:: My Hero (Part III of III - The Release)

Catch Up » :: My Hero (Part I of III - The "Crime")

:: My Hero (Part II of III - The Trial) 

I was 9 years old when my father left for prison. My family was forced to file for bankruptcy and we lost everything we had...The house I grew up in and the ranch it sat on went to the IRS; The horses my father bred and raised were divvied up among fellow ranchers in the area; And the Trust that had been set up for my health and education was dissolved and the millions it had once protected went to the Browns for reparations of their loss. We were left penniless and homeless.

My grandfather on my mother's side had set up a small rental property operation after he retired and he offered to move us into one of his rent houses inside the city. It was a fairly nice neighborhood with a handful of kids my age, so it was a smooth transition for me. However, an indescribable amount of pressure was put on my mother. Having only a high school education and a child at home with Cystic Fibrosis to dedicate her time to, employment was hard to come by. But at the expense of many tears and sleepless nights, she still managed to give me everything I needed and then some.

We started out making the 8-hour round trip to see my father every weekend. I remember the cold steel gates, the white brick walls and the fluorescent lights. I remember seeing him through the chain link fence and being pulled back by a guard when I tried to run through the gate to greet him. I remember they weren't allowed sodas or junk food in the mess hall, but on visitation days the vending machines were open to everyone and we always shared a package of Grandma Smith's cookies. For his impeccable behavior he was granted Trustee status and contact visits, so we were able to sit at picnic tables outside without glass separating us and for two hours every weekend, we were a family again. Until I was 13, I was allowed to sit beside him instead of across from him and I remember holding his hand and listening to the rhythmic tap-tap-tap of the cane issued to him for his blindness as we made our way down the long white corridor to the visitation yard. He was adored and respected by everyone, known as "Mr Amis" instead of "Bill", and his fellow inmates never hesitated to compliment us on what a wonderful man he was. He became close friends with the chaplain, who stuck by his side when we couldn't be with him and instead of passing his sentence listlessly, he joined the chapel choir and attended the in-house state-ordained college where he finally earned his degree.

My 16th birthday happened to fall on a weekend, so I chose to make a trip to visit him instead of partying with my friends. Over those 7 years, the visits had slowly dwindled down to once every two or three months...The drive and the lack of money took its toll on my mom, but she stayed faithful to my father and we made the trip every chance we could. My birthday was the first time my father and I had ever gotten into a fight and the first time I'd ever seen him cry. He was happy to see us, but not feeling well and in a horrible mood. I remember leaving and feeling confused...The hugs had been shallow and the "I love you"s rushed. My father had never been so temperamental and sharp with me and I was ready to leave it behind, knowing that next time everything would be fine.

Three nights later, I was finishing homework in our living room when the phone rang. Within seconds of answering, my mom's eyes went wide and she began to cry. She hung up the phone, made her way to the couch, took me into her arms and told me that it had been the Texas Department of Criminal Justice on the line. My father had just died of a heart attack.

Apparently since before my birthday, he had been suffering from severe chest pains. When he visited the infirmary the morning of his death to receive his blood pressure medication that he had taken daily since he was 14 years old, they suddenly refused him, claiming they believed he had become addicted. That night, he left his cell and barely made it to the doorway of the computer lab before he collapsed and was rushed to the infirmary, where he died minutes later. I take solace in knowing that he wasn't alone...Chaplain Larson prayed with him, assured him it was alright to accept freedom and promised to take care of my mother and I. We were told that the last words he managed were prayers for us.

In September of 2012, my father's sentence would have been complete and he would have been released to rebuild his life. I have no doubt that he is in Heaven and that he checks in on me from time to time and I take great pride every time I am reminded by others that I have his eyes or his personality. I love him and miss him terribly and often wonder why people like him, people with such a positive influence on the world around them, are taken away when there is so much good left for them to do. I look back at the Polaroid pictures that were snapped throughout the years in the visitation yard and for a few seconds, I can feel the way he used to pick me up, swing me around and laugh when I grunted that he was squeezing me too tight. I imagine it's the same greeting I'll get when I see him again.

"If I could get another chance...Another walk...Another dance with him, I'd play a song that would never, ever end. How I'd love love love to dance with my father again."

:: My Hero (Part II of III - The Trial)

Catch Up » :: My Hero (Part I of III - The "Crime")

That afternoon, my father did as he was told and proceeded to the local Police Department to turn himself in. Two days later, upon finding out that David Brown's brother, Paul, had recently been re-elected as Federal Judge of Texas, my grandfather suffered a fatal heart attack with me on his lap, his last words to my parents and I, "I'm sorry for what is about to happen to you." Three years of preparation passed and in September of 1992, my dad's trial for Attempted Murder began.

