The Silent Scream

By Sandra A. Jones

THE SILENT SCREAM

As an early teenager, Sharon moved with her family to a part of the country not far from where she had grown up, but culturally, it was a million miles away. She endured the hardships of not being accepted in school or in the community and then one day she realized that she was a stranger in her own family. Sharon tried to reason whether her parents had always been that way or if they had been coerced into accepting a strange way of life. They had become treasonous enemies against her very soul. Eventually she was forced to change, or become, a good actor in order to survive to adulthood. She felt confused not knowing what to do or where to go, she was only sixteen

Thinking she would endure a loveless marriage and build a normal life for herself, she made mistakes. She had no intention of letting the children she bore become a product of that destructive environment - she would flee one way or another. Later in life, thousands of miles away, she encountered even greater challenges than she had experienced in the place from which she had escaped

Relative power governed the world of her teens. A turn to politics showed her another world of falsehoods. Greed, money, and the search for truth ruled her life as an adult. There was no winning; no life of normalcy - until the truth finally set her free. Like following a true compass, she found her refuge and learned that success is a journey not a destination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Nov 16, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452088457

Sandra A. Jones

Sandra Jones is mature and experienced in life. She writes from her life's experiences and her first- hand knowledge of the experiences of others. Ms. Jones feels that her writing about such issues might bring some comfort to those who can identify with those experiences, knowing they are not alone in their memories nor their sufferings. Her experiences stem from having lived within various cultures of mainland America, having the KKK at the heart of her own family. She was taught to love, but her exemplar showed hate. She was taught to have compassion, while being shown ridicule and indifference. She was taught to be honest, yet her every encounter with friendship and family betrayed her. She then embraced island life in both the one million population metropolitan area of Oahu and the rural areas of the outer islands. She submerged herself into several of the thirty various cultures that control the islands and emerged from the grips of the various syndicates who would attempt to control her life. Though they did take her freedom for a while, they never broke her spirit and she returned to her beloved Hawaii to begin again and to write many stories about her life and those whose lives she touched. She is thankful for all that she has gained in life, continuing her love of people and refusing to be conquered by evil that is intended to take one to a new low.

Book preview

Preface

I always wanted to write a book about someone else’s life, a book of fiction, based on whatever I thought would sell at the time. The world’s ever changing interests ran differently from year to year. There was one year that everyone seemed to be fascinated with homosexuals and the consequences of their lifestyle. Aids was a big deal for a couple of years, and movies and books abounded on the subject. Then there was the year of the personal budget emphasis on everyone’s life. Well, I had written a book on family money management back in the early seventies and everyone told me it would never sell, as no one would care about the subject. Then in the eighties, it was all the rage and has continued to be in some way or other ever since. The Success Guru era, I call it, took its stand when a well known Guru’s books and television shows were popular and everyone wanted to learn from the master, the art of making money. Those types of shows and books continue even today.

Then, one day I observed my own life, in retrospect and determined that I didn’t need those pages of fiction. Mine was a life filled with interesting details far more exciting and revealing than any fiction I could conjure. If I didn’t experience it, someone close to me did. Then came this book, but only a chapter of my life to share with the world, whether friend or foe. In reality, this book could be the start of several books to follow. Does it include some fiction? Perhaps.

The names of the characters have certainly been changed to protect both the innocent and the guilty. And guilty there were some. Some might call this both a revelation and an expose’ of unknown practices in our country, where most have been taught and led to believe that as a nation, we are a sanitized people and that bad things do not happen to good people, not here. By all means, turn the pages and see for yourself, as this is a story of loss and is based on a true story.

Acknowledgement

Thanks to my dear friend, Mary Anne. Though now deceased, was there for me to help me endure my darkest trials, and then brought me home again.

