The Murder of Jeffrey Dryden:
The Grim Truth Surrounding Male Domestic Abuse
Troy Veenstra
Smashwords Edition © 2011 - 2012 Troy Veenstra in association with Veenstra Publications.
All Printed and Electronic Rights Reserved.
This book is based on the actual events surrounding the abuse & murder of Jeffrey Scott Dryden. Information for this book was taken from personal interviews with the victim’s family and friends, press articles, court documents, medical reports as well as the authors own personal eyewitness accounts.
Author rights to “freedom of Speech” protected by and with the 1st Amendment of the United States of America. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, person living or deceased is entirely coincidental and/or within the boundaries of the authors own experience. Names, places, and characters are within the legal freedom to express the true nature of the story as it pertains to the factual evidence.
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Parental Warning: This book contains Graphic details taken from the trial court, which details acts of violence; furthermore, this book contains some mature words not suitable for younger children.
Approved and Reviewed by: Sharon Evans, Peggy Levett, Linda Irons Roxanne Guild & Paula Dryden
Edited by: Connie Lipsett
Foreword by: Author Brenda Irish Heintzelman
First Print Revised 2012
ISBN: 1466494867
ISBN-13: 978-1466494862
E-Book ISBN: 9781466077423
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012906156
IN MEMORIAL
This book is dedicated to the Memory of Jeffrey Scott Dryden, Beloved Son, Brother, Nephew, Cousin and Friend.
May you rest in peace knowing that Justice was finally served…
May 15 1982 – July 18 2010
FOREWORD
Written by Brenda Irish Heintzelman
Survivor Advocate and Author of Battered Body ~ Wounded Soul
When I first started to read this book, I was shocked to learn that a man would allow himself to be manipulated and abused by a woman. As an experienced 911 operator with the Wyoming Police Department (Michigan), and then as a police dispatcher with the Michigan State Police, I could count on one hand the number of times a man had actually dialed 911 for help after being abused by an intimate partner.
Therefore, I questioned whether the authors cousin had ever reached out for help if, in fact, the allegations of abuse were true at all. I, like so many others, wondered if perhaps he was actually the abuser, and his death simply resulted because his intimate partner had finally decided to protect herself from him.
However, at the same time, as a writer, speaker, and survivor of domestic violence, I stress to my audiences that domestic violence knows no boundaries. While my many years of research and study on domestic violence, child abuse, and marital rape, have yet to produce clear answers to my question of why batterers and child abusers choose people they love as their prey. There is no doubt in my mind, from the information I’ve gathered, as well as the theories I have developed through the years, that domestic violence truly knows no boundaries.
Yet, there I was, questioning whether it could be true that a woman would be physically abusive toward a man. After all, the man typically has a job and a vehicle, as well as superior upper body strength. So, really, I asked, how could it be that this man wasn’t able to simply leave the abusive relationship?
Suddenly, I realized I was sounding very much like the “polite society” of the 1980s, back when my children and I were being beaten by their abusive father.
“You? Really? You have a good career! You’re so intelligent! You’re so attractive! Just tell him to leave! Why don’t you just pack up the kids and leave the monster? You don’t have to take that. Stand up for yourself!”
Little did civil society know at the time of the inherent risk of death, to my children and myself, if I decided to one day, “just leave” the abusive relationship.
Society hadn’t yet learned of the cycle of violence, or ‘gaslighting’ (1), or how the abuser typically appears so kind and protective at first, only to morph into a monster behind closed doors. Society was still clueless to the fact that the moment an abuser realizes he/she are about to lose total control of his/her victims is the most dangerous moment of the relationship.
When I filed for divorce, a young mother in my church was murdered by her abusive husband, a short time later, my soon to be ex-husband, an abuser who not only beat on me, but also our three children, called to let me know I would be “number two.”
Shortly after this incident, another woman in our community was murdered as she was attempting to escape her abusive marriage. Yes, the phone rang again. When I answered, the abuser (my soon to be ex) laughed and said, “It looks like you’ll be number three.”
The concept of “stalking” was unknown at the time. In fact, abusive men were given the right to enter onto marital property until the divorce was final, with the police officers routinely shrugging their shoulders as they apologized to the survivors, explaining there was really nothing they could do, since the abuser’s name was still on the deed to the home.
Church leaders continued to preach forgiveness, even for the unforgiveable. The few survivors were advised by well-meaning friends and family members to “just get over it, let it go,” unaware of the term “post-traumatic stress” or how survivors of domestic violence, child abuse, and rape, are never able to fully return to the sense of safety and security they once knew, before being violated by someone they had trusted.
When it hit me, that my cynicism seemed eerily familiar to the arrogance and ignorance surrounding my children and me in the 1980s, I vowed to study the subject of boundaries in relation to domestic violence even further, specifically directing my research to the issue of gender.
This is what I found…
According to the American Bar Association’s (ABA) report, titled “Prevalence of Domestic Violence”…
“In a 1995-1996 study conducted in the 50 States and the District of Columbia, nearly 25% of women and 7.6% of men were raped and/or physically assaulted by a current or former spouse, cohabiting partner, or dating partner/acquaintance at some time in their lifetime (Tjaden & Thoennes, 2000).
Also included in the ABA report,
Sexual Assault According to the National Violence Against Women Survey:
Women are more likely to be victims of sexual violence than men: 78% of the victims of rape and sexual assault are women and 22% are men.