My parents hired the best attorney in East Texas and my father's optimistic attitude was infallible. Every morning, he said a quick prayer with my mother and I before they headed off to the courthouse. At 9 years old, I was of course too young to fully understand what was going on, but somehow I still realized we were in trouble. One night while he was tucking me into bed, I remember him trying to explain to me what was happening...That he was in trouble and fighting some bad people and that if they won he would have to leave for a long time. All the while though he assured me, "But we're not going to lose, so you don't have to worry. The truth will set me free." And I took his word for it, kissed him on the cheek and fell asleep.

It became apparent within the first week that something was wrong. The judge presiding over the trial was known for two things in our hometown: A) That she practiced cutthroat ruling according to quota rather than justice so that one day, she might attain the status of federal judge and B) That she sat front row in church every Sunday morning with her hands held high. The first day of the trial, during her address to the jury, she stated, "I am friends with the Brown family and I will not let their name be tarnished with this filth." And she kept her word...For the duration of the trial, not one single witness that my father provided was allowed to testify. Instead, the trial focused on attempting to argue that my father wasn't really blind and that he had strategically aimed to paralyze Brown, never calling into question WHY he had had to defend himself in the first place. My parents spent hours with my father's attorney, poring over the case and perfecting every detail, but when they appeared in the courtroom, the attorney never objected to anything the judge or prosecuter threw at him. We later found out that he had been paid an outrageous sum of money to stay silent.

To make matters worse, halfway through the trial, David Brown contracted pneumonia and died. After an autopsy was performed by a close family friend of the Browns, it was ruled that the pneumonia was due to complications from the gunshot wounds he had received almost half a decade earlier.  With these new developments and no allowance for a second, unbiased opinion, my father's charge was immediately changed to Murder.

And one week later: "We the jury find the defendant, William J Amis, Jr, guilty of the murder of David Brown."

My father was convicted and sentenced to 20 years in a state penitentiary. Protests broke loose outside the courthouse and appeals were filed, but with Brown's brother as the reigning Federal Judge of Texas, there was no hope. Immediately following the trial, my dad was held at the County Jail where the warden routinely snuck my mother, father and I into his office for visitation, which was under no circumstances allowed, but he claimed that if a judge could break the law, so could he. Two months later, my dad was transferred to Huntsville State Prison in south Texas. The first night he was there, one of his blockmates heard him sobbing and called out to him, "That you, Famous Amis?"

"You must be thinking of someone else. I'm hardly a celebrity."

"Naw, man...You're Famous Amis. Everybody in here knows what they done to you."

Next » :: My Hero (Part III of III - The Release)

:: My Hero (Part I of III - The "Crime")

After my last entry, I received a few comments and emails asking to know more about my # 10 fact regarding what happened to my dad. Normally I would add some sort of lengthy disclaimer before launching into it, but this time, I'm simply going to break it into three parts and let the story speak for itself. All I will add is that in 2000, my mother was contacted by a reporter from The Houston Chronicle who ended up publishing a 13-page article that has resulted in four book and two movie offers. Yes, it is every bit the Texas soap opera and yes...Every bit is true.

My grandfather graduated from Texas A&M with honors and was a top geologist for Shell Oil in the 1980s. After he had been with Shell long enough to learn the ins and outs of the oil business, he started his own and within a few years, Amis Interests was one of the most stable and trusted oil companies in Texas. Before he knew it, he had become a multi-millionaire. As it became more and more successful, he created a Trust to control the exorbitant amount of money pouring in from our productive wells. It was to be left to me, the only child left in the lineage, upon the passing of he and my father or upon my 21st birthday to ensure that I would never have to worry about my CF medical bills being paid or be at loss of an education. I was he and my father's world.

In 1988, my grandfather suffered a massive heart attack and stroke, then underwent two brain surgeries, a quadruple bypass surgery and a balloon surgery. He was rendered an invalid and Amis Interests was automatically thrown into the hands of my father. My dad was blind, had only completed two years of college at Texas Tech and had little knowledge of oil or the business in general, but he managed to run it well. In 1989, the company hit an all-time high and due to the demand at the office, he enlisted the help of a family friend, David Brown, to take care of my grandfather. Brown was an ex-judge of Texas and knew the family well, so he was unquestionably trusted.

