt. And I thought finally it is over, finally he will own up to what he did, truly apologize, we will both move on and get better. Then I read your statement.
If you are hoping that one of my organs will implode from anger and I will die, I’m almost there. You are very close. This is not a story of another drunk college hookup with poor decision making. Assault is not an accident. Somehow, you still don’t get it. Somehow, you still sound confused. I will now read portions of the defendant’s statement and respond to them.
You said, Being drunk I just couldn’t make the best decisions and neither could she.
Alcohol is not an excuse. Is it a factor? Yes. But alcohol was not the one who stripped me, fingered me, had my head dragging against the ground, with me almost fully naked. Having too much to drink was an amateur mistake that I admit to, but it is not criminal. Everyone in this room has had a night where they have regretted drinking too much, or knows someone close to them who has had a night where they have regretted drinking too much. Regretting drinking is not the same as regretting sexual assault. We were both drunk, the difference is I did not take off your pants and underwear, touch you inappropriately, and run away. That’s the difference.
You said, If I wanted to get to know her, I should have asked for her number, rather than asking her to go back to my room.
I’m not mad because you didn’t ask for my number. Even if you did know me, I would not want to be in this situation. My own boyfriend knows me, but if he asked to finger me behind a dumpster, I would slap him. No girl wants to be in this situation. Nobody. I don’t care if you know their phone number or not.
You said, I stupidly thought it was okay for me to do what everyone around me was doing, which was drinking. I was wrong.
Again, you were not wrong for drinking. Everyone around you was not sexually assaulting me. You were wrong for doing what nobody else was doing, which was pushing your erect dick in your pants against my naked, defenseless body concealed in a dark area, where partygoers could no longer see or protect me, and my own sister could not find me. Sipping fireball is not your crime. Peeling off and discarding my underwear like a candy wrapper to insert your finger into my body, is where you went wrong. Why am I still explaining this.
You said, During the trial I didn’t want to victimize her at all. That was just my attorney and his way of approaching the case.
Your attorney is not your scapegoat, he represents you. Did your attorney say some incredulously infuriating, degrading things? Absolutely. He said you had an erection, because it was cold.
You said, you are in the process of establishing a program for high school and college students in which you speak about your experience to “speak out against the college campus drinking culture and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that.”
Campus drinking culture. That’s what we’re speaking out against? You think that’s what I’ve spent the past year fighting for? Not awareness about campus sexual assault, or rape, or learning to recognize consent. Campus drinking culture. Down with Jack Daniels. Down with Skyy Vodka. If you want talk to people about drinking go to an AA meeting. You realize, having a drinking problem is different than drinking and then forcefully trying to have sex with someone? Show men how to respect women, not how to drink less.
Drinking culture and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that. Goes along with that, like a side effect, like fries on the side of your order. Where does promiscuity even come into play? I don’t see headlines that read, Brock Turner, Guilty of drinking too much and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that. Campus Sexual Assault. There’s your first powerpoint slide. Rest assured, if you fail to fix the topic of your talk, I will follow you to every school you go to and give a follow up presentation.
Lastly you said, I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin a life.
A life, one life, yours, you forgot about mine. Let me rephrase for you, I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin two lives. You and me. You are the cause, I am the effect. You have dragged me through this hell with you, dipped me back into that night again and again. You knocked down both our towers, I collapsed at the same time you did. If you think I was spared, came out unscathed, that today I ride off into sunset, while you suffer the greatest blow, you are mistaken. Nobody wins. We have all been devastated, we have all been trying to find some meaning in all of this suffering. Your damage was concrete; stripped of titles, degrees, enrollment. My damage was internal, unseen, I carry it with me. You took away my worth, my privacy, my energy, my time, my safety, my intimacy, my confidence, my own voice, until today.
See one thing we have in common is that we were both unable to get up in the morning. I am no stranger to suffering. You made me a victim. In newspapers my name was “unconscious intoxicated woman”, ten syllables, and nothing more than that. For a while, I believed that that was all I was. I had to force myself to relearn my real name, my identity. To relearn that this is not all that I am. That I am not just a drunk victim at a frat party found behind a dumpster, while you are the All American swimmer at a top university, innocent until proven guilty, with so much at stake. I am a human being who has been irreversibly hurt, my life was put on hold for over a year, waiting to figure out if I was worth something.