There it is, in black and white, from the American Bar Association, no less. Men comprise 22% of the victims of rape and sexual assault and 7.6% of men in the United States “were raped and/or physically assaulted by a current or former spouse, cohabiting partner, or dating partner”
While this report clearly states, “most perpetrators of sexual violence are men”, this research data also serves to support the need for polite society to broaden its awareness and efforts in order to truly help all victims of rape and physical assault, regardless of the victim’s gender.
According to the United States National Institute of Justice, in 2010 alone, in the United States, there were 15.5 million children living in partner violent homes.
That is 15.5 million children in our country who are living in greater fear, and who face a much higher risk of being abused in their own homes, than children who are living free of abuse.
In the 1990s, there were new laws enacted to help protect victims of domestic violence. Yet, look closely at these numbers, 15.5 million children are still living in partner violent homes. And now, according to the American Bar Association’s report, there are a staggering number of these partner violent homes which involve male victims.
While it is true that the majority of assaults against men are perpetrated by men, the fact remains that these victims need our help. Further, it is important to note, in some cases, however few, women are the perpetrators of violence against men.
Therefore, it is necessary for those of us who are working to help end the violence to broaden our scope of understanding in order to include concern for these men who are being harmed. Are there shelters available for men? Do the police listen if the caller is male? Are male victims of domestic violence given the same advice and assistance that is offered to female victims of domestic violence?
Simply put, it is clear that help for victims of domestic violence, child abuse, and marital rape, needs to be offered regardless of whether or not the victim is male or female, and also regardless of the gender of the perpetrator.
Before the argument surfaces that abusers simply claim violence in order to further abuse their victims through ambient abuse, (the use of others, such as the court system or police personnel to harm their victims), I would like to point out that this appears to be a rare occurrence, at best.
Yes, abusers are known to blame their victims. “Look at what you’ve done to yourself” or “she/he fell down the stairs then tried to blame it on me,” are common statements abusers like to make. Once the abuser attends anger management classes, he’ll add a few new lines, after getting into the groove of denial, “she/he came at me first, she/he slapped me, she/he bit me, she said she was going to kill me”.
Therefore, to my friends who still question whether or not a male could possibly be victimized by a female, I’d like to point out that to not listen to men who are claiming their injuries were inflicted upon them by their intimate partner is akin to adopting societal attitudes from so many decades ago. Back when victims of domestic violence were told to ‘just leave’ the abusive relationship or that they had somehow “allowed” the abuse to occur in the first place.
If we continue to adhere to closed mindedness and clucking tongues in regard to whether or not a male could actually become a victim of domestic violence, then we are no better off, or more aware, than society was up until the 1990s, before legislation was introduced to help protect victims and their children from domestic violence and child abuse.
How could this have happened that women are now abusing men? How did our country morph from cases of domestic violence including only male domination and female submissiveness to today, where women are now being convicted of abusing their husbands and children?
Here is my theory: the women who bravely escaped domestic violence and protected their children from further child abuse back in the seventies, eighties, and nineties. When society finally began to take, notice and started to reach out to help, are the same women who then taught their young sons to never, treat a woman with disrespect, period. These same women also taught their daughters to stand up for themselves, and to refuse to ever be treated with even a hint of disrespect.
What has followed, it appears, is perhaps the pendulum of abuse swinging toward the opposite direction from the days, the years, through the many generations, that young men were taught to be tough and to take what they wanted, while young women, who would one day become their wives, were trained to be pretty, and to please their future husbands.
Instead, we now have a new generation of women who were taught just the opposite, to take what they want and to expect even more, while young men were told to never make their wives cry.
In addition, young men who have survived child abuse as well as watching their mothers being beaten and abused by their fathers, I believe, silently vowed to never harm their wives. This message is deeply buried and often broadened in day-to-day life to mean they give in to their wives’ demands across the board.
In addition, young women who have survived child abuse and watching their mothers being beaten by their fathers, I believe, silently vowed they would never become victims of domestic violence or marital rape, nor would they ever allow their husbands to abuse their children.
The result? These young men and women are getting married and starting families of their own. Young men are routinely giving in to whatever their wives expect them to do, while young women are snapping their fingers and demanding more each day.
The slogan of the seventies was, “we’ve come a long way, baby”. Well, perhaps, the slogan of the new millennium should read, “yes, it’s all about me,” as young women, more and more, rule the roost in complete power and control of their husband’s actions, finances, and futures. Herein lies the answer to how some young women, regardless of how few, are increasingly the perpetrators of family violence.
Until help is available to all victims of domestic violence, child abuse, and marital rape, regardless of gender, there is no reason to believe this phenomenon will reverse. In fact, if men are silenced both by their wives as well as a polite society which cannot fathom the possibility of a female abuser harming her husband and children, then we have every reason to believe this problem will only intensify in the future.
I believe the causes of domestic violence do boil down to the issues of power and control. I also believe that when an abuser is harmed as a child, they are more likely to harm their spouses and children. Yet, what comes of the children who were able to safely escape domestic violence? What occurs when the chain of violence has been broken? The result, I fear, is a society as we are seeing happening right before our eyes today, in which it is becoming more acceptable for women to turn the tables on men; to ridicule them, to demand to know where they are and who they’re speaking with at all times. To control the finances, to disconnect their husbands from their family and friends, and finally, to throw a hissy fit if they don’t get their own way.
