For all your Andy-related info-dumping needs. If there's information you'd like to archive, please post it here, and feel free to link to it from the main post if you'd like to discuss it.
Putting this here and on Facebook because I don’t know where else to put it and I just need to get it out. No, I don’t expect anything to come of it.
***
She married the wealthy older man whom her parents wanted for her and whom she was told would help take care of her 8 siblings after her father had walked out on them. She did what she was supposed to.
She endured 4 years of mental, emotional, physical, financial, and sexual abuse, working 60-100 hour weeks for his business, remodeling his houses, waiting on him hand and foot, obeying his every order, and taking care of his sick, elderly father. She did what she was supposed to.
When it became clear that he had never loved her, that she would never please him, and that he would never help her family, she ended the abuse cycle and walked out. She did what she was supposed to.
After leaving with little more than the clothes on her back and a few belongings stuffed into her car, she got a job, found a series of friend’s couches to crash on, and started the long, arduous legal process of trying to get back from him the rest of her property. She did what she was supposed to.
The California Bar Association Certified, Legal Aid recommended lawyer whom she scraped up $275 to pay a consulting fee told her that if she wanted the judge to validate that she had rights to equity on the property she was entitled to (and on the title of), she needed to “assert right of residence” and move back in with her abuser. She did what she was supposed to.
That same lawyer told her to bring a witness, not a relative, who would be willing to live with her in this dangerous situation and testify in court if he did anything. She asked me, and I agreed, because she was my friend and I could not let her go into that alone. We did what we were supposed to.
For six months, she filled out legal forms, submitted documentation, and went to court appearances precisely on schedule while we both worked odd jobs to make ends meet and put up with a childish man who trashed our bikes, screamed all night, made bizarre phone calls to the police, and turned our utilities off. We dutifully reported every single incident to the police and she continued to pursue her legal rights because she did not want him to win and think he could do it again to another woman…which he was already lining up to do. We did what we were supposed to.
On the morning of May 6, she served him papers that were required by the State of California to inform him, among other things, that she had turned him into the IRS, as she was a certified California tax preparer and would lose her license if she didn’t report the things she had found in his tax report. He told her if she wasn’t out of his life by morning, he’d put a bullet in her head. She called the police. She did what she was supposed to.
The police showed up. He refused to speak to them. They asked if he had a gun, she said she didn’t know. They asked if he’d ever tried to kill anyone before. She said only himself. They asked if he’d been violent before. She said yes, but there had never been charges pressed. They said there was nothing they could do and left. They did not do what they were supposed to.
At noon on May 7, he came into the house with a gun. He shot and killed her while she was washing dishes. He shot and killed another man who had been renting a room to take care of his elderly father. He tried to kill me, but the gun misfired. I was shot in the ankle with a ricochet. He left the room. He did not do what he was supposed to.
I barricaded the door behind him and called 9-1-1. where I stayed on the phone for 20 minutes, instructing the SWAT team of everything I could hear including the additional shots fired when he killed himself. I followed every instruction they gave me. I did what I was supposed to.
The SWAT team charged the house. They found him dying at the top of the stairs, but still alive. I was the only living person in the house. They had me throw the phone aside, cuffed me, ascertained I could walk on the gunshot wound, and marched me downstairs, asking me to identify the shooter on the way past. I complied with everything. I did what I was supposed to do.
They took me to the hospital and asked me if I had insurance. I said no. They didn’t even remove the gauze pad the medic had put on my ankle. They just determined that the bleeding wasn’t life threatening and told me to leave with the police officer. I did what I was supposed to do.
I sat for hours with the police being interrogated and providing them every detail of which I was capable. I treated my own ankle as best I could from a police first aid kit. I called my friends and hers from a borrowed phone. I asked only for a sandwich. I made written and oral statements on the record. I did what I was supposed to do.
I was put up in a hotel room four miles from the house for the night. They gave me my phone back and nothing else. I got in at 10pm, having spent 10 hours being interrogated. I spent the next 2 hours calling everyone who had known her on my contact list so they didn’t have to read about it in the papers, with the exception of her family whom the police had said they wished to contact in person. I did what I was supposed to do.