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Contents

Preface

Acknowledgement

CHAPTER ONE

The Arrest

CHAPTER TWO

From Bees to Rabbits

CHAPTER THREE

White Hood

CHAPTER FOUR

Sit Ins

CHAPTER FIVE

Lost in the System

CHAPTER SIX

More Secrets

CHAPTER SEVEN

Desperation

CHAPTER EIGHT

A Strong Will

CHAPTER NINE

Betrayal

CHAPTER TEN

Wrong Color

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Syndicate

CHAPTER TWELVE

Evil Gets Even

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

On the Road

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Super Team

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Crossing the Border

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

A Time to Kill

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Room with No View

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Buried Alive

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Lose to Win

CHAPTER TWENTY

Rumor Has It

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Nothing to Lose

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Dazed

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

New Start

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

It Can’t Be Done

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Home at Last

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Done!

Citations

CHAPTER ONE

The Arrest

It was about noon and I was working at the computer in the small company’s accounting office near Jackson, Mississippi, when the phone rang. I answered, and the voice on the other end was my son, Mark.

"Mom, I’ve been arrested by the FBI and they’re looking for you too. Do you have your money with you? Get out of there now, don’t go back to the apartment, just get in the car and drive. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be alright. Just get out of there and go west, go back to Cabo. I’ll find you. I think they’re going to take me back to Arizona. Go! Now! Don’t wait around for anything. Just go."

Ok, Mark. I don’t understand, but I’m going. Be careful. Love you, son.

My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would explode from my chest. My hands were damp and clammy when I picked up my bag and calmly but briskly left the office. Nervously, I crossed the parking lot, got into my car and headed for the main highway.

Damn, only a quarter tank of gas. I drove west towards the Mississippi River and just as I could see the commercial area coming to an end, with endless miles of nothingness to follow, I spied a service station and pulled over. Trying not to show my anxiety, I quickly fueled up, calmly exchanged pleasantries with the attendant and drove away. I could now easily clear the state line if I didn’t stop or get pulled over. I drove so as to not draw any attention to myself, an almost impossible feat since I’m driving a late model maroon Cadillac with a tan ‘cabriolet’ top through a poor community.

It is near noon and I suspect no one will miss me until after one o’clock. They’ll just think I left for lunch and will be back soon. I need to get as far as I can in this hour. As I moved steadily towards the west, my mind went back to the apartment and I wondered, what will become of our clothing and personal things. As it stands, I have no other clothes except what I’m wearing. If I had only thought to keep a jacket or spare pair of comfortable shoes in the car. No matter how prepared you think you are for life’s surprises, you’re never ready for what you HAVE to do.

It was an overcast day, as the temperature began to drop already and it was becoming cool outside. As I crossed the Mississippi River bridge at Natchez, I reached down and flipped on the heater switch. Relaxing back into my seat, I caught sight of the ‘Welcome to Mississippi’ sign in my rear view mirror. The lonely highway headed for Shreveport was sparsely travelled this time of day and the look of winter had already begun to show its barren ugliness.

Mark’s words were echoing in my mind and I was shivering from fear more than from the cold. I began to sob and then I heard myself scream so loudly it startled even me, "No, no, no. Why God, why is this happening? Not my baby. Please, please watch over my baby boy." This was the most agonizing and horrific experience of my life - I lost total control of myself. How could this be happening! I pulled off the road to gain composure, only to lose it again. I was devastated! What must he be going through? Why has he been arrested? What is going on? My God, my God, how can this be happening to us. I heard myself scream again and I wailed in pain and agony. Visions of jail and the people held there flashed before my eyes and it was all I could do to breathe. I was coughing and choking from the thought of seeing my clean, wholesome son in that setting. My screams might as well have been silent. No relief came though I frantically searched my memory and my heart for answers. What have I done to bring this about?

I can’t keep my mind straight, where is Mark now and is he okay?

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The steel door slammed shut behind him as Mark moved slowly across the room in search of a place to sit down. He was tired and hungry. An attractive young man, about 5’11", light brown hair, fair complexion, bluish green eyes, neatly dressed and clean shaven, he grew up somewhat sheltered in small town communities. He knew nothing about jails, prisons and the people who went there. He had no street-wise intuitiveness that could serve as a protection for him. He was respectful, open and direct with people. The only one to ever teach him the ways of the world’s loose conduct, was his ex wife who married him for all the wrong reasons and then took everything he cared about and worked so hard for, including his baby girl.