Therefore, as you read Troy’s (the authors) work, please keep all of this in mind if you, like me, begin to question why Troy’s cousin didn’t “just leave” the abusive relationship. Clearly, his abuser was in control of his life. She threatened him with damaging his career if he left her. She had previously abused him physically. He even went so far as to obtain a personal protection order against her.
Like so many victims of domestic violence, he kept forgiving her, again and again, while hoping and praying that one day she would somehow become normal and the abuse could stop. Therefore, I believe that his actions prior to his death, as well as his murderer’s behavior both before and after she killed him, all serve to prove that he truly was a victim of domestic violence. This book has served as my wake-up call to examine more closely the core issues surrounding domestic violence.
As a writer, speaker, educator, and survivor of domestic violence, as well as a member of Mensa, a firearms instructor, a real estate broker and owner of my own real estate company. As a mom, a grandma, a daughter, a sister, and friend, as a basketball coach, as the vocalist in the praise band at church, as a Christian woman, as a college graduate with my degree in psychology from Calvin College. As a student of Criminal Justice Administration, and as a future law school student, I’m here to say that if domestic violence can happen to me, a strong, intelligent, highly capable and hard-working woman, then yes, domestic violence can happen to anyone.
This means anyone, including the doctor’s wife who dialed 911, and became my first call for help after an incident of domestic violence, back when I started my career as a police dispatcher. She sounded so frightened; not only of her husband and of what he would do to her if he found out she had called for help, but also of what would happen once her neighbors learned of his abuse, and what the hospital where he worked would do if they learned he had abused her. She begged me not to send any marked police vehicles to her home.
This includes the judge who was divorcing her abusive husband when suddenly he appeared in her chambers, raised his firearm, and killed her.
This includes Nicole Brown Simpson, who lived in one of the most elite cities in our country. And, Lacey Peterson, and her unborn son, Conner, who appeared in her photos as being very happy and healthy, with a loving husband by her side.
And yes, of course, this includes a strong young man in Wyoming, Michigan who had a loving and supportive family all around him, who went to work each day, and who always treated others with kindness.
A young man who began a relationship with the wrong woman, who was taken in by her lies and deceit, then soon learned to fear her, as her temper began to explode onto him. She threatened him, she ordered him around, and she demanded total allegiance to her, and to their relationship. Then, when it appeared she was losing total control of him, she murdered him in cold blood.
If someone you know is a victim of domestic violence, please reach out and help them realize that regardless of their age, gender, race, or socio-economic status, they deserve to be safe in their own homes.
Most importantly, if you are a victim of domestic violence, male or female, black or white, rich or poor, with a successful career or unemployed, please reach out for help.
No man, woman, or child, deserves to be harmed, to live in fear, or to die, as a result of domestic violence. Please, stand in the truth, break the vow of silence, expect to be heard, and I promise you that society will do its best to help you.
Be safe.
The term “Gaslighting,” refers to a form of psychological abuse in which false information is presented with the intent of making the victim doubt his or her own memory and perception. This term comes from the play “Gas light,” in which a character uses a variety of tricks to convince his wife she is going crazy.
INTRODUCTION
At 2:45 a.m. on the humid summer morning of July 18, 2010, my cousin, Jeff Dryden, became a statistic. Actually, we, as a family, also became statistics; we became a part of a group of families and friends who are related to someone killed by an act of domestic homicide. As for Jeff, he became a victim of the ever growing, yet, socially ignored disease that plagues the world of the male societal philosophy.
Stabbed in the neck, murdered in cold blood by his 21-year-old alleged girlfriend, as he attempted to flee from her after a dispute over her cell phone, Jeff became, and subsequently was a victim of male domestic abuse.
After a year of constant sorrow and dread, anger, pain, and sadness felt by his family and friends, his killer was placed behind bars to serve 14 to 45 years for pleading no-contest to the charge of second-degree murder. Still holding on to the ideal that it was all an accident, Chiquita Rena Fizer will have to live with the fact that she is an abuser. Not a victim, but a murderer.
As his cousin and as an author of other written works I feel that the burden, or rather the privilege, of telling his story now falls upon my shoulders. Thus, it is with this book that I will tell you what led to Jeff’s final breath, the horror and fear he went through while being involved with his female abuser.
It falls to me to tell the people of this world the truth behind male domestic abuse. The truth as to what a wonderful person Jeff was. Not all men raise their hands to their lover. Not all men are abusers, as our society would like you to believe.
It falls to me to tell you of the growing number of men that raise their arms not to abuse their female lovers, but instead to cushion the blow of their anger as they strike out to abuse their men and in some cases, such as Jeff’s, to KILL…
“It has been said that time heals all wounds, but those that know pain, those that know the loss and heartache of a loved one know that wounds never fully heal. Instead, our wounds become scars, reminders of a time before the pain and heartache. A time---before scars...”
---Troy Veenstra (2011)
CHAPTER ONE:
SUNDAY, JULY 18, 2010
6:00 A.M.
“Jeff’s… Jeff’s dead.” Eric whimpered over the phone. I could hear the panic in his voice, the almost cracking of his tone as if forcing himself to say those two words.