A friend of mine came by the next morning. We had no vehicle nor money, so we walked the 4 miles to a shopping center near the house. I borrowed money from other friends who wired it to me so that I could buy clothes that weren’t bloody pajamas and replacements for my blood-soaked dressings. I reported in to the police again. I did what I was supposed to do.
I waited until the biohazard team and DA’s office were done with the scene and was given 4 hours to remove all my possessions from the property. While I was there, I heard some of his friends saying they were going to find all that bitch’s legal shit and burn it. I salvaged all the legal records and her most personally prized belongings as well. I did what I was supposed to.
I immediately turned the legal records over to the police and the personal belongings over to her father and siblings. I did what I was supposed to.
The police had seized my computer because she had correspondence with him on it and had prepared legal documents on it. I explained that it contained my business software, tax records, and vital business documents such as contracts. They gave me forms to fill out to get it back and told me in the mean time to get another equivalent computer and an external hard drive: they wouldn’t be able to give me back the actual computer, but they would copy the hard drive and give me that and I would be reimbursed for the new computer and hard drive. I borrowed more money and got exactly what they said. I did what I was supposed to.
I was asked by the police to stay in the area for more interrogation. I told them I had nowhere to stay. They told me to set up in a cheap motel across from the police station and gave me more forms to fill out, telling me to submit the receipts and I would be reimbursed. I borrowed more money. I did what I was supposed to.
I went in multiple times over the next few weeks to speak to the police and answer their questions. They never charged me with anything. I was never even a person of interest. They called me a model witness. I did what I was supposed to.
The detective on the case sent me to Victim Witness Services at the DA’s office. They sent me to a doctor for my ankle and told me they would reimburse me for the computer, my lost job contracts, pay my medical bills, and pay the costs of moving me because my residence had been destroyed. They wanted all my original receipts and many forms. I did what I was supposed to.
Over two weeks after I had been shot, I had the bullet removed from my ankle. I listed VWS as my insurance on every form as I had been told. I opted out of anesthesia because I wanted to be lucid for her funeral. Even though her family did not want me to attend because they thought I’d had an affair with her, I was holding services online for her friends who couldn’t be there. I did what I was supposed to.
I moved to Colorado to stay with the only friends who could take me in at such short notice. I was hugely in debt now, but I believed it would be okay. They were going to reimburse me for what I’d had to spend as the victim of a violent crime and pay my medical bills. I had done what I was supposed to.
While I waited, I started an anti Domestic Violence organization and put together a 1000 mile hike in her name, because long-distance trekking had been a shared passion of ours and when she was killed, she had been planning one for the summer. I walked 1000 miles on a 9 week old bullet wound, promoting domestic violence awareness the whole way. I did what I was supposed to.
Weekly, then daily after the “4-6 weeks” I’d been told to expect for reimbursement had passed, I called to try and find out what was going on. While I was out of state on the hike, I left a trusted friend of mine with a Power of Attorney and instructions to keep petitioning for me. I did what I was supposed to.
The medical bills were never paid. I have never been reimbursed. My credit is trashed. I still don’t have my business records or a copy of my hard drive. No one at the police department, VWS, or the DA office will answer the phone. I have called hundreds of times, left hundreds of messages, sent dozens of emails. They have all my receipts. Legal aid services won’t take my case out of state. I can’t afford a lawyer. I am hugely in debt. Now, Disney’s “Brave” is being promoted everywhere, and the princess looks just like her. It’s tearing me to pieces. For the first time since the incident, I’m having nightmares. I am eligible for counselling, but that’s through VWS too. They still won’t answer the phone. It’s been six months. They won’t do what they’re supposed to.
Her life is over. Mine is a wreck. I should be writing. I should be doing my job. I can’t, both because I don’t have the physical things I need and because I’m just shattered. I don’t understand.
We did what we were supposed to.