Little did my family know that when Brown started caring for my grandfather, he had recently been disbarred from practicing law in Texas for stealing money from the elderly and from charities across the state. Situations soon began to arise though that made my father question Brown's loyalty to our family. There were extended periods of time where Brown and my grandfather would disappear, along with large amounts of my grandfather's drugs, with no forewarning or communication from either. When contact was finally re-established, my near-comatose grandfather would lie that they had gone on vacation and there was no need to worry. Shortly after this happened a third time, my father's secretary found legal documents signed by my grandfather and witnessed by Brown turning all government of our family's assets solely over to Brown...An action my grandfather, in his right mind, would have never even considered. Later, Brown's personal assistant admitted that on several occasions, Brown overmedicated my grandfather and forced him to sign papers giving him complete control of my family's wealth. He often mentally tortured my grandfather when he would resist, refusing to change his clothing for hours when he soiled himself and threatening that if he didn't do as he was told, he would never see me again.

Once this was brought to light, my father immediately filed a restraining order on Brown and asked to be driven to my grandfather's house to protect him. That same afternoon, Brown forced his entry into my grandfather's house and demanded to see him. My father showed him the restraining order, which Brown spit on and claimed didn't apply to him because he WAS the law. He began hitting and kicking my father and a blow to the back of the head sent my dad to the ground. My father reached into his pocket and took out a loaded pistol and unsure of where he was aiming due to his blindness, fired the entire round into the air, hitting Brown once in the neck and twice in the leg. As soon as he was sure Brown was no longer a threat to his father, he made his way to the phone in the kitchen, dialed 911 and told the operator he had shot a man in self defense, that all weapons were empty and to please send help as fast as possible because he feared for the man's life. Then, he waited by his dad's side for the paramedics and law enforcement to arrive.

Brown was taken to a local hospital where he was pronounced paralyzed from the neck down. After close scrutinization of the crime scene, two Texas Rangers told my father not to be remorseful and that he had done what any man would be expected to do for his family: He had acted in self defense and protected his father at all costs. They assured him that everything would be handled properly and sent him home with my mother and I.

Two weeks later, the local Police Department called and instructed him to turn himself in within 24 hours or a warrant for his arrest would be issued for the attempted murder of a prominent Texas official.

Next » :: My Hero (Part II of III - The Trial)

:: 28 Completely Unnecessary (But FUN!) Facts About Yours Truly

It's Monday night and I'm trying to pass the time while finishing my breathing treatments and winding down to sleep. The basic guideline is to come up with as many random facts as you are years old. So let's see what ridiculous things you and I are about to learn about me....

1) I'm a textbook Pisces. Damn feelings.

2) I graduated from high school, got married, got divorced, then started college. I'd call it white trash if it weren't me, but because it is, I refer to it as "living backward".

3) I have to have volumes on increments of 5. I WILL correct yours.

4) Up until like two days ago, I despised shopping. I don't know what happened, but my mom got more shopping out of me last weekend than she has my entire life. And she was so happy to finally have a shopping buddy she was practically skipping through the mall.

5) I firmly believe that all color schemes should include black and white zebra patterns with hot pink accents.

6) I grew up on a ranch where my dad bred and raised Quarter Horses, one of which he brought to my school and let my entire class take turns riding around the parking lot for my 8th birthday.

7) I've been baptized twice. (My mom forgot about the first time.)

8) I'm happiest when I'm traveling, taking pictures and listening to live music. If I can wrap all three of those into a single occasion I'm one happy pup.

9) I'm beginning to realize that 90% of the time, I like animals more than people.

10) My dad was wrongfully sent to prison when I was 9 years old and died there when I was 16. The world has never known a better man. He is my hero.

11) Some might consider me un-American because of the sheer number of classic movies I've never seen.

12) Because of complications with my digestion due to CF, I drink goat milk. No, I don't salivate when I pass a goat farm any more than you do when you see a cow pasture.

13) I've played piano since I was 5. I'm fairly out of practice, but I can play better by ear than I can read music.

14) I hate talking on the phone, but I'll text for hours on end.

15) When I eat pizza, I eat the toppings and bread separately. I also eat only the toppings off of my last slice.

16) I type 120 words per minute.

17) I can't tell a joke to save my life. Delivering the punchline is always my downfall. That, or the fact that the joke sucked in the first place  and I was the only one who found it funny.

18) Fire fascinates me.

19) I had my license revoked at one point for too many speeding tickets. I'd like to think I learned my lesson, but I still average around 45 for residential and 80 for highway.

20) Back in 2005, my ex Justin and I went to jail overnight together on our first date. I was taken in for a speeding ticket warrant (see exhibit 19) that to this day I SWEAR I paid and him for being drunk in public. Of the 14 hours we were there, over half of mine were spent in the waiting area with our arresting officer who flirted shamelessly with me while Justin sobered up in the detox tank and overheard every word from, "So does he treat you right?" to "Let me take you out and you can play with my siren".