“Eric, what? What was that?” I paused, hearing nothing but the faint echo of his breath against the receiver as he waited for me to finish my question; tried to give sound to my thoughts.
“What do you mean HE’S DEAD?” I asked. My mind, not fully registering his words, as images feathered through me like a haze of faded photographs, flashing back to the last time I saw Jeff at the campgrounds of my aunt and uncle’s trailer home.
“I… I don’t know… Jim (our stepfather) just came knocking on the door and told me that Jeff, was dead and then… just walked away,” he sobbed. “He said something about…,” Eric paused.
“Something about what Eric?” I asked, needing more information than just hearing that my twin cousin was dead.
“Something about him being stabbed in the neck by his girlfriend,” Eric wept as my mind fell into a great void of darkness, trying to think of what she looked like, yet faltering in my gaze to remember.
“I’m… I’m not really sure what’s going on but mom’s not answering the phone at home right now.” he hurriedly stated. My thoughts vacant, drawing a complete blank as what to ask, what to say next.
“Troy,” Eric said quietly in an almost weakened whimper. I could hear the care and the concerned sadness brazening through his tone.
“Troy, do you think… do you think he’s really dead?” he asked like a saddened child experiencing the despair of a tragic loss for the first time.
“I…,” I paused for a moment, remembering a time not long ago when our father passed away; remembering how Eric took the events back then. Recalling the tears that glistened down the sides of his face, the silent state of sadness he quickly fell into.
Suddenly, all I could imagine were those same dismal tears on the face of Jeff’s twin brother; upon the faces of his family, the sorrow of it all causing a cord of dread to splinter deep in my heart as the thoughts of their pain showered through me in an awkward reflection of my own.
“Eric…” I swallowed hard, forcing myself to speak, “Let’s just wait until we know more. Maybe he was just injured or something.” I sighed. “I should be home from work in about an hour and we should know more then---okay?” Hearing nothing more than a shallow grunt, a speckling sigh in his tone that told me he already knew the truth, the sadness breaking through his heart at the loss of another. “If you hear,” I paused for a long moment, hearing the strains of his own pain as he fought back his grief, his own jagged memories of hurt and appalling loss. “If you hear from mom, have her call me on my cell, okay?” I demanded.
“Yeah… Just… just get home soon,” he whimpered.
“I will,” I said as he hung up the phone.
Hanging up, I immediately called my mom, but got no response from her. I knew that she and my Aunt Linda were more than likely in the thick of the whole situation. Trying as best they could to comfort my Aunt Paula, while at the same time contacting the other sisters and finding out more about what truly happened. Having no other way to confirm what was going on, I went online to The Grand Rapids Press. I found a brief article that depicted just enough information to confirm what Eric told me. It was just enough information to allow my mind to acknowledge our loss of another, the loss of a family member. Reporter Jeff Engle wrote (Engle, 2010):
WYOMING -- A 28-year-old Wyoming man died early this morning after he was stabbed, according to police. The man was found dead near an apartment complex in the 900 block of 44th Street SW at about 2:45 a.m. Police initially responded on reports of an injured person, and the man was later pronounced dead at the scene. Police have a suspect in custody, but have not released his or her name. The stabbing is under investigation.
This brief article was just enough to confirm Eric’s heartbroken words. Confirm yet another tragedy to our family as a whole, and send us all down a spiraling journey filled with tears, hate, sadness, and anger.
It would open our eyes to feelings we never wanted to feel, things we never wanted to see, and a disease ignored by the masses. It would lead us to the incident that foretold of my cousin’s murder by 21-year-old Chiquita Rena Fizer, and her reign of abuse upon our beloved.
Hours Earlier
It was still dark when they arrived at her home. The damp summer humidity left an eerie heaviness in the air as if foretelling of the grief to come. Slowly they tracked through the slight blades of damp grass like dark shadows of despair.
Walking up the slightly lopsided wooden steps, preparing themselves for the situation that was about to unfold as it had countless times before. They readied for the gut-wrenching cry, the weep of dread and sadness, recalling the sound from previous families and loved ones as they prepared to hear them yet again this day.
I would like to think that Detective Pols of the Wyoming Police Department held my Aunt Paula’s hand firmly in his grasp, gazing into her troubled eyes. I imagine he could already see the dread, the horror of the unknown, echoing through her as a distant memory from her past rumbled through her like a torrential storm.
For those same passionate words, the cry of sympathy was spoken years earlier by other officers when she was told of her husband committing suicide, leaving her with their twin boys and unborn daughter. Now there was the sadness and sorrow, the tear stricken grief of a mother lost in misery after being told her 28-year-old son was dead, murdered in cold blood. He was the victim of a domestic homicide.
To think of the pain she felt at that moment disturbs me, even a year later. I am sure that the sanity of it all crashed down upon her like an unbearable wave of hopelessness, becoming worse with trepidation and confusion as Detective Pols spoke those ill words of grief and sorrow to her. His voice soft, yet firm, caring, yet stern, as he told her that Jeff, her first-born, her baby, had been stabbed in the neck and that her son was forever gone. Only to follow those words of grief with even more distraught and horrendous news. Informing her, they also believed the monster that killed him, the abuser that took her baby from her, was his very own girlfriend.