My independence, natural joy, gentleness, and steady lifestyle I had been enjoying became distorted beyond recognition. I became closed off, angry, self deprecating, tired, irritable, empty. The isolation at times was unbearable. You cannot give me back the life I had before that night either. While you worry about your shattered reputation, I refrigerated spoons every night so when I woke up, and my eyes were puffy from crying, I would hold the spoons to my eyes to lessen the swelling so that I could see. I showed up an hour late to work every morning, excused myself to cry in the stairwells, I can tell you all the best places in that building to cry where no one can hear you. The pain became so bad that I had to explain the private details to my boss to let her know why I was leaving. I needed time because continuing day to day was not possible. I used my savings to go as far away as I could possibly be. I did not return to work full time as I knew I’d have to take weeks off in the future for the hearing and trial, that were constantly being rescheduled. My life was put on hold for over a year, my structure had collapsed.
I can’t sleep alone at night without having a light on, like a five year old, because I have nightmares of being touched where I cannot wake up, I did this thing where I waited until the sun came up and I felt safe enough to sleep. For three months, I went to bed at six o’clock in the morning.
I used to pride myself on my independence, now I am afraid to go on walks in the evening, to attend social events with drinking among friends where I should be comfortable being. I have become a little barnacle always needing to be at someone’s side, to have my boyfriend standing next to me, sleeping beside me, protecting me. It is embarrassing how feeble I feel, how timidly I move through life, always guarded, ready to defend myself, ready to be angry.
You have no idea how hard I have worked to rebuild parts of me that are still weak. It took me eight months to even talk about what happened. I could no longer connect with friends, with everyone around me. I would scream at my boyfriend, my own family whenever they brought this up. You never let me forget what happened to me. At the of end of the hearing, the trial, I was too tired to speak. I would leave drained, silent. I would go home turn off my phone and for days I would not speak. You bought me a ticket to a planet where I lived by myself. Every time a new article come out, I lived with the paranoia that my entire hometown would find out and know me as the girl who got assaulted. I didn’t want anyone’s pity and am still learning to accept victim as part of my identity. You made my own hometown an uncomfortable place to be.
You cannot give me back my sleepless nights. The way I have broken down sobbing uncontrollably if I’m watching a movie and a woman is harmed, to say it lightly, this experience has expanded my empathy for other victims. I have lost weight from stress, when people would comment I told them I’ve been running a lot lately. There are times I did not want to be touched. I have to relearn that I am not fragile, I am capable, I am wholesome, not just livid and weak.
When I see my younger sister hurting, when she is unable to keep up in school, when she is deprived of joy, when she is not sleeping, when she is crying so hard on the phone she is barely breathing, telling me over and over again she is sorry for leaving me alone that night, sorry sorry sorry, when she feels more guilt than you, then I do not forgive you. That night I had called her to try and find her, but you found me first. Your attorney’s closing statement began, “[Her sister] said she was fine and who knows her better than her sister.” You tried to use my own sister against me? Your points of attack were so weak, so low, it was almost embarrassing. You do not touch her.
You should have never done this to me. Secondly, you should have never made me fight so long to tell you, you should have never done this to me. But here we are. The damage is done, no one can undo it. And now we both have a choice. We can let this destroy us, I can remain angry and hurt and you can be in denial, or we can face it head on, I accept the pain, you accept the punishment, and we move on.
Your life is not over, you have decades of years ahead to rewrite your story. The world is huge, it is so much bigger than Palo Alto and Stanford, and you will make a space for yourself in it where you can be useful and happy. But right now, you do not get to shrug your shoulders and be confused anymore. You do not get to pretend that there were no red flags. You have been convicted of violating me, intentionally, forcibly, sexually, with malicious intent, and all you can admit to is consuming alcohol. Do not talk about the sad way your life was upturned because alcohol made you do bad things. Figure out how to take responsibility for your own conduct.
