Oscar: An Accident Waiting to Happen

Introduction

Chapter 1: Bloody Valentine’s

Chapter 2: When Oscar Met Sam

Chapter 3: Oscar the Hero

Chapter 4: The Death of Mother

Chapter 5: Looking for a Surrogate Family

Chapter 6: Fallout

Chapter 7: Oscar’s Women

Photographic Insert - I

Chapter 8: Trigger Happy: Guns, Fast Cars and Speedboats

Chapter 9: Before the Olympics: Sam and Oscar

Chapter 10: Betrayal from a Distance

Chapter 11: The Olympics: The Inside Track

Chapter 12: Breakthrough

Chapter 13: On Shaky Ground

Photographic Insert - II

Chapter 14: Coming Home

Chapter 15: An Accident Waiting to Happen

Chapter 16: Bitter Endings: The Sports Awards

Chapter 17: Oscar Moves On

Afterword: Analysing Oscar

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Why on earth would I want to write this book? This is the question that will probably be asked a lot once it is published. Is it for money? Publicity? Fame?

The truth is I am absolutely terrified to tell my story, but I am more terrified not to. As hard as it is to get it all out, to sit day in and day out, spending months and months with Melinda
Ferguson, my writer, and going over all the pain and turmoil and chaos – especially now, in light of what has happened to Reeva and what transpired in the court case – I feel I must tell our story.

Already four months before Oscar shot and killed Reeva Steenkamp, as he ricocheted out of our lives, I was struck by a deep need to tell the story of how Oscar had come into our world and, how, over a period of 18 months, he almost destroyed my daughter Sam and negatively affected our entire family. During the Olympics of 2012 and after Oscar returned to South Africa, I feared that something terrible was going to happen. I believed strongly that Oscar was in dire need of help; that he was on the brink of suicide, or that something was about to happen – with disastrous consequences.

After things went sour between Oscar and Sammy towards the end of 2012, Oscar fabricated so many stories about Sammy, that hurt both her and her reputation, to justify his actions and hurtful behaviour. When one of Oscar’s friends phoned to threaten Sam and our family, to “watch our backs if we ever go back to Joburg”, I was forced to consult a psychologist and an attorney. I was extremely stressed. Both professionals advising me were as worried about Sammy and our family as I was. Up until then, to protect the privacy and safety of my loved ones, I had kept quiet. They advised that it was possibly the right time to speak out.

But at that stage, just after the glory of the “Oscar Olympics” of the summer of 2012, who would have believed me? Oscar Pistorius was the world’s darling. Why would anyone listen to me, his ex-girlfriend’s mother? Why would anyone heed my warnings? I feared they would turn on me – and I would end up scorned as the crazy, embittered mother. Sammy would be even more tarnished and threatened. Although I had first-hand information of Oscar that was extremely disturbing, that showed a side of him that was deeply unstable, and as much as I knew that people had to be warned, my larger sense was that no one would listen. So I listened to fear, and silenced myself.

Then on 14 February 2013 the world woke up to the news of Reeva’s brutal killing. Suddenly, my need to tell our family’s
story became overwhelming. I am not a writer, but I knew I had something important to tell and I knew I needed an author I could trust, and who would understand the importance of the story I had to tell. From the minute Melinda Ferguson and I met in May 2013, we connected. The truth is, I was on a mission to find her. Long before we ever met, I had read her first book,
Smacked
, while travelling on a train in Scotland; her story about her journey into drug addiction, and her subsequent healing, blew me away.

Mel understood what I wanted to say from day one. We have worked together, mostly in secret – meeting in hotel lobbies, in boardrooms, and in hidden back-room spaces. Mel has enabled me to tell my story, and I will be eternally grateful for that.

While this book was being written, we had no idea whether Oscar was going to be found guilty and sit in jail for a long time or be found innocent and live as a free man. In fact, we went to print before the outcome of the trial was announced. So in many ways it feels like we wrote the end of the book in the dark. But we both didn’t feel the outcome of the trial would change anything in the story.

If he walks free it will be even more important that people read this book. He is a man that needs help. Oscar himself admitted this to me on numerous occasions. If his family and friends were honest with themselves, they would admit this as well, and find him the assistance he so desperately needs.

The world should know the many layers that make up Oscar Pistorius. He was a world icon, a respected hero, yet he had many other sides to him. In the aftermath of the killing, people are still trying to make sense of what happened. I hope in some way this book will offer some insights.

I have done my utmost not to make this solely my daughter Sammy’s story, but rather our whole family’s – describing how we all experienced Oscar and how he affected our lives, as well as the agony we lived through as my daughter fell in and out of love with Oscar. But in telling this story, I have had to bring in elements of their relationship to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

This is a book about a person whose life went out of control and tragically impacted a number of others.

It is a book about an accident that was always waiting to happen.

I wish I had told my story earlier, when Reeva was still alive. Perhaps Oscar might have sought assistance and things may have turned out differently. It might even have saved a life.