I can only imagine the heaviness she felt in her heart as her mind raced with images of her fallen son. Her legs weakened with each passing thought, buckling to the strain, succumbing to the devastating heartache and fury as her mind continued to race through all the recollections, all the past happy memories, shattering through her like shards of broken glass. Falling to the floor, lost in an inferno of sadness mixed with hate, confusion mixed with loss, of outright horror and shock. It pains me to think of it now, that moment, those seconds, those breaths, after hearing those words of loss and death.
My mother Roxanne told me that they came to her in this way. Leaving her in complete shock, leaving her to reach out to those she could count on the most; reaching out to her family, her sisters, who came ever so willingly, ever so lovingly to her aid.
Jeff & Jason
“Cut of the same cloth,”
From the time they were born, Jeff was always half of a group known as “the twins,” in my extended family, his brother Jason being the other part of that dynamic duo. Never did anyone ever ask where Jeff was without finishing that sentence with an “and Jason,” nor was there a Jason without a Jeff. Even after they became adults, moved out, and lived separate of each other, they were still referred to as “Jeff and Jason,” or “the twins” whenever we had a family get-together or saw one without the other in passing.
From the moment they were born; the moment they both took breath upon this world, they were one of the same soul, both of the same mind and being. Both cut from the same cloth, both brothers and friends. Never was there a closer bond between the two for any other than their twin and never, at least not really, would one betray the other. They were like the day and the night, thunder and lightning, they were brothers unlike most others.
Driving home from work that damp, humid morning it pained me to think that I would never be able to say “Jeff and Jason,” again without feeling a great emptiness inside me each time his name escaped my lips. It upset me to think how I would have to catch myself from instantly saying his name each time I saw Jason and I wondered then if anyone else was thinking the same thing at that moment. Most importantly however, it pained me to think how Jason would react, to go on each morning having to gaze into the mirror only to see Jeff’s reflection gazing back at him; the memory of what once was, the feelings of what could never be again, and the pain that would go on each passing day.
Could the day go on without the night? Would a storm still be thriving and wonderful with only the thunder, but no lightning? Would Jason be the same without his brother by his side? Those were the things that rolled through my mind that morning, and the things that I think about even now, wondering, thinking, and praying for Jason each day.
12:00 P.M.
“The knife slipped…”
If you ever have the unfortunate pleasure of finding yourself taking a sociology class, one of the first things you will learn is a term sociologists refer to as a “Mediated Culture,” also known to some as “Media Shadowboxing.” This term is often used when applied to how the mass media (such as TV, press, and radio, for example) constantly bombard us with their version of facts, so much that our society eventually falls prey to these interpretations of events, regardless the lack of actual truth.
This is similar, oddly enough, to some forms of repetitive verbal abuse, or abusive “conditioning,” or “Gas lighting,” where the abuser continues to abuse the victim with verbal, demeaning attacks, until they begin to believe it themselves, thus breaking them to the point of conditioning.
This persuasion, or rather personal skew of the facts (or in cases of abuse, the victim’s perspective on themselves) thus changes the intrinsic mood and attitude of the public until such a time comes where the truth of what really happened is undeniable by most or thought as conspiracy by others.
In fact, if you take this same construct to the next level, you can easily show that, at certain times in our own nation’s history, it has been the mediated culture, which has set the tone of our own personal morals and beliefs. Thus changing the moral and ethical values of all people to what the media has dictated to be politically correct and moral.
As was the case when the local media began reporting on Jeff’s murder, and to this day, I have never heard them apologize for their spin on the facts. I guess to some (not all) members of the mass media, the victims and their family, have no say in the truth when it comes to the ideology of a mediated culture. Yet, I will not fault all members of the media, as there were a few reporters from the Grand Rapids Press that followed this story to the end, monitoring what was going on, and eventually, with accuracy of the truth as their guide, reported the reality as it unfolded.
It wasn’t until early that afternoon when I was able to get in touch with my mother that I got a clearer image of the situation than what I had been able to obtain after I got home that morning. The local news had reported that the Wyoming police were called to the scene of a domestic dispute, and that a white male, (name unknown at that time) had been stabbed in the neck by his girlfriend after he came at her with a knife. The girl reported to witnesses on scene that they were arguing over her cell phone and that as he lunged at her with the knife, “the knife slipped and he was cut.” Other reports from the local TV news reported that there had been domestic assaults between the couple before, but did not state who the aggressor was in past incidents.
Thus, almost immediately, reporters from both facets of the media (TV and press) began to write articles and show stories that left the reader or viewer to believe that Jeff was the abuser. Thanks to this form of mediated culture, comments left on local news sites instantly made Jeff out to be the abuser and Chiquita the lone victim, who defended herself against an insane, and drunk brute looking for a fight.
One of the reports that I saved during this time was done by FOX17, in which they stated that witnesses had told them that they heard screaming and ran out to find Jeff with a severe stab wound to his neck. The article reported that several people tried to help Jeff by applying pressure to the wound and/or calling an ambulance and other emergency services.
One of the witnesses stated in the article, "It was hard because he looked right at me, and I'd never seen anybody look like that before. He looked up at me for a second as if to say, it looked like he was saying help me, and he just kind of laid his head back down and that was that, it just happened that fast (Reporter, 2010)."
