Redemption (29 page)

Vandalia

isitors enter through the front gate at Vandalia. Offenders are processed through a separate entrance in the back. In August 1998, we arrived in three large white vans, mine holding about twenty inmates. One van was filled with just inmates’ property. I had a hard time leaving Chillicothe because it had been my home for the last six years, and for most of those years, it was like living in a kiddie camp. The place didn’t even look like a prison. I thought Vandalia might be easier to deal with because we would know exactly what was expected, whereas at Chilli, the new warden was flexing his muscles and taking away new freedoms on a daily basis.

A car met us at the front of Vandalia, and we followed it around back. A razor-wire fence slowly opened, and we got a look at the large red buildings with floodlights pointing down from every direction.

My friend Shelley said, “Oh my God. Why did we volunteer to come here? What did we just do?”

My thoughts echoed hers. It was such an impersonal, overwhelming, unwelcoming facility.
What choice had I just made? Was this really my new home?

Jennifer was with me, too. She smiled her beautiful smile and said, “Well, at least I won’t be alone.”

I nodded my head.

Jennifer said, “Toto, I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore.”

“No shit,” I said as I looked at the compound with the brightest lights I’d ever seen.

After the four-hour ride, they unlocked the vans and took us in through a back hallway with buzzers at the entryway. The building was new—that was the only refreshing change from the bug-infested penitentiary I had just left. The tile floor was made of random patterns of soothing colors—mauve, seafoam green, cream, light blue, and tan. The randomness of the tiles drove me insane because I liked order. I could look at those floors for hours and never find a pattern.

Each building had four wings and a central rotunda. The officers were enclosed in a small, round desk area within the rotunda. They were not protected by glass. This central space had computers and monitors as well as a control panel for the officers to buzz open the doors—not our cell doors, but the main door to each wing.

Glass windows ran all along the outside of the wing walls. An officer could sit in the rotunda and see what was going on in the wing dayrooms and hallways, which were video monitored.

When I first entered a wing, I noticed the large open area called the dayroom. I could see upstairs and down the hallway. Inmates from upstairs and down congregated in the dayroom during open hours. There was a phone room with two blue collect telephones that we could use. On the other side of the hallway was a small room that contained a TV; only downstairs inmates could go in there. The upstairs TV area was not enclosed.

As I looked down the hallway, I saw a utility room with a large sink where we could find our mops, brooms, and other cleaning supplies. On the opposite side of the hall was a laundry room with a washer and dryer; each floor had its own facility.

The shower area was off to one side. We had five showers in our bathroom, tiled in small bubblegum-pink squares. The color made me nauseated if I stared at it too long. The showers had a small curtain rod and a bench for our belongings—all in bubblegum. I found out that the water never got very hot, and the pressure always sucked. I couldn’t move the showerhead, so I had to find the one that pointed down and didn’t spray me in the face. I grew to prefer shower number three. If someone was in the shower, we had to call our place in line. Jumping the line was grounds for a fight. I never jumped the line, but I got cross if someone jumped over me.

My room was down the hallway on the first floor. It locked from the outside with a key. It had a beautiful new maple laminate door with a three-inch window running down the top half and a brass doorknob. Four beds lined the walls, two along each side. White metal frames held a hard plastic mattress filled with some unknown substance. Each bed had a blanket, sheets, and one pillow. We were allowed to order our own blankets, so I got one that was light blue and embroidered with my name so no one could steal it. We were allowed to have a small personal area rug, and mine was light blue. We had a cream-colored stand-up metal locker next to our beds. A footlocker was shoved under each bed. Everything we owned had to fit into these two areas. We hung our towels on the side of the tall locker. I ordered a royal blue one. The only items we were allowed to have on top of our lockers were a Bible, a cup, and two picture frames.

At the foot of our beds was a small metal tray that held our TV. We could watch it only during certain hours and not during count. We’d keep them on during count anyway and just listen for the officer to walk down the hallway. We could usually hear the guard’s keys; if not, someone in the room before ours would cough as a signal to turn them off. I would watch my TV with my toe on the power button so I could flip it off quickly.

In the center of the two beds against one wall was a stainless steel shelf for electrical appliances. I kept a dual deck tape player, Walkman, curling iron, and blow dryer there. The walls were creamy white cinderblock. I counted the blocks in the room over and over again.

In the middle of the room was a laminate table with T-bar legs and seafoam green plastic chairs. At the end of the room was a large window with two-inch-thick metal bars three inches apart. There was no way to fit through that window, and I considered every angle.

I thought the large red buildings looked like holding barns. They reminded me of the Bob Evans restaurants, and to this day, I cannot eat at a Bob Evans.