Soon after Reeva died, I spoke to a well-known forensic scientist about my fear of telling this story. He advised me that if I wanted to protect my family from the threats of violence and keep the family safe, we needed to tell our truth. He told me: “It is safer to go into the light than it is to stay in the dark.” It is those words that have given me the strength and inspiration to write this. – Patricia Taylor, March 2014

– Patricia Taylor, March 2014

On the morning of 14 February 2013 I woke up with my neck aching so badly I could hardly turn it. I left a message for my chiropractor to get back to me, dropped my son Greg off at school and headed straight to the gym in Somerset West, the tranquil small town in the Western Cape, South Africa, to which we had recently moved, a haven from the rat race of Johannesburg.

Once inside the huge warehouse-like exercise dome, I turned my phone off, as I did every morning. It was the one time in the day where I could concentrate on my workout and be totally phone-free.

At around 8am I got off the treadmill and switched it back on, to hear if the chiropractor had called back…

Aghast, I saw that there were 54 missed calls and
SMS
es. Oh my God! Something terrible must have happened to one of my children…

My mind became a blur. Panicked, I could hardly move off the spot. I knew I had to get out of the gym, where popcorn music was blaring and the cacophony of trainers shouting “Burn it!” in sweaty studios all but deafened me.

By now my mind was racing double time. Had something happened to one of my precious children? On autopilot, I headed straight for the car, trying to scroll through the
SMS
es as I walked. Oscar’s name kept coming up over and over again.

I found my car in the parking lot, its gleaming bulk easily visible amongst all those other shiny, passive machines, waiting for their owners like good pets. By now my legs were lead.

Oscar. I saw his name over and over again.

Oh my God, he must be dead. He must have committed suicide – he had finally done it. Even before his relationship with my daughter Sam had ended, I had been dreading this for so long and now it had finally happened. I feared he would do something terrible eventually, especially after our last conversation.

My mind was racing. Maybe I had been too cruel, too honest? Had my truth talk been too much for him to bear? Maybe I could have done more to save him… God knows I had been trying to help him for so long. Why hadn’t I followed my instincts and called his manager, his coach, his family, as I had wanted to do time and time again?

I leant against the car, looking for my keys.

The phone rang, shocking me out of these thoughts that had now almost completely paralysed me. Where were my bloody keys?

“Is Samantha okay? Is Sammy with you?” My friend Sue was on the other end of the line. I hardly recognised her panicked voice.

Oh God, no.

“Samantha? Oh no, what’s happened? What’s happened to Samantha?”

The hysteria was beginning to rise.

“What’s happened? No – oh my God, Sue, please tell me… Why are you asking about Sammy?”

“Oscar has shot his girlfriend. But we can’t find out who it was. They are not confirming any names…” Sue’s voice trailed off. Suddenly, urgently, I had to get off the phone to call my baby girl.

My fingers pounded in the numbers on the cold metal.

Oh God. No. I remembered Samantha was in Johannesburg – but I was pretty sure she had not been seeing Oscar, not since things had ended so catastrophically three months earlier.

But what if he had somehow managed to get to her…? Maybe he had tried to manipulate her into reconciling, apologised, drawn her aside, big brown eyes full of tears, pain and remorse, begging
for forgiveness as had so often happened before. I know Samantha would never have willingly gone back to him, but what if he had tried to somehow force her to?

Please don’t let it be Sammy, I prayed. Please not my precious child.

Somehow I managed to unlock the door, and slide into the car seat, which was already hot to the touch, baking in the African sun.

Fingers shaking, tears blurring my eyes, I could barely dial her number. I waited interminably for her to answer. Please God. Please answer, please. Finally, Sammy’s voice.

A wave of relief immersed me. She’s alive… Thank God, thank God, thank God. At the same time, I blurted out, “Samantha are you okay…?”

“Mommy, Oscar has killed someone.”

On l4 February 2013 South Africa woke up to the news that South Africa’s golden boy, Paralympian Oscar Pistorius, inspiration to the nation, gold-medallist, athlete, the country’s pride and joy, had shot his girlfriend. Within hours she would be identified as 29-year-old Reeva Steenkamp, a legal grad turned model from the coastal town of Port Elizabeth. Reports that Pistorius had fired four shots into a closed bathroom door, believing an intruder was cowering behind the door, were soon under intense scrutiny.

Almost immediately, the intruder story was torn apart. Incredulity set in. Surely if your girlfriend was with you, wouldn’t you have called out, checked to see if she was okay? Wouldn’t you have told her you were going to the bathroom to investigate? Wouldn’t you have made sure she was okay before running into the bathroom and blindly shooting at the toilet door? Pumping bullets into a closed door without checking who was behind it?

In offices around the country, on school grounds, in taxis, in boardrooms and buses, an intense debate began about the circumstances of the killing. Theories grew like sponge sea monkeys. People became obsessed with the intricate details. Was he or was he not wearing his legs when he shot her? Did he wear
his legs to bed? What angle had the bullets been fired from? And then there was Reeva herself. Pictures of the glamorous blonde model were soon plastered all over newspapers and on the Internet.