Strangely enough, the article went on to add what Chiquita was doing as others were trying to save her “so-called” boyfriend. One of the neighbors stated that, "The first thing she (Chiquita) did was run up to me and grabbed me and said, ‘oh my God we were arguing, he's drunk, and he grabbed a butcher knife and we started fighting for the knife and it slipped."
After reading this article again later, I, and several of my family members thought it strange that as others were trying to save her lover’s life, the first thing that Chiquita did was go up to a neighbor and lay down a basic foundation for a defense. Sadly, we are a nation led by the words of the media or rather, once more, we are a “Mediated Culture.” Most people that made comments on that report took her for her word, and made her look like the sweet, poor, African-American girl defending herself from the drunken white hillbilly (yes, the whole issue of race eventually peeked its evil head out). It would not be until later that night that the truth of what really happened began to filter through as to what transpired that warm, summer morning.
The Family in Denial
As I had suspected, my mom was in the center of it all, doing the best she could to be there for Paula and her family while at the same time trying to contact everyone she could to help with the situation. What made things even more difficult at the time, was that my Aunt Linda, (the aunt everyone comes to when they need help, outside of my mom), was out of communication for the first few hours while all this was going on.
As this had occurred in the middle of summer, she and my Uncle Ron were out at their summer trailer and no one except her two daughters knew the number to her cell phone. To add to this quandary, the only number they had at the time was my cousin Ronda’s. Who (and not to be mean when saying this) is not the best person to suddenly drop something so earth- shattering on without knowing if there is someone else there with her, as she is asthmatic, and in all seriousness, is not the best at handling stressful situations. Thus, it took a while for the information to trickle down to her and the rest of the family, such as my other cousins.
When talking to my mom, who was already with Paula, as well as my Aunt Peggy, cousin Mandy and the bulk of Paula’s immediate family and group of friends, she told me that several members of the family were having trouble accepting the idea that Jeff was gone, let alone murdered. As expected, his twin brother Jason refused to talk about it with anyone. From what I was told, he spent most of his time outside, smoking cigarettes as his fiancée and his friends tried to comfort him in whatever way they could while they, too, tried to make sense of their own feelings of loss; their own feelings of pain mixed with anger and animosity.
Out of all the family members, Jason was the last one to see him alive, the last one to hear his words, see his smile and feel the warmth of his hand as they said good-bye to each other, not knowing at that time it would be the last time he saw his brother alive.
This will be something I am sure Jason will remember every day for the rest of his life. It may sound odd to some, but for those of us that have seen death head-on, those of us who have been there at the moment of death, we remember everything; every moment, every feeling, every smell, touch, and sound.
It was the same for me when I stood above my father the moment he passed away, feeling the warmth fading from his body, remembering the last words I said to him as I heard the light clicking of the clock in his hospital room and, so too, will it be the same for Jason and his family.
From what I can recall, his youngest brother, Josh, and his sister, Jillian were not fairing any better. I was told that Josh flat out refused to believe that his brother was dead. That he would not believe it until he could see the body for himself. As for Jill, I didn’t get much information on how she was fairing, except to be told that she seemed to be dealing with it a bit better than others, as she was crying, and allowing herself to grieve.
Paula, however, was not doing well. Having several health issues already, her sisters and her boyfriend Tony were doing everything they could to keep her relatively calm, a task I am sure was not at all easy. My conversation with my mother was cut short when Linda had called her cell phone; it was the first time my mother intentionally hung up on me while I was midsentence.
Eric
Shortly after hanging up with my mom, Eric came back over to my house, after leaving for a bit to get something to eat and see what, if anything, he could learn about Jeff. The thing you have to know about Eric is that he has a condition known as Tourette Syndrome, as well as some learning issues. Around that time, he was also having some issues with his neck and shoulder, which was later discovered to be something called Torticollis. Torticollis is a painful condition in which your neck muscles contract involuntarily, causing your head to twist or turn to one side; sadly, as of yet, there is no cure, and the only known treatment for it are quarterly injections of Botox to the affected area.
Eric has been going through some sort of pain on a daily basis nearly all his life, be it either physical pain, due to his health issues, or emotional pain, due to how society discriminates against him for what he has, not for whom he is. Yet, through it all, almost anyone that has met him would tell you that he is one of the most nice, kind guys you could meet. I mention all this not for you to feel sorry for him, but so you can understand, or at the very least, get some sort of idea what I was seeing and experiencing when he came back over that day.
As Eric was walking into my living room, he moved slowly past me on his way towards the computer room and as his face met with mine I could see the pain in his eyes, the tears gliding slowly down the sides of his cheeks. “Eric, you okay?” I asked as he pulled his glasses away from his face, draping the back of his hand over his eyes, wiping away his tears. “Dude, does the shoulder hurt again?” I asked.
“It’s… not the shoulder, the neck and shoulder always hurt,” Eric paused for a moment, trying his best to hold in his pain, the sorrow in his voice echoing the truth of his thoughts. “Do you think…, do you think he felt much pain?” he asked. Sighing for a moment, I took a deep breath, not really sure what I was going to say to answer his question, to put his mind at ease, to calm his sadness.
“I think he did, at least for a few seconds. I would like to believe that once he fell down on the ground his body was in shock,” I said, feeling a building pit of dread in my stomach as I thought about what Jeff must have gone through. “To be honest,” I said as I paused, breathing deeply, allowing my lungs to fill.