Mark sat on a concrete block ledge inside the cell with both hands holding his chin, elbows propped on his knees. He was thinking back on how his mom might be dealing with the news he had given to her on the phone earlier. "Where might she be? Did she listen to me and flee for the state line? Did she return to the apartment? I hope she didn’t go back there. I’m sure they’ll be watching the apartment." Oh, God, please be with her, I know she can’t handle being arrested. How could any of this happen to US? What have we done? As the afternoon slipped away, he began to think more about his mother and his childhood. Mom was always busy, always working on something or else cleaning or cooking. She always wanted me to take naps when I was very young, which I never wanted to do. Always looking to distract her from the idea, I’d ask her questions and talk about something, anything. "Mommy, was your mommy a good mommy like you?"

Oh yes, she replied, she was a very good mommy when I was little like you.

Tell me about you when you were a little girl, please mommy?

When I was little like you, I had to take naps every day, just like you. It was actually one of my favorite times growing up. There was a window next to my bed and it pushed up and open. I remember one day, it was cool outside and the sky had white billowy formations taking shapes… clouds sitting on a light blue beautiful background.

The white sheer curtains tied back on either side were flying in the breeze. My mother was a young woman then, in her mid twenties, long, flowing wavy dark hair; green eyes. She always wore a cotton house dress and was always barefoot, showing off her well kept dark red toe nails. She also kept her finger nails manicured and painted as well. She didn’t work. She stayed home and cleaned and cooked like most mommies in the forties. She was attractive with medium olive complexion.

When I was about 3 years old, I had blonde hair that hung in ringlets. My eyes were dark steel blue and I had a pudgy tummy, like you. She laughed and poked mine and we both giggled. She went on to describe, I was lying on my bed in my bedroom looking out at the sky and pointing to cloud formations, I see a doggie’s head, see the ears? she giggles. My mommy laughed and pointed, I see a man’s nose and big eyes. Oh and look, there’s a bunny. I giggled uncontrollably and Mom proceeds to tickle me until it began to hurt and we both were giggling."

I don’t know your mommy, do I? Mark asked.

No, she explained, She doesn’t live near us and it takes a long time to go see her, but we will some day. Then, she began to tickle me and we both giggled until she cried.

As I wondered where mom was now and how she was doing, I heard a disturbance, footsteps and the metallic clanging of steel doors opening and closing.

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Still on the road, it’s starting to rain hard now and the traffic is starting to pick up as the end of day is releasing its workers to return home. I’ve counted some four state police cars in the past hour or so and I’m being careful and steady with my driving. I think about Mark and wonder if he will survive where he is? I begin to pray for protection and help. Mark didn’t deserve any of this.

He was smart and intuitive which caused him to see things a little differently than the rest of the world. He had a comical way of viewing life and at the age of five, he proved to be a regular standup comic at family gatherings. Unlike most kids, he wasn’t just gifted in one subject or one art, but had a huge depth of understanding about a great many things. Mark had a curiosity about absolutely everything and searched through so many interests seeking the one thing he could become passionate about.

The school counselors were forever wanting to push him forward four years all through grammar school. We allowed one year to be skipped and then insisted that he stay back so that he would have a more normal social life with those of his own age and be able to engage in sports with those of his comparable age and size throughout middle school and high school. He did participate in sports where he went to school most of his school years in Alabama. He began having severe headaches when lifting free weights and due to his smaller stature, also decided to drop sports, especially football, once he entered high school as he was sure to suffer permanent injuries.

We moved to Colorado during his senior year and he finished at Columbine High School in Littleton half a year earlier than his class. He hardly had time to make friends there except with his teachers. He was given a commendation by the President and awarded a scholarship by University of Colorado at Boulder to pursue his dream of becoming the next F. Lee Bailey, a defense attorney. The week that he attended his orientation and signed up for classes at UC , he decided to forego higher education in pursuit of a more spiritual side of life, and began making arrangements to move to New York in pursuit of that goal to become a full time missionary and or do volunteer work in a support position for full time missionaries. Perhaps we were wrong to hold him back in school.