Now to address the sentencing. When I read the probation officer’s report, I was in disbelief, consumed by anger which eventually quieted down to profound sadness. My statements have been slimmed down to distortion and taken out of context. I fought hard during this trial and will not have the outcome minimized by a probation officer who attempted to evaluate my current state and my wishes in a fifteen minute conversation, the majority of which was spent answering questions I had about the legal system. The context is also important. Brock had yet to issue a statement, and I had not read his remarks.
My life has been on hold for over a year, a year of anger, anguish and uncertainty, until a jury of my peers rendered a judgment that validated the injustices I had endured. Had Brock admitted guilt and remorse and offered to settle early on, I would have considered a lighter sentence, respecting his honesty, grateful to be able to move our lives forward. Instead he took the risk of going to trial, added insult to injury and forced me to relive the hurt as details about my personal life and sexual assault were brutally dissected before the public. He pushed me and my family through a year of inexplicable, unnecessary suffering, and should face the consequences of challenging his crime, of putting my pain into question, of making us wait so long for justice.
I told the probation officer I do not want Brock to rot away in prison. I did not say he does not deserve to be behind bars. The probation officer’s recommendation of a year or less in county jail is a soft timeout, a mockery of the seriousness of his assaults, an insult to me and all women. It gives the message that a stranger can be inside you without proper consent and he will receive less than what has been defined as the minimum sentence. Probation should be denied. I also told the probation officer that what I truly wanted was for Brock to get it, to understand and admit to his wrongdoing.
Unfortunately, after reading the defendant’s report, I am severely disappointed and feel that he has failed to exhibit sincere remorse or responsibility for his conduct. I fully respected his right to a trial, but even after twelve jurors unanimously convicted him guilty of three felonies, all he has admitted to doing is ingesting alcohol. Someone who cannot take full accountability for his actions does not deserve a mitigating sentence. It is deeply offensive that he would try and dilute rape with a suggestion of “promiscuity”. By definition rape is not the absence of promiscuity, rape is the absence of consent, and it perturbs me deeply that he can’t even see that distinction.
The probation officer factored in that the defendant is youthful and has no prior convictions. In my opinion, he is old enough to know what he did was wrong. When you are eighteen in this country you can go to war. When you are nineteen, you are old enough to pay the consequences for attempting to rape someone. He is young, but he is old enough to know better.
As this is a first offence I can see where leniency would beckon. On the other hand, as a society, we cannot forgive everyone’s first sexual assault or digital rape. It doesn’t make sense. The seriousness of rape has to be communicated clearly, we should not create a culture that suggests we learn that rape is wrong through trial and error. The consequences of sexual assault needs to be severe enough that people feel enough fear to exercise good judgment even if they are drunk, severe enough to be preventative.
The probation officer weighed the fact that he has surrendered a hard earned swimming scholarship. How fast Brock swims does not lessen the severity of what happened to me, and should not lessen the severity of his punishment. If a first time offender from an underprivileged background was accused of three felonies and displayed no accountability for his actions other than drinking, what would his sentence be? The fact that Brock was an athlete at a private university should not be seen as an entitlement to leniency, but as an opportunity to send a message that sexual assault is against the law regardless of social class.
The Probation Officer has stated that this case, when compared to other crimes of similar nature, may be considered less serious due to the defendant’s level of intoxication. It felt serious. That’s all I’m going to say.
What has he done to demonstrate that he deserves a break? He has only apologized for drinking and has yet to define what he did to me as sexual assault, he has revictimized me continually, relentlessly. He has been found guilty of three serious felonies and it is time for him to accept the consequences of his actions. He will not be quietly excused.
He is a lifetime sex registrant. That doesn’t expire. Just like what he did to me doesn’t expire, doesn’t just go away after a set number of years. It stays with me, it’s part of my identity, it has forever changed the way I carry myself, the way I live the rest of my life.
To conclude, I want to say thank you. To everyone from the intern who made me oatmeal when I woke up at the hospital that morning, to the deputy who waited beside me, to the nurses who calmed me, to the detective who listened to me and never judged me, to my advocates who stood unwaveringly beside me, to my the predator who taught me to find courage in vulnerability, to my boss for being kind and understanding, to my incredible parents who teach me how to turn pain into strength, to my grandma who snuck chocolate into the courtroom throughout this to give to me, my friends who remind me how to be happy, to my boyfriend who is patient and loving, to my unconquerable sister who is the other half of my heart, to Alaleh, my idol, who fought tirelessly and never doubted me. Thank you to everyone involved in the trial for their time and attention. Thank you to girls across the nation that wrote cards to my DA to give to me, so many strangers who cared for me.