“To be honest Eric, I was thinking the same thing on the way home from work, I… I don’t even want to imagine the confusion that was rolling through his mind those last few minutes as he bled out.” I said almost quietly to myself, “I want to believe that he wasn’t thinking of his family or the fact that he knew he was dying.” I paused as my mind raced with images of what he might have seen, the faces of his loved ones feathering through his mind like bolts of lightning. “More so, I pray the last thing he heard was not the hysterical voice of the woman, that monster that killed him… it pisses me off to think about it right now, you know?” I asked.
“Yeah… I do,” he mumbled. “Sorry,” he said as he took a breath, “I didn’t mean to upset you, though I hope Aunt Paula and Jason are doing okay.” Eric added.
“Me too, Eric,” I said as he walked back into the computer room. I could hear the slight deepening of his breath through the crack of the open door, “I love you Jeff,” I heard him whimper to himself before hearing the theme to the Anime ‘Bleach’ kick on the speakers.
To see Eric like this, to know what he was secretly thinking, to know he was thinking of our father who had passed away more than 10 years before, I knew he was feeling that same pain. Remembering the feelings he had long since buried, long since forgotten. It pained me to see him this way, yet I knew it was a pain I would see in the eyes of several others over the days, weeks, and months to come.
11:00 P.M.
The Postings War Begins
Shortly after 11:00 p.m., a person with the user name Boloney left the first comment on a Grand Rapids Press article that stated almost the same chain of events as previously mentioned, with the addition that the police took the girlfriend into custody. However, the local television stations added the alleged (and later disproven) fact that Jeff was drunk at the time of the incident. This mediated interpretation of the facts would bring with it what would become a long, drawn-out war of comments and posts.
Posts, comments, and even underlying threats that would eventually draw in such absurd subjects as women against men, legality against morality, and sadly, whites against blacks (but not by who you might think). In the first comment of over 100 on three different webpages, the battle between what really happened, and the media’s interpretation of what happened, played out in the hours and days that followed.
Oddly enough, I was also one of those that participated in these comments. Defending my cousin to the end, trying my best to set aside my anger and rage when I could, but finding it difficult to do so with such cultural contempt.
The user Boloney stated in her comment, “What if this was your sister, mom, daughter? News stations said man was DRUNK and there was a lot of previous domestic violence. Ever had a large drunk man waving a knife at you? What do you do? Wave your arms around and try to keep the knife off you, or pull on the handle. If he let go and she was pushing it away from herself it could of easily, accidentally went into his neck. Her first instincts were to protect herself. Why did Wyoming immediately press charges? Cause she is poor and female? I hope she can get good representation. SELF DEFENSE is not a criminal offense WYOMING.
This comment is the perfect example of the falsity of a mediated culture. In her statement she comments that the, “News stations said man was DRUNK,” the person reading this comment is instantly directed to believe that everything the media states is true. Even though in chapter 11 of this book you will read testimony, under oath, by the medical examiner that stated, “The victim (Jeff) had no alcohol in his system prior to his death.” Furthermore, the commenter went on to assume that the acts of domestic abuse were actions caused by the male and not the female; in fact, her entire statement is based on this assumption. However, as you will later discover in chapter 10 of this book, studies show that women are more prone to use violence and hit first, before men, though again this information is not normally reported by the media and thus unknown by most.
In any event, this comment was followed by another person shortly thereafter with the user name Enginmangr, who stated:
“This could be all in self-defense but it's not the police's job to determine that. Their job is to find the body and a suspect, not to sort out whose right, wrong, or why. The prosecutor is responsible to determine what, if any, charges the suspect will face. If she was acting in self-defense, that will be worked out in court. Your theory though has one large hole in it: how would the knife have entered this man's neck if he were pointing the blade at her?” Fair warning to the casual observer: supposed self-defense in domestic violence situations tends to end up in voluntary manslaughter convictions, which can still land a person in prison for 15 years. Better than life without parole, but still a bad deal for the true victim of domestic violence, that is why it is crucial for anyone in such a relationship to get out ASAP before events like this happen.”
Shortly thereafter, a person also by the name of Jeff, who had known Jeff for some time, posted, “that person that was stabbed at the crossroads apartments is a close friend of my family! The suspects will pay! He is a brother to one of my brother's friends and he will be missed!” These were followed with several other comments from Jeff’s friends wanting the public to know how great and compassionate a person Jeff Dryden was and what he meant to them, and how he helped them get through some hard times in their lives.
One commenter went on to add, “I want everyone to know that Jeff was a good person and did not deserve to go down like this. He was a great friend; my heart is very heavy, right now. This was not a case of self-defense. He was Murdered, Jeff we all love you and miss you. I will never forget you.”
For the most part, every one that commented that first day said their peace and gave their thoughts in a constructive non-confrontational manner. Sadly, this only lasted the first day as once Chiquita’s supporters seen the comments, the war between the innocent and the guilty, the battle between the accused and the true victim began, and the line between right and wrong was drawn. The power of words typed across the electric highway began, and anyone that did not choose a side was either protected or threatened.
CHAPTER 2:
AUGUST 2008
The First Encounter
There was nothing romantic with how Jeff came to meet Chiquita Fizer. No gazing at her from afar as she walked gracefully across a room, no illumination of the moon casting its heavenly rays upon her, hitting her in just the right way as to tantalize Jeff’s mind with euphoria as she swayed her hips in an eurythmic pattern.