———

I knew a lot of people at Vandalia. Most of the faces—staff and offenders—were familiar. But my closest friends were Jennifer and Roberta. I was still having trouble opening up to people. At least I liked my job; I worked in recreation as a clerk, and it was peaceful. I liked it because I could work out as much as I wanted, usually an hour a day plus lifting weights. Exercise took away some of my loneliness, and I got too skinny there for a bit. I didn’t care; building up my body felt good. The population elected me as the Recreation Council representative twice, and I liked having extra responsibilities. We got to help decide what types of tournaments to hold, which new games to buy, and what equipment, like treadmills, we wanted.

My roommates were random, and I really wanted to live with Jennifer Fair. So Jennifer cooked up a story; she told my caseworker that I had anorexia and we needed to live together so she could make sure that I ate. Her plan backfired. I got sent to the hole for a psych eval for being too thin. Down in a small, single room, all they would give me to wear was a paper gown. I froze my ass off with no mattress and hardly any food. I was miserable. In the middle of the night, a kind officer gave me an extra paper gown to cover up with. But the next morning, the next shift officer took it away from me. When she did, I asked her if she wanted my blood too because those were the only things keeping me warm.

The warden came down in the hole to do a walk-through. He asked me if everything was all right. I told him no. I said I was here for a psychiatric evaluation, and they had only twenty-four hours to evaluate me so they’d better hurry up.

I was totally bluffing—I made up that rule off the cuff. He bought it, though, and called the psychiatrist. None were on duty, so the warden let me out immediately.

Thank God
. And that was the end of anyone worrying about me getting too skinny.

Reaching Out

hile at Vandalia I met a wonderful man named James Head. He was the principal of a local high school, and he came in to talk to offenders so he could help troubled girls at his own institution. I had taken the
Courage to Heal
class twice and had done the workbook a few more times on my own, but I hadn’t actually spoken about what I’d been through.

And here was this man asking me all kinds of questions—along with teachers from his school. He wanted to know what he could do to make a difference. I was able to briefly describe my situation to them. I spoke about my abuse, my helplessness, and my anger. When we finished, I felt off kilter—totally off balance. These were people I didn’t know, many of them men. Afterward, Mr. Head wrote me a letter saying that he was highly impressed with me. He thanked me for taking the time to share my story with him.

His approval and validation made all the difference. After all those years, I finally decided that if I wanted to help, I had to be honest. I had to reach inside myself and find that truthful place. The whole experience spoke to the heart of me.

I was selected as a member of the Outreach program, which was similar to the famous program called Scared Straight designed to deter juvenile offenders. Along with a few other offenders, I sat on a panel speaking openly and honestly to troubled girls about sexual abuse. The idea was to keep them from following in our footsteps. I knew—and they knew—there were better ways to deal with even the worst situations. A lot of men listened, too—usually criminal justice students—but I got used to it.

Scott Kinter was in charge of Outreach, and he would ask all the kids in the room to point to the prisoner who had been pushed to the point of killing her abuser. I was small, and I had short blond hair. I guess I just didn’t look like a murderer, and they always picked me last. The kids would be surprised. And Scott would drive home his point that anyone could make a really bad decision.

We worked mostly with at-risk juveniles, but sometimes college students came in. I would tell my story, and I was amazed I could do it. Afterward, the adults would tell me they appreciated my candor. I was told that I exceeded their expectations, and that felt good.

Most important, the kids responded to the program. I would talk to them one-on-one, and they were just like me at that age. They struggled to even speak. I was able to pick out the ones who were abused just by looking at them. Victims stand a certain way that is intimidating but also vulnerable. Their eyes are dark, angry, and haunted.

I got so good at picking out the abuse victims that I could tell who they were by asking them one question: What is your favorite room in the house?

Most answered the kitchen, which was a good sign. That was the center of the home, and it meant they spent a lot of time with their parents. If they told me they liked the living room, I asked them why. Usually they said it was because the TV and video games were in there. That was a clue that the child was cut off from her family, and she might need further evaluation.

But if an at-risk child told me her bedroom was her favorite place, she was usually a child abuse victim. She liked to be cut off from the family, and she was trying to find safety in her own space. At the very least, that answer indicated the child’s family situation was probably not good. I could also tell by her body language—the way she turned or looked down at the ground.

One girl came in from Kemper Military Academy. She was twelve or thirteen with short brown hair. She started off a real smart aleck. When a kid acted that way, we’d take them off to the side to talk to them. Something about this girl got to me, so I said, “I’ll take her.”

She had a chip on her shoulder that I recognized—kids have that chip for a reason. She had a lot of sadness and anger built up inside her with no place for it to go. I told her about me and why I was in prison. She started crying, and that was a pretty good indication that something was going on in her world.

I asked her if there was something she wanted to tell me. She said there was abuse in her background. I told her we needed to get her some help and that she needed to tell her teacher. She said she couldn’t.