Soon after making this decision, his dad announced that he was leaving and going back to Mississippi to live with his parents. He had never really wanted marriage and children and he was calling it quits because he wanted to be single again. He also announced that Mark’s older brother was moving out with him, leaving me to make it on my own.

Mark decided to set aside all his plans and remain with me. We had always been close and I think it was difficult to imagine our going our separate ways, being so far apart and his not even being able to envision where I was and how I was doing. I was an accountant but had only lived in Colorado for three years and had not successfully built up my practice. I couldn’t see myself staying in Colorado with no job prospects, except the one offered me in another major city of Colorado working with the IRS, of which I had vehemently disagreed with all my adult life. I hated to see Mark leave school, but I wanted him to pursue a lifestyle that would make him happy. I never expected my boys to live MY life, but I always wanted them to live their own lives, doing what they really wanted to do, just do it well.

It was Mark who came to me and asked the question, Mom, where would you most like to live if it were up to you, and you alone? You have no reason to consider us kids any longer, or our schooling or anyone else’s desires. I thought for a few minutes and answered very decidedly, Hawaii.

Mark and I had visited Hawaii the previous year, spending three weeks on three islands and that had been a very pleasant experience in so many ways. He smiled and said, Then you need to unpack some boxes, Mom, everything goes! Everything included the total contents of a large, four bedroom house and office in Lakewood, a suburb of Denver. There had to be a quarter million dollars worth of antiques, collectibles, furnishings of high quality that we would liquidate. The only problem was that the oil and gas industry had just taken a hard hit that same month of April, 1986, and the unemployment in the oil and gas industry was dumping engineers into jobs of pumping gas and bagging groceries. Accountants weren’t fairing very well either in those days and things looked rather bleak. There was no doubt in my mind that we would sacrifice everything at very low prices. I was just glad we had so much to sell, as the proceeds per item were scant to say the least. I ran an ad in the local paper, Mark and I created signs and threw open the house to sell pretty much all our worldly possessions (except what my husband and my older son wanted to keep). What we didn’t mail to Hawaii, we carried on the plane. Once we bought our tickets, made arrangements to ship the stereo and Marks’ car out of Oakland, California., made arrangements to ship, Pierre, our miniature French poodle, some boxes of personals by Mail, we drove out the driveway in Mark’s newly acquired conservative Cutlass for which he sacrificed his 1965 classic Corvette convertible. We left with a mere $6,000 in our pockets. Not much to start a new life, but we had confidence and a willing spirit to work hard at getting established in a new place. I had a calm heart regarding the sell out and the move. I wanted a fresh start and I didn’t want things that I had shared in a loveless marriage, and I did look forward to a new life. As Mark had encouraged and pointed out to me, I needed to make my own choices and for once, pursue my likes and dislikes. I looked forward to my new life! However, I was extremely concerned about my son, Jonathan, accompanying his dad back to Mississippi. What could I say to him that he hadn’t already heard before. I knew it wouldn’t work out for him, but he needed to learn that for himself. My boys didn’t really need me. Even if they had to endure some hard knocks, I knew they would be just fine.

Although Mark was going with me, I didn’t expect that he would remain with me. I expected that he would eventually go forward to New York and pursue his goals, once he knew that I was settled in and happy where ever I might land in Hawaii. Little did I know what would occur even in that first year living in Hawaii.

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I remembered learning something I never forgot and have often had to pull on to survive a bad marriage: Don’t let anyone break your spirit! They can control it a little, but they can’t break it, if you resist! I pondered that and wondered if I had ever shared that with Mark. I hope he doesn’t need that encouragement, as I can’t get to him now. And, then, I remembered something he said on the phone that morning, I’ll find you. What was he thinking? What did he mean by that? I think he meant to go to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, a small area, return to places we had frequented there and he would find me. He was confident that he wouldn’t be gone long?

It was now dark and raining even harder. The cover of darkness gave me a sense of security in that it’s harder to spot a rolling target in the darkness. Even at a service station, no one is as alert to who is coming and going when it is dark and raining hard.