No heart-pounding, earth-shattering moments or hypnotic glances; nor visions of them strolling down the beachside hand-in-hand feathering through Jeff’s mind. No, there was nothing that would clue the average person to assume the two would ever become, nor ever desire to become, that vision of the ever-loving, ever-lasting couple.
Nothing that would suggest the morals of their thoughts and feelings would ever be intertwined with the other. In fact, their first meeting, their first encounter was something more primal than romantic, more physical and instinctual than emotional. Their first encounter occurred on a sex based website where Jeff, to put it bluntly, was looking for nothing more than the next flavor of the week.
“Jeff met Chiquita a few months after his longtime girlfriend, Nicole, broke up with him,” Jason Dryden, Jeff’s twin brother expressed when I interviewed him for this book (Dryden, 2011). “Jeff was looking for nothing more than a booty call, a friend with benefits, put plainly; Jeff wanted nothing more than sex and Chiquita knew that from the start.” Jason added.
To some, what was just expressed may bring certain readers to cast Jeff in a bad light. In fact, a few of you may even go as far as to say or to think that Jeff deserved what he got; however, when you really think about it, Jeff was doing nothing more than filling a primal, instinctual urge. An urge, a desire, that all of us at one time or another share; an impulse, a yearning, that all classes, all races experience, nothing less, nothing more.
Furthermore, I will be honest and say it now before we go too far into this book, that Jeff, though flawless in the eyes of his mother, was not a perfect angel; he had his faults just like everyone else in this world. We all have our errors as no one, no matter how much we put ourselves on a pedestal, no one is beyond error; we are all imperfect creatures, dependent on our own needs, addictions, and desires. As for Jeff, he liked using marijuana as his recreational drug of choice, though this use of marijuana may have been illegal, and he may have been wrong in using it, he did not deserve what came to him in the end.
Jeff was the typical 20-something single male, who didn’t want to get into another dramatic, long-term relationship. He may have thought more with the head between his legs than the one between his shoulders. Regardless of these faults, however, no one deserves death for such small imperfections. Thus, though imperfect, he was a living, breathing, thinking human being; able to feel not only his own pain but the pain and joy of others as well. He was unique.
As such, knowing, or rather thinking at that time, that it would be sex he would be having with his friend with benefits, he wanted to try something of the “Chocolate flavor,” and thus he met Chiquita on a local adult sex-dating site.
“Jeff’s first encounter with Chiquita went as expected, and things seemed to be going well for the first few times they met,” Jason stated. “Shortly before Thanksgiving of that year, I think, Jeff said that Chiquita was asking him for things, such as paying some of her bills, and buying her stuff that wasn’t right for a friend with benefits relationship,” he added. Sadly, it would be a few weeks later that Jeff would come to realize Chiquita’s true intentions.
CHAPTER 3:
JULY 19, 2010
Arrangements
Sipping her hazelnut coffee, she gazed up at the gleaming rays of sunlight as they slowly slipped away from the gloomy clouds above. “Mmm,” she sighed throatily, swallowing her coffee, allowing the slight sugary tang; the enticing, thick aroma and the enriched flavor to cast over her, awaking her senses from the sleepy despair; the dismal nightmares which were at the forefront of her mind falling back to random thoughts.
Taking a deep breath, she allowed the slight humid air to fill her lungs, heartening her with a minor renewed energy before casting it out, exhaling it slowly, only to again be reminded of the sadness that was to follow in the coming hours, days, weeks--years. The pain and hatred, the tears, which would rain down the faces of her and each of her sisters as they fought to stay positive and supportive for their saddened sister; fought to stay composed and strong for their fallen nephew, all the while thinking of their own children.
Their minds racing through memories of the past troubles, past moments of regret, feelings mixing with shards of the past, the death that shadowed around them hovering like a cloak of despair every time they thought of their parents every time their memories of the past came to bear. Yet still, she knew they would all try to stay positive, try and block out the thoughts of dreaded loss each would feel if it were they in her place, if it were them that had to go through the same trials of death, despair, madness, and regret.
They who would have to pick out a coffin for their own beloved child, to gaze down at the lifeless body and remember every fleeting moment, every happy thought, every smile upon their face.… remember the last time they told them they loved them. The last time they heard those words of love upon their child’s lips, never thinking for a moment—it would be the last.
“Just breathe… remember to breathe,” Roxanne thought to herself as she prepared for the things to come, things she did not want to do for one of her own sons or daughters. The pain, the sadness, and the chaotic thoughts that seemed to be with her from the night before, the horrid visions, the dreams she dreamt, just hours before. “Just breathe,” She said to herself, tears streaming down the sides of her face as the clouds above once again caught up with their morning prey, “just… just breathe.”
The Posting Wars Part 2
“It started with a few simple condolences from strangers, people that only read what they saw in the paper and the words of those few of us who knew the truth. It started with words, just as all wars do…,”
Early in the afternoon Chiquita’s aunt (who would eventually become a well-known figure in this matter) got online and wrote something to address those of us who, (apparently) didn’t know what “the hell” we were writing. What follows is taken from what she said, word for word, as she wrote it (with some captioned thoughts of my own added to help you along). You should take note, that as some of it may not make sense, this is taken from one of the main news message boards that allowed public comments on their articles: