Please Don't Let Me Die: A Father’s Journey Through Grief and the Criminal Justice System

By Patrick McCarthy

A 16 year old girl dies while out with friends. Follow a father’s journey through his grief and the justice he seeks for those responsible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Carpenter's Son Publishing
• Release date: May 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9780988396210

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Notes

Part 1

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NEW YEAR’S DAY

JANUARY 1, 2007

I woke up New Year’s Day at the usual time of the morning, grabbed a shower, and hung out in front of the TV, waiting to completely wake up. After an hour had passed, I was ready to return to the backyard and get to work on the gazebo. I almost had that part of the yard done; I just had to put the finishing touches on the inside roof.

We had never celebrated New Year’s Eve before. It was always just another day that leads into another year that will lead to more work and struggles—something we had gotten use to.

The sun was shining – a rarity for Washington State in January - and it was cold. I had been working on the gazebo for about an hour when I heard the back door on the second floor fly open. I didn’t think twice about it; I thought maybe Lisa was coming out to see how the work was progressing.

My life was about to radically, horribly change forever.

It was Lisa alright, but she was in a panic. She leaned over the deck rail and, in a voice I had never heard from her before, said, Pat, they’re saying Danielle is dead.

I didn’t need to hear that twice. I dropped my tools and ran as fast as I could across the lower deck and up the stairs to the back door.

I will never forget that moment. Those words stopped my mind for an instant. I had never experienced that sensation before. My heart raced and I know that I ran as fast as I could across the lower deck. I felt like I was somehow caught up in some crazy, slow-motion time warp, but that I was still running as fast as I could. I’m not sure which was racing faster … my mind, the words that Lisa had just yelled across the backyard, or my legs. I don’t remember how I did it. It was all automatic.

As I entered the house through the back door, I was in total confusion, and denial, that somehow, possibly, my daughter may have died that night. My neighbor had heard from her daughter that morning that Danielle may have died. Her daughter saw a Myspace message being spread around that Danielle had died, but didn’t know if it was true. She came over to our house asking what we knew. I looked at her, trying to understand what might have happened. Did she know more than what she lead on? She just stood there, tears flowing down her cheeks, wide-eyed and shaking with panic. I walked in circles, not knowing what to do or who to call. Lisa had called several of Danielle’s friends, looking for Danielle.

My wife decided she would go to look for Danielle at the house that she had dropped her off the night before. As I called 911 and tried to explain to the operator what I had heard—I don’t even know if I made any sense—I was put on hold, and then told I would be called back. I sat on the couch, shaking, asking God to please keep her safe. I told myself I would see her in the hospital in need of treatment, but still alive. I recall sort of demanding that of God over and over again.

There was never a call back. Minutes passed, seeming like hours. I was afraid to call again; the first phone call had yielded no answers, so I thought that if I didn’t call back, then I would be spared the news I dreaded most.

But I had to. I had to find her.

I picked up the phone and again dialed 911. I got the same operator. Once again I was put on hold. I was relieved in a sense; surely he understood my need, and he seemed to be very understanding and reassuring. He transferred my call to a police agency up north. They asked how they could help, and again I tried to explain my problem. Yet again, I was told I would be called back. I believed it was the Edmonds police department, but I wasn’t sure. As I waited what seemed like hours—again, only minutes—my wife returned, and we were all in a panic.

Once more, I called 911. And still again, I got the same operator. I was transferred quickly to a desk sergeant. I was asked for my identity. I complied, and he then acknowledged who I was. There was a moment of silence before he said the words that ring in my head all the time.

I’m sorry, Mr. McCarthy, but your daughter has passed away. I remember, at that moment, I couldn’t feel my legs. I somehow managed to ask him where she was. He told me the coroner was at the hospital arranging for the transportation of her body to the coroner’s office. As I hung up the phone and looked at my wife standing in the middle of the living room with a panic in her eyes that I had never seen before, I slowly walked to her and wrapped my arms around her. I whispered, I’m sorry, and held her tight.

I knew what I had heard in that phone call, but it didn’t register. I knew there was a problem, but I couldn’t put it all together. Minutes later, I found myself standing in the living room alone as Lisa disappeared down the hall toward our bedroom.

What am I supposed to do? Who can fix this mess? Someone out there knows what to do, but who?

We called some relatives and they started to show up. We all looked at each other, not knowing what to do. I believe I was asked by the desk sergeant who had given me the news if the local police chaplain had contacted me. I told him that no one had called us. He then asked if we would like for the chaplain to come over. I answered that, yes, we needed him. About twenty minutes passed and we had a knock on the door - it was the Puyallup police chaplain. He entered and asked what he could do to help. We asked if he could find our daughter so we could go see her and let her know we were there for her.

He flipped open his cell phone and made some calls. I remained in a complete and utter fog. Everything moved in slow motion, and when someone spoke, it sounded like a speaker in a tunnel. The chaplain called the Snohomish County medical examiner. I then asked if we could go see her and was told that the medical examiner had answered no, that there was no room. Again, I told the chaplain I wanted to see her. I said that the coroner should put her in a hallway if needed, so that we could be with her. Again I was told, No.

I was in total disbelief that my little girl had died, but now she was no longer mine. Now that she was dead, she belonged to others, and they were telling me I wasn’t allowed to see her. The coroner said that we would see her when they were done with her. It was clear the chaplain didn’t understand what was going on. If I wasn’t in shock, I would have stood up to the chaplain and told him that no one can tell me that I can’t see my daughter, and that he had better let me know what city she was in.

Danielle had died and we had to be there. She was waiting for us; I knew that. She was waiting for us to tell her that we love her and that now it was time to go to God. Did she wait? Did her soul cry because we never showed up? Was she afraid to make her journey to God, and did she need us there to let her know that she must go? These questions remain with me to this day, and they add to all the other hurt I have inside.

I turned to the chaplain and said that maybe it’s not her. How do they know it’s her? He said he would drive to his office and return with a faxed picture sent by the medical examiner. This was my new hope: They could be wrong. I was pacing and checking out the front window, looking for the return of the chaplain. I was going to prove all of them wrong. People make mistakes and this was just one of them.

It seemed like hours before the chaplain to returned. When I saw him pull up, I hurried out the front door with my brother-in-law and met him in the driveway. As he walked toward me, he asked, Your daughter has red hair? At that moment, I knew she was still alive; a quick sense of calmness spread over me. I felt that I was now in charge and I was going to prove them wrong. He produced a large yellow envelope and opened it to reveal an 8-inch by 10-inch headshot of someone who was at the medical examiner’s office. My heart raced and my mind was set on not seeing my daughter, but someone else. I turned to my brother-in-law and said, It’s not her. The photo looked something like her, but it wasn’t her. This person in the picture had on different clothes then what I remembered, and her hair looked different.

My brother-in-law looked straight at me and said, It’s Danielle.

No, it’s not, was my immediate reaction, as I took the picture from him and studied it. I showed him the clothes that she would never wear, and that it looked like some kind of jewelry was around this girl’s neck. They looked like Mardi Gras beads. I now had the proof that it wasn’t Danielle. Without saying a word, I gave the picture back to the chaplain and turned and walked away.

I truly knew it was her, but I just couldn’t accept it, and I couldn’t accept that they wouldn’t let me see her. The one thing I do regret is not thanking the chaplain for all he had done for us. I hope he understands. I will forever remember that photograph and that morning. Along with the deep pain I feel every day.

My thoughts were all over the place. There was so much going on in my head, but I would have to climb our front stairs to the living room and face my wife, once again, to confirm that it was Danielle. I tried to believe that it wasn’t Danielle, but a small part of me said it was. I wasn’t going to tell Lisa I had doubts when that small part of me was right, and somehow that part took over. There I was, facing Lisa, and she could see in my eyes what my mouth couldn’t say. She turned and walked away.

I was standing in the living room alone, trying to wrap my head around all this. All I could think was, This happens to others. We see this on the news all the time. What am I supposed to do? I went and found our kids that were home, wanting to see how they were doing with this news that they were certainly aware of by now. I found our son, Pat, sitting on his bedroom floor in the dark. Everything was quiet. I leaned down and asked him if he was alright, but all I could see was a shake of his head: No.

Later that afternoon, Lisa wrapped her arms around my neck and whispered in my ear in a soft and barely audible voice. She asked God to please accept our baby girl, to hold her, to love her, and to forgive us for not being there to help her on her journey to Heaven. As we parted slightly, I wiped away her tears and said that God is holding her now, and that she will never feel pain again, only everlasting love.

Once again, I was alone with my thoughts. How was I going to fix this? I went outside on the back deck with my brothers-in-law, Dan and Gary. I stared off into space and then I broke down, realizing that my little girl was dead. I looked at Dan and said, What have I done in my life that God would punish me so badly as to take my daughter?

Part 2

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OUR FAMILY

THE BEGINNING

I was on my way to work, driving down Highway 1 from Oxnard to Malibu when I heard a song—the only line I could remember was Danielle Dawn. As I sang along I thought, What a beautiful name that is. A name I would name my daughter if I ever had one. For weeks, this song would come on every day on my way to work.

Then one day I listened to the lyrics of the entire song, instead of mumbling through parts unknown, when I realized they were actually singing Danielle Don’t, not Danielle Dawn.

But that didn’t bother me because I had that name stuck in my head from that day on.

When I first met Lisa, my coworker’s wife, I felt confused. She was someone that I would have loved to be with, but I knew I wouldn’t be so lucky. She always had her four young kids hanging onto her even when she was cooking and serving us dinner. She would juggle one on her hip and the others would be standing close by.

After just a few months working with her husband, he and Lisa separated and began to file for a divorce.

My girlfriend and I were having problems of our own; we were splitting up also. I had it in the back of my mind that if I could spend just a little bit of time with Lisa, then maybe we could somehow end up together—but I also knew that was a long shot.

Time went by and Lisa gave birth to her fifth child. I continued to work the same job, as a welder in Malibu, but I saw less of Lisa as her husband had moved on to another job. They were no longer married.

I had split with my girlfriend and was living alone, staying at a local motel. Lisa had heard I was staying at the hotel and called me. She wanted to come by and visit.

She arrived motel in the early evening, and she had her kids with her—all five of them. When she arrived and I opened the door, my heart stopped. God, she was beautiful. She came in and laid the kids on the bed and turned on the TV, and then turned off all the lights so her kids could sleep.

They watched TV and fell asleep while we talked about things that I don’t even remember. She was with me, and looking great, better than I could ever imagine.

I spent as much time as I could with Lisa, either on the phone or with her. I knew that if I worked on our relationship, she would want me and be mine. We hit it off right from the beginning. We ended up getting a rental house in a bad part of town, but a house big enough for all of us. We were together.

Many months passed and Lisa became pregnant. She would be the mother of my first child. I had mixed emotions, but I knew this was a good thing. We were going to have a baby—something I had always wanted.

Lisa’s labor was intense—long and painful. Never had I seen or heard someone giving birth. As time passed, I watched the contraction monitor they had placed on her stomach. As she would have contractions, the monitor would peak at ten, the highest number, signaling that birth could come at any moment. The tens came frequently and rapidly.

She looked at me and said that the baby was coming now. Get a nurse. Off I went looking for help. There I was at the nurses’ station, telling them she was going to have the baby now, but they assured me that we had plenty of time.

As I politely assured the station nurse that the baby was coming, she put her donut down and said, Alright, we will go and see what all the fuss is about.

The nurse walked into the room and saw the look on Lisa’s face and her eyes got real big. She called for help, and when the cavalry arrived, they unplugged everything from the walls so they could wheel the whole bed down to the delivery room. They kept telling Lisa, Not yet—but Lisa and the baby had other plans.

As soon as they parked the bed and turned to get gloves on, out came our son. They cleaned the baby and took care of Lisa as I stood there not knowing what to think. This I did know—I was the father of a son named Patrick Joseph McCarthy the Second.

I hoped we would have another child. Lisa said that when she went back to the doctor for her six-week checkup, she would ask to get her tubes tied. She didn’t want any more kids—no way. I never thought about that; I was just happy we had a son of our own. For Lisa, this was child number six.

The time had come to get married. I asked Lisa to marry me. She says it was more like, Well, what do you think? when I asked. Lisa later said she was a little apprehensive about giving me the answer I wanted to hear. She had just ended her first marriage and felt we needed to spend more time together. I assured her that I would never hurt her or leave her and I would love her for the rest of her life.

We had a small wedding in a park, and I was more than happy—I was truly blessed!

The six-week doctor’s visit didn’t go as planned; Lisa was pregnant again. She was not happy and I wondered how this could happen within a couple of weeks.

This was another quick pregnancy, just like with our son Patrick.

I kept working and time went by fast.

Before we knew it, we were at the hospital for another long labor with more complications, but this time the doctor was present and delivered the baby. And this time we had a girl.

There was no hesitation on her name, as I had thought about that name years ago on my way to work, singing and getting the words to that song wrong. My lyrics had been way off, but I was sure of that name: Danielle Dawn McCarthy.

THE FAMILY

We now had a complete family, though that is not to say that we didn’t have one before Pat and Danielle. But the family we had now—well, it seemed more than we could handle. I knew Lisa had everything under control, because she is the strength in the family. My job was to keep working, and I did.

Lisa eventually got a job, and I worked for a local welding company. We struggled, but we did what we had to do to stay afloat.

The kids took it all in stride. I started to notice how different Danielle was from the other kids. Not in a strange way, but in her personality. All the kids had a distinct personality and unique style, and they were definitely different from each other, but you could see similarities that connected them as brothers and sisters. Danielle’s personality was also unique, slightly different from her brothers and sisters. It seemed that she took the best parts of their personalities to build her own.

I don’t remember ever having to discipline Danielle; she must have learned the good and bad from her brothers and sisters. I do recall having to swat her butt one time. The expression on her face when she turned around and looked at me was like I had just ruined her world, and it got to me, which to this day breaks my heart.

Danielle was a happy kid; nothing seemed to bother her. She was ready for the world, and she loved the new preschool she was now attending. I have many memories from those days, but one stands out in particular. One cold day, the snow was blowing, and I had walked the hundred yards down the street to meet the bus that would be dropping off both Pat and Danielle from school. It was a miserable day, bitter cold.

Danielle: Age 3

Danielle: Age 15

The bus showed up and they both jumped off. We started our trek toward the house, but with all the snow and the wind driving even me backward, we