Most importantly, thank you to the two men who saved me, who I have yet to meet. I sleep with two bicycles that I drew taped above my bed to remind myself there are heroes in this story. That we are looking out for one another. To have known all of these people, to have felt their protection and love, is something I will never forget.
And finally, to girls everywhere, I am with you. On nights when you feel alone, I am with you. When people doubt you or dismiss you, I am with you. I fought everyday for you. So never stop fighting, I believe you. As the author Anne Lamott once wrote, “Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining.” Although I can’t save every boat, I hope that by speaking today, you absorbed a small amount of light, a small knowing that you can’t be silenced, a small satisfaction that justice was served, a small assurance that we are getting somewhere, and a big, big knowing that you are important, unquestionably, you are untouchable, you are beautiful, you are to be valued, respected, undeniably, every minute of every day, you are powerful and nobody can take that away from you. To girls everywhere, I am with you. Thank you."
Here is the father's full letter in three images. The father wrote to the Judge. And now Turner will appeal his conviction! He got a great deal and he wants to appeal it? This is easier to read. https://www.documentcloud.org/documents/2852614-Letter-from-Brock-Turner-s-Father.html
|Daniel Turner, Brock Turner convicted predator California|
|Daniel Turner, Brock Turner convicted predator California|
|Daniel Turner, Brock Turner convicted predator California|
Below is the father's response to the sentence. He thought it was too hard of a sentence.
|Daniel A Turner, Daniel Allen Turner, Brock Turner, predator, convicted, sentenced, sexual predator|
"The night of January 17th changed my life and the lives of everyone involved forever. I can never go back to being the person I was before that day. I am no longer a swimmer, a student, a resident of California, or the product of the work that I put in to accomplish the goals that I set out in the first nineteen years of my life. Not only have I altered my life, but I’ve also changed [redacted] and her family’s life. I am the sole proprietor of what happened on the night that these people’s lives were changed forever. I would give anything to change what happened that night. I can never forgive myself for imposing trauma and pain on [redacted]. It debilitates me to think that my actions have caused her emotional and physical stress that is completely unwarranted and unfair. The thought of this is in my head every second of every day since this event has occurred. These ideas never leave my mind. During the day, I shake uncontrollably from the amount I torment myself by thinking about what has happened. I wish I had the ability to go back in time and never pick up a drink that night, let alone interact with [redacted]. I can barely hold a conversation with someone without having my mind drift into thinking these thoughts. They torture me. I go to sleep every night having been crippled by these thoughts to the point of exhaustion. I wake up having dreamt of these horrific events that I have caused. I am completely consumed by my poor judgement and ill thought actions. There isn’t a second that has gone by where I haven’t regretted the course of events I took on January 17th/18th. My shell and core of who I am as a person is forever broken from this. I am a changed person. At this point in my life, I never want to have a drop of alcohol again. I never want to attend a social gathering that involves alcohol or any situation where people make decisions based on the substances they have consumed. I never want to experience being in a position where it will have a negative impact on my life or someone else’s ever again. I’ve lost two jobs solely based on the reporting of my case. I wish I never was good at swimming or had the opportunity to attend Stanford, so maybe the newspapers wouldn’t want to write stories about me.
All I can do from these events moving forward is by proving to everyone who I really am as a person. I know that if I were to be placed on probation, I would be able to be a benefit to society for the rest of my life. I want to earn a college degree in any capacity that I am capable to do so. And in accomplishing this task, I can make the people around me and society better through the example I will set. I’ve been a goal oriented person since my start as a swimmer. I want to take what I can from who I was before this situation happened and use it to the best of my abilities moving forward. I know I can show people who were like me the dangers of assuming what college life can be like without thinking about the consequences one would potentially have to make if one were to make the same decisions that I made. I want to show that people’s lives can be destroyed by drinking and making poor decisions while doing so. One needs to recognize the influence that peer pressure and the attitude of having to fit in can have on someone. One decision has the potential to change your entire life. I know I can impact and change people’s attitudes towards the culture surrounded by binge drinking and sexual promiscuity that protrudes through what people think is at the core of being a college student. I want to demolish the assumption that drinking and partying are what make up a college lifestyle I made a mistake, I drank too much, and my decisions hurt someone. But I never ever meant to intentionally hurt [redacted]. My poor decision making and excessive drinking hurt someone that night and I wish I could just take it all back.