“Do you care if I do? For you to be able to get help, we have to tell an adult who can help you, because I can’t,” I said to her.

The girl agreed to let me help.

Her teacher was there that day, and I spoke to her. The teacher spent some time with the child right away. When they got back to Kemper, they filed a police report against her abuser, and the man was arrested. I was able to help two other young girls prosecute their abusers through Outreach.

Eventually, I became the volunteer president of Vandalia’s Outreach program. It got me in touch with what I had done and where I had been. It was like counseling for me. For the first time, I started to feel like I was healing. I’m not sure who got the most out of Outreach: the at-risk youth or me.

It was 1999, and we were working hard on my clemency petition. At the end of 2000, Missouri governor Mel Carnahan would be leaving office. We had to get my paperwork in so his advisory board could read it. Then hopefully it would land on his desk for a yes or no. As I knew well, the legal system takes time.

Ellen was doing all she could. She had created a Web site called FreeStaceyLannert.org so others could read my story. She also had another idea up her sleeve. On a visit, Ellen brought a stocky, forty-something law student named Mike Anderson to meet me. He was working on a clemency project, and she thought he might be able to help with my case. But he had to believe in me first. He told me that if he didn’t buy my story, he wasn’t going to work on it. I could tell immediately that Mike was the bulldog that we needed. Ellen was the calm, straitlaced lawyer who wasn’t pushy. Mike blasted me with questions, and he just kept to the facts. He was very forceful. But at the end of the interview, he said he’d be honored to work with me.

For my package, I had written several journal entries of my most horrific memories. I had written healing poetry. I had written out my plans for the future, which were to get a degree and help others who had suffered from sexual abuse. We included all of my prison accomplishments—participating in forty-seven acts of volunteerism, holding positions, and serving on committees—things I had done even though I had no hope of release.

Ellen and Mike gathered affidavits from my mother, Christy, and a member of the jury, Ann Albers. I told them about Detective Tom Schulte and how he had believed my abuse—I told them to contact him. But they didn’t think much of it at the time. Ms. Albers’s words were especially influential:

“I was a juror who sat for and heard the case of
State of Missouri vs. Stacey Lannert
. During deliberation, it was the consensus of the jury that the jurors believed Stacey had been sexually abused by her father, Thomas Lannert. Further, it was the consensus of the jury that the sentence of life without parole was too severe and harsh a sentence; however, the jury was not provided an alternative to the sentence of life without parole. It is my personal belief that the sentence Ms. Lannert is presently serving is too harsh for the crime for which she was convicted. I believe Ms. Lannert deserves commutation from the sentence of life without parole.”

Tom Wilson wrote a letter describing my character. Psychological evaluations were included. Meanwhile, Ellen and Mike wrote the legal prose beautifully. She wasn’t even getting paid to work on my case at this point. She was putting together my eight-hundred-plus-page clemency petition pro bono. That’s why she brought on Mike.

Another Missouri law student, Robert Hegadorn, wrote his law school thesis on my case. It detailed all the reasons why I should be granted clemency and was published by the Missouri Bar Association.

All we were asking was that my sentence be commuted to a conventional life sentence with immediate eligibility for the consideration of parole. We filed the package in July 2000.

As fall rolled around, Ellen was getting word from Governor Carnahan’s office that he was favorably considering my case. But he was currently running for the U.S. Senate against John Ashcroft, so we would have to wait until that race was over before he’d give any definite answers.

I had never been more excited in my life. I felt like I had a chance. I let my hopes fly high even though I knew I needed to be careful. I just thought I had it that time. The clemency package was strong; Carnahan was a good man and a great governor. He was showing interest. I didn’t protect myself; I didn’t think I’d get hurt.

I didn’t think Governor Carnahan would be fatally wounded in a plane crash. He died on October 17, 2000. I was watching TV in my room when breaking news interrupted my show. He’d been in a small plane flown by his brother. It was devastating for the state, and he was the favorite for the Senate seat. I was in shock.

I was really sad that he died. I felt guilty for being disappointed for myself. It was a tragedy that affected his family, the state, and the whole country. I was hardly at the top of the mourning list, but I couldn’t help it. My hopes faded, and I was sad for myself.

I was ashamed to call Ellen and ask her what this meant for me. I worried that it would be wrong to speak of my needs when someone so important had died. But I had to know what she thought. I stood in line for the phone, and by the time I got one, the room was empty. I was thankful to be able to talk privately for once because I knew I was going to cry. And if the other women saw me cry, they would know what was going on with my clemency. Under no circumstances could I show weakness.

Luckily, she was at her desk, and I got to speak to her. She was sad and disappointed, too. For the last months of the term, Roger Wilson would be taking over until Governor-elect Bob Holden took office. Wilson had already said he would not be giving out commutations.

I would have to wait four more years to submit my petition again.