Yet ANOTHER account, similar, but with embellished/different details
On the left are the stairs to the top floor of the house. Jason came up these. We did not hear him because he said nothing and moved quietly, and his truck had been parked some distance away so that we would not see him drive up. He had entered through the back downstairs door by the kitchen. The dog did not bark. It knew him. We were talking about what we wanted to do with our weekend. It was Saturday, May 7, 2011, noon. There was a farmer’s market coming up soon, the first one for the year in Napa. Brittany offered to make tea. I said sure. We were in the room you see on the lower right hand side of the diagram.
She went to the bathroom immediately adjacent our room that we shared with the handyman/other boarder who was living in the bedroom you see at the top righthand side of the diagram. I was sitting on the bed, using the computer. She turned on the tap in the bathroom to rinse the electric kettle.
There were two sharp bangs, not actually very loud. The house echoed oddly. There were no screams, no cries, no words. The children at the end of the cul de sac had fireworks a few days before. I thought they had bigger ones. I picked up my cell phone to call 9-1-1 and ask the police to come confiscate them before someone was hurt. I didn’t know it, but Brittany was already dead where you see the 1 on the diagram.
The other bedroom door opened. There were another half-dozen bangs in rapid succession. You will note the 2 on the diagram. He hadn’t been expected. Jason was getting rattled. It was overkill. Point blank from less than two feet away.
He heard me say “Hello” to the dispatcher. He entered my room. He held the gun in my face. There was eye contact. I held very, very still and kept the eye contact, looking at him hard. I thought that my only hope was to make him SEE ME. Make myself be a person to him. Make him look in my eyes. It was less than a foot away. He pulled the trigger. It jammed. Multiple times. He was holding it sideways, like a gangster in a music video. He shook it, looked down the barrel, left the room.
I jumped up, pushed Brittany’s massage table in front of the door, locked it, crouched down in the corner where you see the 3. He got angry. I was on the phone with the police. He screamed things. He fired through the door. The bullet ricocheted off the metal frame of the massage table. It hit me in the ankle. I didn’t feel it. I was on the phone with the dispatcher. It was 12:04. My phone said so. It seemed shorter and longer. He was yelling. I tried to adjust position. Slipped. Looked down. Saw blood. Told them I’d been shot. I didn’t know how many times, I thought probably only once, but I hadn’t felt that one.
There were two more shots.
There were no more shots. The SWAT team came. They yelled for him through loudspeakers, then broke into the house. I was still on the phone with 911. The dispatcher told me to move away from the door and stand in the middle of the room with my hands on the back of my head and the phone on speaker. I did. The SWAT team broke in. Cuffed me. Frisked me.
They lead me out into the hallway. I was having trouble keeping my footing. My ankle was weird and bleeding a lot. It was slick. The floors were hardwood. It still didn’t hurt. I saw Brittany. She was on her back, still holding the kettle. The tap was still running. Her chin was tilted back, there were medics. She wasn’t moving. All I could see of her head was the underside of her jaw. I have been told that was a good thing. She was wearing purple leopard fuzzy pajama pants, jelly-bean print panties from the Jelly Belly factory down the road, and a grey Henley with no bra. Her toenails were teal. So were mine. We’d gotten silly and painted them the night before. I kept mine until it all chipped off.
They moved me past her quickly. Maybe half a second. A SWAT officer blocked my view on purpose. I saw even less of the other victim. He was dead. I knew that. He had no medics. He had no chest. He was all over the walls and the door.
Jason was lying where you see the 4, sprawled across the top of the stairs. He was still alive. His chest was heaving. He was squirming. He was making noises like a broken whistle in a bag of jelly. He had no face. One of his teeth was sticking in the floor. They asked me to identify the shooter. Clothes. Beard. Gun. I verified them all. I wanted to step on him. On his twitching hurting face hole. But I didn’t want him on me, and they made me step over him.
They said he took twenty minutes to die. They say the others were dead before they hit the floor. I’m glad.