21) I hate hate hate math. I understand that to some, there's comfort in knowing there is one indefinite answer. My problem comes from not being able to figure out that frickin' indefinite.

22) My furbaby, Biscuit, is named after Family Guy's Brian's mom, not the pastry.

23) I'm a total closet 80's hairband fan. There's something about that cheesy, electrically synthesized excuse for noise that makes me smile deep down inside.

24) Some girls collect purses. Some hoard shoes. I heart panties.

25) I've had a recurring nightmare at least twice a week since September 11th that wherever I am is in danger and I can never get a hold of my loved ones to say goodbye.

26) My intuition is so accurate it's scary. I just never listen to it.

27) My full heritage is British, Irish and French. I adore London, which I attribute to my British side; The Irish are lots of fun, so I claim them too; But I don't usually acknowledge my French side because, well, they're assholes....

28) I'm a firework. Katy Perry said so.

:: Forever Young

When describing my childhood, "sheltered" is an understatement.  Elementary school was accepting of innocence and naïvete, but junior high wasn't so forgiving. By sixth grade I was overweight...Because of how small my primary school was, I lacked the social skills and status to fit in at my pretentious parochial middle school...And above all else, I had something "wrong" with me. Something that made me different. Something that made ignorant kids shun me because of what their even more ignorant parents told them.

But I was oblivious to all of it because as a child, I acted like a child.  I was unaware of the pettiness and cruelty of the world. I was even unaware that others didn't have CF...Hell, I thought everyone set aside time in the mornings to blow Albuterol smoke rings. But I ran around outside. I played games. I used my imagination. This behavior carried into my junior high years and for it, I was an outcast. I didn't have many  friends growing up, but the ones I surrounded myself with were true blessings. Namely, my bestie across the street.

SG moved into my neighborhood when we were 9 and it wasn't long before we were inseparable. I joined her theatre company and participated in a week-long run of The King and I with her. We watched Clarissa Explains It All and adhered religiously to her guidelines for life. Her dad hid "clues" which we searched for as Nancy Drew and Bess. We believed that creating a string-can telephone with shoelaces and scraps of yarn tied together would be just as effective as using one long string and were dumbfounded when it wasn't. We laid dead birds to rest and made sure they were paid the proper respect in a makeshift bird cemetery to the side of my house. In short, while other people our age were already getting drunk, dabbling in drugs and enduring pregnancy scares, we were having FUN.

For high school I transferred from private to public education and went from a class of 37 to a class of 500 where it was easy to remain unnoticed by those different from myself and even easier to find others to click with. Although we shared few of the same classes and although she and her family moved to another part of the city, we remained close and through her, I met the close-knit group of girls that I keep in touch with to this day. But most importantly, when my dad passed away unexpectedly halfway through my sophomore year, she was the first friend I called and the last friend to leave that night. She skipped school to attend his funeral with me and her shoulder was the one I cried on after delivering his eulogy. And after my most influential and adored role model was gone, her father stepped up to the plate, took me under his wing and loved me, protected me and disciplined me as if I were his own.

2010 would have marked the 9-year anniversary of having not seen her and the 15-year anniversary of having not seen him. Instead of continuing that trend, I made the trip to south Texas after receiving a call from her that Dad had been diagnosed in the last stages of liver cancer. Admittedly nervous at first, I soon realized that even after all of the years apart and all that had changed, I didn't feel the slightest bit uncomfortable around my second family. In fact, we almost instantly reverted back to our childhood...We re-lived countless high school memories, posed provocatively on the mechanical Dino the Dinosaur outside HEB, terrorized a dead jellyfish on the beach with a stick, turned cartwheels around the town's tourist billboard and ate like we had our teenage metabolisms back.

Why and at which point does that leave us? Why do we trade childhood jubilance for stress and overachievement with barely anything to show for it? At least as kids, at the end of the day we were worn out but satisfied with our day's activities. As adults, we exhaust ourselves concerning what comes next, if our house is decorated fancy enough, if our car is sporty enough, if our jewelry is large enough and if we're high enough in the hierarchy.  News flash: It's NEVER enough. What will matter on your deathbed is core happiness.

To My Sweet Little Bacon Addict: Marriage, mini-you and 10-foot growth spurt aside, you will forever be SG to me, with your ice skating princess Keds and ponytail on top of your head. You and Dad are in my thoughts and prayers daily; I love you and will always love you like the sister I never had and I will be here every step of the way for as long as you need and want me to be. I am only a phone call and a plane ride away.