I drove into a very large truck stop west of Shreveport, gassed up the car, checked the oil and water levels. It was dark, cold and really raining hard, so I pulled into a parking stall and got out. I ran through the rain into the truck stop where I purchased a thermal lined sweatshirt with a hood. Not having a jacket nor sweater, I figured this would suffice, since its warmer where I’m headed. I smelled the food radiating from the restaurant, and decided to sit for a meal. It was here that I began to think more clearly about my situation.

It has now been about 8 hours since I ate breakfast. I used the phone and called my other son, Jonathan, who lived in south Mississippi about two hours drive south of the apartment that Mark and I abandoned that fearsome day. Upon leaving the truck stop, I purchased an envelope with a card from the gift shop and mailed the apartment key to Jonathan to use to go up and remove all mine and Mark’s things from the apartment and take them to his house to hold for us. I only spoke to Jonathan a couple minutes, as I knew the FBI could be listening in and I didn’t tell him where I was or where I was headed, only that I didn’t know and would be in touch with him. Jonathan was in shock as to what had happened and said he had not heard from Mark.

Having made contact with Jonathan made me feel a little better and the meal was refreshing. I purchased a snack to take along for later, and decided to continue to drive as far as I could go before stopping to rest. I felt exhausted emotionally, but I was too anxious and frightened yet, to be able to sleep. All I could think about was getting as close to where Mark might be taken and get as fast and far away as I could from Mississippi. I didn’t even know why I was running, but I knew my son would never tell me to run if it hadn’t been extremely important that I do so. I had to keep moving! As I pulled away from the truck stop and onto the highway headed for Dallas, I thought back to a different time. I wondered if I had been a good mother to my boys. God knows I love them both so dearly. They are the loves of my life. I looked for love in a spouse and didn’t find it. I know it is possible to find it. I just didn’t find it. I had hoped that my boys would find it for sure. What I hoped I did give them both was the sense of a good family home life, a place of refuge, a soft spot to fall. Since I never had those things as a child, all the more so I wanted to give them to my sons. A child needs that. Everyone needs that. Did I cause this terrible thing to happen to us? Have I done something wrong to be deserving of this horrible thing that is happening to us? My mother was a good mother to me when I was so young and then something happened to her, or was it that something happened to me to cause the change that took place in my mother? I guess it’s true, children always find a way to blame themselves when the parents are unhappy or do crazy things to each other and to the family whom they are supposed to love. I have a few memories of times when life with my parents seemed to be happy. I remember very little about my childhood.

When I was about five, my mother became very unhappy and began showing hostility towards me. Out of nowhere, she would swear at me and threaten me and far too many times she carried out her threats. All too often, she followed through on her threats. I remember her telling me that I was the cause of her not being beautiful any longer, for screwing up her figure. I didn’t even understand what she was talking about, but what I did to her must have been pretty bad. She was overweight by at least 30 pounds, and angrily yelled at me. I was small and petite without an ounce of extra cushioning on my small frame. She sent me flying across the room with one swift sweep of her hand and arm. I remember the surprise of hearing that high pitched shrill. It fell out of me involuntarily. Later, I had hoped, my response would have effected my mother. But it didn’t and there were no apologies, no kisses to make it better. No one heard my breaking heart. I only had my bed, my teddy bear and myself for comfort. I sang a favorite song, there’s a rainbow in my heart and then repeated to myself, I am a good girl. I knew I had done nothing wrong.

I never knew why, but I knew when she was capable of hurting me and by staying away from her when there was no one else in the house, I managed to escape many of those hurtful sessions. Angry, bitter, and probably frustrated, for not being allowed to pursue her dreams and talents, she had to suppress all she ever wanted to be or do. What was that about? How can a loving husband allow that, much less cause it to happen to someone he loves and cherishes? I assume he caused it. As an adult, I can look back on it and know I did nothing to deserve her rage. I never told my dad about it, but I always had bruises all over my legs and hips and thighs and arms. The ones on my arms and legs were visible and Dad always presumed that I was clumsy and did it playing. I never said anything. I would look at my mother and see that look and I knew better than to say anything, so I just became quiet. I had a close friend during those early years in Bossier, Jeanine. She lived a few blocks away but her grandmother and grandfather lived across the street from us so I saw her quite often when she visited them. They were French, first generation from the old country and spoke very good English but with a thick accent, so I had to listen very carefully in order to truly understand them. Her grandmother was very kind and generous with drinks and cookies every time Jeanine came to visit and we played at their house. I recall her grand dad who sat in the same old rocking chair in the bedroom near a window where he could see the vegetation and birds in the back yard.