There was no end to the stories, the rumour mill, the headlines in the tabloids, magazines, television. Newsstands were besieged, Twitter timelines burst with hashtags #Oscar #RIPReeva. The news of the murder went viral. From London to Moscow to Sydney to New York, every TV network harped on the story. It would go on for months.

The debate and the gossip grew tentacles and spread. Was Reeva having an affair, was Oscar incensed with jealousy? One of Reeva’s recent ex-boyfriends and rugby hero Francois Hougaard’s name was constantly mentioned in the newspapers and magazines that I read. The story was everywhere. Then there were other rumours: Was Oscar the one who was cheating? What were those
SMS
es on his phones and why couldn’t he remember the passwords? Was Reeva the one who was jealous? Did she perhaps grab his phone and run to the toilet to try to see who he was
SMS
ing? Did he in a moment of rage lose the plot because he wanted his phone/s back?

There were other reports that a number of people in the upmarket housing estate had heard loud voices arguing throughout the night, sounds of a couple fighting before the gun shots. Others described how much he loved her. Everyone was asking: did he know it was Reeva behind the door? Along with the rest of South Africa and the world, I wondered: did he pump bullets into her like some crazed psychopath in some homicidal rage or was it a human, albeit terrible, mistake?

The media were relentless with the questions that we all seemed to be asking: was Oscar on steroids? Was there any truth to the rumours of cocaine? Drinking? Was he psychologically disturbed?

Reports of a cricket bat covered in blood made headlines, but it soon turned out to be a case of shoddy misreporting.

Like the case that had captured the world’s attention back in the ’90s, this was South Africa’s OJ moment…

My phone just kept ringing. The messages were coming in quicker than I could open them. I spoke to so many people that day that I cannot remember most of the calls.

As I drove home from the gym, I switched on the radio to try to find out details. Every station was carrying the story, all of them repeating that Oscar had killed his girlfriend, but none of them was giving out the victim’s name.

I knew he had been seeing his ex, Jenna Edkins – pictures of the two of them together had been posted on her Instagram account just a few weeks earlier. In fact he had been seeing her on and off throughout his relationship with my daughter. I had been at school in the 1970s with Jenna’s aunt. I called her and left messages on her phone, asking if Jenna was okay. But I also knew Oscar had been seeing Reeva.

Before I got back home, I phoned Sam back. She was clearly shattered.

“Mommy, I don’t who it is, I don’t know what’s happening…”

As the morning wore on, the pieces started slowly coming together. Oscar had killed the woman he had taken to the South African Sports Awards, Reeva Steenkamp, the girl he had begun seeing just before things ended with Sammy.

Over the day my anger towards him mounted. All I could think of was how this could have been my precious daughter, that the girl with the bullets in her pelvis, head and arm, who was now dead, could so easily have been my Samantha.

Over the year and a half Oscar and Sammy dated, I had seen Oscar’s irrational side and love for guns grow and become more evident – the bullying, the shouting and the anger. I had seen that aspect of him, over and over again, and now it had come to this. I was enraged by what seemed to have been a senseless and violent act. How could he have killed this girl? Destroyed a life, a family? An entire country’s dreams?

I thought about all the calls, the conversations we had shared, during the year and a half that Sam and he were together, all the times I had tried to talk reason to him, after finding Samantha shut down, heartbroken, let down yet again by him. “Oscar, if you don’t look after my daughter…”, “Please drive safely with her, Oscar…”, “Please keep her safe”. But then I would hear of yet another incident of him driving at mind-bending speeds, losing his temper, of not honouring an agreement. Those endless pleas now seemed futile.

All the times I had doubted myself, had thought that maybe I was an overprotective and interfering mother – all that fear and foreboding about what Oscar might do to hurt her, or whether Sammy would come to some harm – now I could see that all my attempts at intervention were justified. All the nausea I felt, waking up in the middle of the night, worrying, worrying, worrying, had been for a reason.

Instinctively, I had sensed the danger Sam was in, and knew that things had to end between them. Thankfully I had confronted him in late October, just three months before the killing, and had ordered him to stay away from Sam, and leave our family alone.

Hearing about Reeva’s brutal death, I felt immense sadness – for her family and friends, but mainly for her. Who can imagine the terror she might have endured that night, as she stood behind the bathroom door?

At the same time, as much as my heart went out to Reeva’s parents, I couldn’t help feeling both intense terror and relief that my daughter had somehow escaped Reeva’s fate.

Over the following months, in the early hours of the morning or late at night, I would also often think back to the beginning, to a time when we had all been so excited to meet him, to have him in our home, around our table. How happy we had all felt seeing Sammy and Oscar so in love. And then as time went by how we watched, horrified, as he veered dangerously toward the edge.

And how now, less than two years later, by mid-February 2013, it had all gone so terribly wrong.