If I were to be placed on probation, I can positively say, without a single shred of doubt in my mind, that I would never have any problem with law enforcement. Before this happened, I never had any trouble with law enforcement and I plan on maintaining that. I’ve been shattered by the party culture and risk taking behavior that I briefly experienced in my four months at school. I’ve lost my chance to swim in the Olympics. I’ve lost my ability to obtain a Stanford degree. I’ve lost employment opportunity, my reputation and most of all, my life. These things force me to never want to put myself in a position where I have to sacrifice everything. I would make it my life’s mission to show everyone that I can contribute and be a positive influence on society from these events that have transpired. I will never put myself through an event where it will give someone the ability to question whether I really can be a betterment to society. I want no one, male or female, to have to experience the destructive consequences of making decisions while under the influence of alcohol. I want to be a voice of reason in a time where people’s attitudes and preconceived notions about partying and drinking have already been established. I want to let young people now, as I did not, that things can go from fun to ruined in just one night."
The mother Carleen Turner's letter to the judge. Brock and his entire family only care about Brock. They don't give a shit about the victim.
"Dear Honorable Judge Persky,
Thank-you for the opportunity to write a letter and introduce you to my son, Brock Turner-the REAL Brock Allen Turner. I am abundantly proud to call him my son; he is my heart, my soul, and brings me great joy. From the time he was a little boy, Brock has always been very easy-going, kind, considerate, and respectful. He is incredibly goal-oriented, hard-working, dedicated, studious, humble, and somewhat introverted. He quietly performs and achieves while shying away from any attention and recognition. He always had a smile on his face, a shy grin that was so endearing. I use past tense in referring to his smile because since the verdict, he has not smiled. The expression on his face is one of pure pain and anguish. It is heart-breaking.
I was lucky to be a stay-at-home mom after Brock was born so of our three kids, he is the one I spent the most time with throughout his life. Since his siblings were in college, he also had 3 years of high school being an only child. We sat down to dinner every night together and had great conversations about his future plans and aspirations. He had big dreams and goals and we knew he would achieve all of them because of his strict work ethic and drive.
He struggled with learning the alphabet and reading in his early days and he was sent to the reading tutor at our school. Some kids might be teased about this but his teacher told me he came back and told the class how great it was and how much fun he had; pretty soon the other kids were asking if they could go to the reading tutor. The teacher told me she had never had that happen before but Brock had a very clever way to turn seeing the tutor into a positive. He also set a goal for himself that he would not have to see the tutor by the end of the year and he met that goal. Even as a youngster, he was setting goals and achieving them. He participated in Cub Scouts during grade school with Dan as his Den leader. The scouts sell popcorn in the fall and after a couple of years, Brock decided he wanted to be the top seller for our region. Dan and I do not take order forms to work if our kids are selling a product-it’s on them to sell. Brock would go door to door to sell, he even got a 90-year old lady to buy some. She couldn’t eat popcorn but was impressed that Brock took the time to sit with her on her front porch and talk to her. That’s the kind of kid he was-very respectful and polite.
Our elementary school put on several programs over the years and the big one was the 6th grade musical. Brock’s class did Oliver and he was chosen to play Bill Sykes, the bad guy. His older brother Brent had played Bill Sykes 5 years before and I think that’s why the teacher cast Brock in the role. For Brent it was a bit of type-casting (he was a handful in elementary school), while Brock wouldn’t stop smiling. The teacher said he is supposed to be a mean guy and she could not get Brock to act mean. That’s just him-a nice guy.
Brock started swimming competitively at the age of 4 on our summer swim team. He has always looked up to his brother and since Brent was on the team, Brock wanted to join. The first time he raced the 25 yard backstroke he looked like he was drowning. His coach jumped in after him, fully clothed and walked beside him but did not touch him so he could finish the race. It wasn’t pretty but he did it! The 200 yard backstroke ended up being his first Olympic Trial cut at age 16 so he certainly came a long way in 12 years! From early on, he just loved swimming. He took to it naturally and throughout the years, every coach he has ever had has described him as “coachable” which is exactly what a coach wants. He took advice and direction and was always looking to improve. His work ethic at practice was unmatched and he inspired the other kids to try harder. It takes an incredible amount of dedication to swim at the level Brock was at and it always came from him. He put a lot of pressure on himself and had quite a nervous stomach. He vomited before many a race but he always seemed to swim better after throwing up. His coaches used to worry about this but it seemed to work for him.
Dan and I never pushed him, this was his love and passion. We supported him by driving him to those early morning practices, driving to after school practices, sitting on hard bleachers for 3 days in a row, many weekends a year; but he loved it so much is was worth it. Whenever I would drop him off at a meet, I would say “good luck and have FUN”. There were so many parents who pressured their kids but to us, this was Brock’s choice. Nothing brought me greater joy than watching him at a swim meet. It wasn’t necessarily the racing that I loved, I enjoyed seeing him hanging in the bleachers with his teammates, standing on the deck talking to his coach, I loved the warm ups, and yes-watching him race was great but it was the look on his face when he touched the wall that I enjoyed. He would set a goal for himself with every race and when he achieved it-that smile. He wasn’t a kid to pound the water, to shove a fist up in the air, to celebrate loudly-he never, ever did that. When he won a race, he always waited for every swimmer to finish and he would shake everyone’s hand. He was never arrogant, cocky, or boastful. Far from it-as a swimmer he was incredibly humble and gracious. At our state high school meet, they always had a local cable reporter interviewing the winners after each race and Brock was gracious but uncomfortable having to talk about himself. He would always try to say he was doing his best for the team. As we traveled to national meets, we would see the same faces from all over the country. Parents talk to each other and I was always so proud of Brock when a parent from another team would tell me how much their son liked swimming with Brock because he is so nice and down-to-earth. There is a lot of down time at a swim meet so the kids hang and get to know each other. Brock was respected by his competitors because of his humble nature.
A Brock moved to high school, the swimming hours increased. Every day he was awake at 4:00am for a 5am practice. He would come home cook his breakfast, head to school, and then back to practice for 2 hours after. He also had a very challenging academic schedule. Our school district is very academically-oriented and people more to Oakwood for the schools. Brook took Honors and AP courses and maintained straight-A’s. I asked him how he managed to the grades he did and his answer was he would be mad at himself if he got a B when he knew he was capable of an A. He was a good student and he was respectful of his teachers. Our high school is small so the kids generally know everyone. Brock made many sacrifices while in high school due to the demands of the swimming schedule; the only football games he attended were Homecoming and he never attended a basketball game. He missed out on many social activities as well. He did hang out with his swimmer friends on weekends but because of their early mornings, they were never out late.
He has a very kind and thoughtful side to him. He always went out of his way to do special things for his girlfriend. Asking a girl to the dances is a big deal around here. For Homecoming senior year, we had a new black lab puppy and [she] just loved the pup. Brock put a sign around Zeke’s neck with “Homecoming?” on it-that was how he asked her and [she] loved it. However, his ‘prom-posal’ was the talk of their class; Brock knew [she] had big expectations and he was having a tough time coming up with a good way to ask her. She invited him to a Dayton Dragons baseball game (the are a Cincinnati Reds farm team) and he called the Dragons to see if they would put “[Name] will you go to prom with me?” on the Jumbotron scoreboard. They did this and during the 3rd inning, [she] was asked to prom! Brock is also very understanding of his very sentimental and emotional mom. The day we moved him in at Stanford, we went out to dinner and when we dropped him at the dorm he hugged me fore a long time. As h walked to the door of the dorm, he turned around and gave a final wave. I was sobbing but he knew I needed that last wave. Leaving him that night was the absolute hardest thing I had ever done. We got to see him in one college swim meet at Texas A&M All the Stanford swim parents were at this particular meet and it was the first time we saw Brock since leaving him at school. He came up in the stands and hugged both Dan and I and he was the only freshman boy to do this. Some of the other parents commented how the wished their boys were that thoughtful. He knew that we needed to touch him-we really missed him. It was so hard having him so far from home. When he was home at Christmas, he broke down crying because he was so homesick.
Brock also has an incredibly kind heart toward the more disenfranchised members of our society. This comes form having an uncle who was severely mentally retarded, had cerebral palsy, and epilepsy. My kids were around my brother from the time they were babies and they all learned quickly how to play and interact with him. Scott did not speak other than to say “bye-bye”. He loved playing with blocks and puzzles so he was kind of like a big-sized toddler. Brock was especially taken with his uncle and spent a lot of time with him. My brother lived at home until his death at age 38. Brock was in the first grade when Scott died. My mom, sister, and I remember how Brock adjusted the quilt covering my brother because it had to be just right for Uncle Scotty. Brock had several classmates who had special needs and his teachers would always say how he was such a nice friend and went out of his way to include the kids. This continued on through high school when he participated with the Oakwood Adapted Athletics (Special Olympics) swim team. He served as an able-bodied partner with the Special Olympians. I will never forget the final meet during his senior year. One of the swimmers, a boy named Theodor, wanted a blue ribbon more than anything. Brock promised him that their relay would get a blue ribbon. Well, the first relay they swam they came in 2nd. This was the ONLY time in swimming that I ever saw Brock upset after a race. He did not want to let Theodor down. They had one more relay and Brock made sure they came in first so Theodor got his blue ribbon! I have always been so proud of Brock for participating with the Special Olympics team during high school. It is very near and dear to my heart and he did it because he genuinely cared for the kids.
There have been many references to Brock being from a wealthy, privileged background and he thinks he is entitled. Your honor, this could not be further from the truth. Dan and I are a working middle-class couple with Midwestern values. Trust me when I say that Silicon Valley, CA is vastly different from the south suburbs of Dayton, OH. We both grew up in Dayton and attended the local public college Wright State University and we lived at home with our parents. Dan is an electrical engineer and works as a civil servant for the Air Force. His dad grew up in an orphanage, found in World War II in the South Pacific, and then worked for NCR. His mom worked full-time for the Air Force back when mothers stayed at home. I am a registered nurse and spent the majority of my career in surgery at a Level 1 Trauma Center with a specialty in gynecology surgery. My dad, a retired school principal, grew up with his four siblings raise by a single mother who worked cleaning offices for NCR. My mom is also a nurse and still works in surgery at the age of 79. We do NOT come from money, rather the opposite. Brock’s brother Brent graduated in 2014 from The University of Cincinnati with a Biomedical engineering degree and he works for a company called Mammotome in Cincinnati. He currently has 30K in student loan debt. Our daughter Caroline graduated last summer from UC with a degree in Fine Arts. She currently has 60K in student loan debt. She is unemployed having quit her job at a coffee shop to stay with Brock after the verdict. Our kids have student load debt because while Dan and I both have decent jobs, we don’t make enough to afford to pay for college. Now, with of the debt we have accumulated form the trial and the 14 months leading up to it……..let’s just say our financial situation is precarious and unstable.
Our lives now exist in 2 phases-prior to the weekend of Jan. 17/18, 2015 and after that weekend. The weekend started out pretty exciting for Dan and I-we sold the home we raised the kids in after Brock graduated. We need to downsize not only the size of the house but our payment. Having Brock in school across the country meant added expenses so we needed some extra money. We moved into our new home on Jan. 17, 2015. Then we got that fateful call from Brock on Sunday the 18th and our world was been spinning apart ever since. This house now reminds me of the horror of that moment. I have not decorated the house nor have I hung anything on the walls. I am a mom who loves family pictures but I haven’t had the heart to put photos around of our family being happy. How can I? We will never be happy again. Those happy family times are gone forever, replaced by despair, fear, depression, anxiety, doubt, and dread. I don’t think I have been able to take a deep breath since this happened. My first thought upon wakening every morning is “this isn’t real, this can’t be real. Why him? Why HIM? WHY? WHY?” I have cried every single day since Jan. 18. This is on my mind every moment. But in the months leading up to the trial, we had hope. Brock told us what happened and his accounting of the events of that night never changed from the first time he told us everything. He was a shy and awkward 19-year old, far away from home trying to fit in with the swimmers he idolized. He is the most trust-worthy and honest person I know. He was telling the truth. We knew once he had to opportunity to tell what happened this would all go away. We even had a college coach contact his Dayton Raiders coach inquiring about Brock’s status-this coach had recruited him before and still wanted Brock to come and swim for him. We felt that was a positive sign and Brock started swimming again. We had some hope.
Then that awful, horrible, terrible, gut-wrenching, life-changing verdict was read. I know what a broken heart feels like. It is a physical pain that starts just below the collar bone and extends to below the rib cage, it is a crushing and heavy ache that feels like I am being squeezed. This feeling has not left my body since the verdict. This verdict has destroyed us. Brock is a shattered and broken shell of the person he used to be. My once vibrant and happy boy is distraught, deeply depressed, terribly wounded, and filled with despair. His smile is gone forever-that beautiful grin is no more. When I look into his eyes I see fear and anguish. His voice is barely above a whisper and he keeps himself hunched over almost trying not to be noticed. He trembles uncontrollably. He is crushed that the jury ruled against him. He has lost so much weight because he barely eats anything. He is utterly terrified and traumatized by this. We are devastated beyond belief. My beautiful, happy family will never know happiness again. We all love Brock so much and to see him in this much pain and agony is indescribable. Dan and I start our day standing in our kitchen hugging and sobbing. I’ve known him for 31 years and the only time I saw him cry was when his father died from Alzheimer’s disease. Now my strong and handsome husband breaks down crying several times a day. He is hurting for his son. We all are-Brock has 3 grandparents still living and they are shattered by this. He has spent a great deal of time with them, in fact-he spent a lot of the past year helping them. My dad had had major heart surgery, eye surgeries, and an ankle replacement so Brock has been a huge help to he and my mom. But they have lost their joy. This verdict has affected so many people here in Ohio who know and love Brock.
Your honor, I beg of you to show Brock mercy. He has never been in trouble, never even had a demerit in high school, he studied, swam, worked hard-he has lived and exemplary life. He will contribute to society in a positive way, it will just be a different path now. Please send him a message that his life still has meaning, that you believe in him. Please give him hope. His life is forever impacted and drastically altered by the ramifications of these guilty verdicts. Ohio is on of the strictest states with the sexual offender registry. Brock will have to register at the highest tier which means he is on the same level as a pedophile/child molester. There is no differentiation. The public records will reflect a Tier 3 so people will wrongly assume he is a child molester. I fear for his lifelong safety. So he, at the tender age of 20, now will have to register every 60 days for the rest of his life. He will live a lifetime of scrutiny, he lost 2 jobs just because he was accused of this, now he faces of lifetime of struggling for decent work. Can he be on a college campus. I don’t know. He WILL earn a college degree even if he had to do it 100% online. If he ever has children, he won’t be able to take them to a public park and push them on a swing, he won’t be able to volunteer at their school, he won’t be able to teach Sunday school, he won’t be able to be their Scout leader, he won’t be able to coach them, he won’t be able to chaperone a class field trip or help with a homeroom party……..this is his future life. I beg of you, please don’t send him to jail/prison. Look at him. He won’t survive it. He will be damaged forever and I fear he would be a major target. Stanford boy, college kid, college athlete- all the publicity……..this would be a death sentence for him. Having lost everything he has ever worked for his entire life and knowing the registry is a requirement for the rest of his life certainly is more than harsh. His dreams have been shattered by this. No NCAA Championships. No Stanford degree, No swimming in the Olympics (and I honestly know he would have made a future team), no medical school, no becoming an Orthopedic surgeon……..all gone.
Your honor, please be kind and merciful to my beautiful son. He is suffering and will continue to pay for this for his entire lifetime.
Mary Cummins of Animal Advocates is a wildlife rehabilitator licensed by the California Department of Fish and Game. Mary Cummins is also a licensed real estate appraiser in Los Angeles, California.
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