He was always tinkering with something, fishing lures or reading. He was a very large man, but kind and gentle. The grandmother was thin, with long hair that was braided and twisted about the back of her head and sometimes brought up on top of her head. She was mostly gray headed while black showed through as well. She wore rimless eyeglasses all the time and was forever wearing one of those cobbler’s aprons with the bib that rose high and covered her chest. Various floral patterns on white backgrounds and always a ruffle around the bib and often with pockets. She was always either cooking or cleaning, but mostly cooking. Their house was dark and their furniture was old but nice. Each room had a wooden floor with room sized thick, dark floral rugs. When Jeanine and I would go inside, we had to walk around the fringes of the room on the wood and try to stay off the carpet because we never removed our shoes while inside the house. Jeanine was a couple years younger than I was, so as we moved through school, she eventually was left behind in elementary school while I was moving on to Junior High School. We saw each other more often at home than at school, but we did see each other quite often and while I was afraid to tell her of my bad relationship with my mother, for fear she would find me not worthy of her friendship, I did enjoy those years of companionship and the opportunities it gave me to get away from my mother’s wrath.

Dad had an idea of how Mother could be to him, for sure. I remember their fighting. When they would start, I would go to the middle of my bed, pull my pillow over my head, sobbing quietly to drown out the noises being made by the yelling in the other room. This occurred often. I never knew the reasons for it but I always felt really sad. Once, I recall hearing them yelling and my room door was open. I went to the door and saw them pushing each other back and forth in the hallway. I closed my door, ran into my closet and sat behind the boxes stored there on the floor, hoping if they came in, they wouldn’t find me. That was the only time I felt like my bed was not safe enough for me.

I’ve heard people say that the 40’s and 50’s were a great time to live. The illusion is that all families were happy then. Not all. Perhaps for the men of the family. Women on the other hand seemed to have a different path. It seemed that women were told that they could only marry, quit life, serve the husband and children and then die. Mother lacked the courage necessary to fight for and pursue her dreams. Is that how it was? That’s how the life of a woman was presented. But Dad was an intelligent man and he should have been smarter than to expect his wife to be a slave to him and a house. She was once a beautiful young woman and her lifestyle was such that she had no financial worries. However, she was noticeably unhappy, especially about the time we all moved from Bossier City, La., to Mississippi in 1959. She really became unhappy. She did have a dream, and a talent, as I recall. I don’t know when, but at some point in time, mother had taken some commercial art classes. She had an easel and large black cases with drawings and drawing paper inside. I once watched her sketch in pen and ink, the anatomy of a horse in motion with every muscle and tendon. Even as a child, I recognized that it was extremely good and of course, I had many questions about it. She was happier when she was drawing or painting. She showed me how to do some things, how to make trees, shape certain things like houses and I remember those hints to this day. She talked about the importance of shadowing and lighting on a picture. She seemed to be better at drawing than painting. I remember one day when my dad walked into the room, she showed him her pen and ink drawing and he was not interested. Instead, he criticized her for not having prepared dinner yet. He was an attractive man, but screwed up his face a lot and muttered that she was wasting time and money on such nonsense. I watched her frustratingly, but quietly put away her paints and brushes, pens and ink bottles and retire to the kitchen to cook and serve the evening meal.

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I turned off the wipers, as the rain was starting to dry up now. The sign tells me that I am almost to Marshall, Texas. I remember going there as a child when Dad needed chiropractic adjustments. Louisiana didn’t recognize chiropractors as doctors and refused to issue a license to those practicing the art. My dad believed in their expertise, as he had said more than once that had they not corrected a pinched nerve, he would still be wearing glasses. Therefore, no matter what was going on, he drove there every other week.

CHAPTER TWO

From Bees to Rabbits

When my dad got an idea in his head, he pursued it