They took me outside. There were police, medics, press. I did what I was told. They checked my hands with some kind of swab and took me out of the cuffs. I couldn’t have my phone back. I was in my pajamas. I was bloody. The medic put a gauze pad on my ankle and taped it. It soaked through. They added another. It soaked through. They didn’t add any more. I went to the hospital, the police station, the hotel. I talked a lot, calmly, to official people, then got my phone back from the police and talked a lot, calmly, to all the people who weren’t next of kin who were in the phone numbers who the police wouldn’t call. Her friends. Her clients. Her godmother.
I can remember just fine.
Her birthday is this week. She would have been 29. She isn’t.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Another account of the shooting, from Andy's tumblr
(Anonymous) 2015-04-16 02:39 am (UTC)(link)Supposed To
Putting this here and on Facebook because I don’t know where else to put it and I just need to get it out. No, I don’t expect anything to come of it.
***
She married the wealthy older man whom her parents wanted for her and whom she was told would help take care of her 8 siblings after her father had walked out on them. She did what she was supposed to.
She endured 4 years of mental, emotional, physical, financial, and sexual abuse, working 60-100 hour weeks for his business, remodeling his houses, waiting on him hand and foot, obeying his every order, and taking care of his sick, elderly father. She did what she was supposed to.
When it became clear that he had never loved her, that she would never please him, and that he would never help her family, she ended the abuse cycle and walked out. She did what she was supposed to.
After leaving with little more than the clothes on her back and a few belongings stuffed into her car, she got a job, found a series of friend’s couches to crash on, and started the long, arduous legal process of trying to get back from him the rest of her property. She did what she was supposed to.
The California Bar Association Certified, Legal Aid recommended lawyer whom she scraped up $275 to pay a consulting fee told her that if she wanted the judge to validate that she had rights to equity on the property she was entitled to (and on the title of), she needed to “assert right of residence” and move back in with her abuser. She did what she was supposed to.
That same lawyer told her to bring a witness, not a relative, who would be willing to live with her in this dangerous situation and testify in court if he did anything. She asked me, and I agreed, because she was my friend and I could not let her go into that alone. We did what we were supposed to.
For six months, she filled out legal forms, submitted documentation, and went to court appearances precisely on schedule while we both worked odd jobs to make ends meet and put up with a childish man who trashed our bikes, screamed all night, made bizarre phone calls to the police, and turned our utilities off. We dutifully reported every single incident to the police and she continued to pursue her legal rights because she did not want him to win and think he could do it again to another woman…which he was already lining up to do. We did what we were supposed to.
On the morning of May 6, she served him papers that were required by the State of California to inform him, among other things, that she had turned him into the IRS, as she was a certified California tax preparer and would lose her license if she didn’t report the things she had found in his tax report. He told her if she wasn’t out of his life by morning, he’d put a bullet in her head. She called the police. She did what she was supposed to.
The police showed up. He refused to speak to them. They asked if he had a gun, she said she didn’t know. They asked if he’d ever tried to kill anyone before. She said only himself. They asked if he’d been violent before. She said yes, but there had never been charges pressed. They said there was nothing they could do and left. They did not do what they were supposed to.
At noon on May 7, he came into the house with a gun. He shot and killed her while she was washing dishes. He shot and killed another man who had been renting a room to take care of his elderly father. He tried to kill me, but the gun misfired. I was shot in the ankle with a ricochet. He left the room. He did not do what he was supposed to.
I barricaded the door behind him and called 9-1-1. where I stayed on the phone for 20 minutes, instructing the SWAT team of everything I could hear including the additional shots fired when he killed himself. I followed every instruction they gave me. I did what I was supposed to.
The SWAT team charged the house. They found him dying at the top of the stairs, but still alive. I was the only living person in the house. They had me throw the phone aside, cuffed me, ascertained I could walk on the gunshot wound, and marched me downstairs, asking me to identify the shooter on the way past. I complied with everything. I did what I was supposed to do.
They took me to the hospital and asked me if I had insurance. I said no. They didn’t even remove the gauze pad the medic had put on my ankle. They just determined that the bleeding wasn’t life threatening and told me to leave with the police officer. I did what I was supposed to do.
I sat for hours with the police being interrogated and providing them every detail of which I was capable. I treated my own ankle as best I could from a police first aid kit. I called my friends and hers from a borrowed phone. I asked only for a sandwich. I made written and oral statements on the record. I did what I was supposed to do.
I was put up in a hotel room four miles from the house for the night. They gave me my phone back and nothing else. I got in at 10pm, having spent 10 hours being interrogated. I spent the next 2 hours calling everyone who had known her on my contact list so they didn’t have to read about it in the papers, with the exception of her family whom the police had said they wished to contact in person. I did what I was supposed to do.
A friend of mine came by the next morning. We had no vehicle nor money, so we walked the 4 miles to a shopping center near the house. I borrowed money from other friends who wired it to me so that I could buy clothes that weren’t bloody pajamas and replacements for my blood-soaked dressings. I reported in to the police again. I did what I was supposed to do.
I waited until the biohazard team and DA’s office were done with the scene and was given 4 hours to remove all my possessions from the property. While I was there, I heard some of his friends saying they were going to find all that bitch’s legal shit and burn it. I salvaged all the legal records and her most personally prized belongings as well. I did what I was supposed to.
I immediately turned the legal records over to the police and the personal belongings over to her father and siblings. I did what I was supposed to.
The police had seized my computer because she had correspondence with him on it and had prepared legal documents on it. I explained that it contained my business software, tax records, and vital business documents such as contracts. They gave me forms to fill out to get it back and told me in the mean time to get another equivalent computer and an external hard drive: they wouldn’t be able to give me back the actual computer, but they would copy the hard drive and give me that and I would be reimbursed for the new computer and hard drive. I borrowed more money and got exactly what they said. I did what I was supposed to.
I was asked by the police to stay in the area for more interrogation. I told them I had nowhere to stay. They told me to set up in a cheap motel across from the police station and gave me more forms to fill out, telling me to submit the receipts and I would be reimbursed. I borrowed more money. I did what I was supposed to.
I went in multiple times over the next few weeks to speak to the police and answer their questions. They never charged me with anything. I was never even a person of interest. They called me a model witness. I did what I was supposed to.
The detective on the case sent me to Victim Witness Services at the DA’s office. They sent me to a doctor for my ankle and told me they would reimburse me for the computer, my lost job contracts, pay my medical bills, and pay the costs of moving me because my residence had been destroyed. They wanted all my original receipts and many forms. I did what I was supposed to.
Over two weeks after I had been shot, I had the bullet removed from my ankle. I listed VWS as my insurance on every form as I had been told. I opted out of anesthesia because I wanted to be lucid for her funeral. Even though her family did not want me to attend because they thought I’d had an affair with her, I was holding services online for her friends who couldn’t be there. I did what I was supposed to.
I moved to Colorado to stay with the only friends who could take me in at such short notice. I was hugely in debt now, but I believed it would be okay. They were going to reimburse me for what I’d had to spend as the victim of a violent crime and pay my medical bills. I had done what I was supposed to.
While I waited, I started an anti Domestic Violence organization and put together a 1000 mile hike in her name, because long-distance trekking had been a shared passion of ours and when she was killed, she had been planning one for the summer. I walked 1000 miles on a 9 week old bullet wound, promoting domestic violence awareness the whole way. I did what I was supposed to.
Weekly, then daily after the “4-6 weeks” I’d been told to expect for reimbursement had passed, I called to try and find out what was going on. While I was out of state on the hike, I left a trusted friend of mine with a Power of Attorney and instructions to keep petitioning for me. I did what I was supposed to.
The medical bills were never paid. I have never been reimbursed. My credit is trashed. I still don’t have my business records or a copy of my hard drive. No one at the police department, VWS, or the DA office will answer the phone. I have called hundreds of times, left hundreds of messages, sent dozens of emails. They have all my receipts. Legal aid services won’t take my case out of state. I can’t afford a lawyer. I am hugely in debt. Now, Disney’s “Brave” is being promoted everywhere, and the princess looks just like her. It’s tearing me to pieces. For the first time since the incident, I’m having nightmares. I am eligible for counselling, but that’s through VWS too. They still won’t answer the phone. It’s been six months. They won’t do what they’re supposed to.
Her life is over. Mine is a wreck. I should be writing. I should be doing my job. I can’t, both because I don’t have the physical things I need and because I’m just shattered. I don’t understand.
We did what we were supposed to.
Yet ANOTHER account, similar, but with embellished/different details
(Anonymous) 2015-04-16 11:15 pm (UTC)(link)Let me draw you a diagram.
[image of house layout]
On the left are the stairs to the top floor of the house. Jason came up these. We did not hear him because he said nothing and moved quietly, and his truck had been parked some distance away so that we would not see him drive up. He had entered through the back downstairs door by the kitchen. The dog did not bark. It knew him. We were talking about what we wanted to do with our weekend. It was Saturday, May 7, 2011, noon. There was a farmer’s market coming up soon, the first one for the year in Napa. Brittany offered to make tea. I said sure. We were in the room you see on the lower right hand side of the diagram.
She went to the bathroom immediately adjacent our room that we shared with the handyman/other boarder who was living in the bedroom you see at the top righthand side of the diagram. I was sitting on the bed, using the computer. She turned on the tap in the bathroom to rinse the electric kettle.
There were two sharp bangs, not actually very loud. The house echoed oddly. There were no screams, no cries, no words. The children at the end of the cul de sac had fireworks a few days before. I thought they had bigger ones. I picked up my cell phone to call 9-1-1 and ask the police to come confiscate them before someone was hurt. I didn’t know it, but Brittany was already dead where you see the 1 on the diagram.
The other bedroom door opened. There were another half-dozen bangs in rapid succession. You will note the 2 on the diagram. He hadn’t been expected. Jason was getting rattled. It was overkill. Point blank from less than two feet away.
He heard me say “Hello” to the dispatcher. He entered my room. He held the gun in my face. There was eye contact. I held very, very still and kept the eye contact, looking at him hard. I thought that my only hope was to make him SEE ME. Make myself be a person to him. Make him look in my eyes. It was less than a foot away. He pulled the trigger. It jammed. Multiple times. He was holding it sideways, like a gangster in a music video. He shook it, looked down the barrel, left the room.
I jumped up, pushed Brittany’s massage table in front of the door, locked it, crouched down in the corner where you see the 3. He got angry. I was on the phone with the police. He screamed things. He fired through the door. The bullet ricocheted off the metal frame of the massage table. It hit me in the ankle. I didn’t feel it. I was on the phone with the dispatcher. It was 12:04. My phone said so. It seemed shorter and longer. He was yelling. I tried to adjust position. Slipped. Looked down. Saw blood. Told them I’d been shot. I didn’t know how many times, I thought probably only once, but I hadn’t felt that one.
There were two more shots.
There were no more shots. The SWAT team came. They yelled for him through loudspeakers, then broke into the house. I was still on the phone with 911. The dispatcher told me to move away from the door and stand in the middle of the room with my hands on the back of my head and the phone on speaker. I did. The SWAT team broke in. Cuffed me. Frisked me.
They lead me out into the hallway. I was having trouble keeping my footing. My ankle was weird and bleeding a lot. It was slick. The floors were hardwood. It still didn’t hurt. I saw Brittany. She was on her back, still holding the kettle. The tap was still running. Her chin was tilted back, there were medics. She wasn’t moving. All I could see of her head was the underside of her jaw. I have been told that was a good thing. She was wearing purple leopard fuzzy pajama pants, jelly-bean print panties from the Jelly Belly factory down the road, and a grey Henley with no bra. Her toenails were teal. So were mine. We’d gotten silly and painted them the night before. I kept mine until it all chipped off.
They moved me past her quickly. Maybe half a second. A SWAT officer blocked my view on purpose. I saw even less of the other victim. He was dead. I knew that. He had no medics. He had no chest. He was all over the walls and the door.
Jason was lying where you see the 4, sprawled across the top of the stairs. He was still alive. His chest was heaving. He was squirming. He was making noises like a broken whistle in a bag of jelly. He had no face. One of his teeth was sticking in the floor. They asked me to identify the shooter. Clothes. Beard. Gun. I verified them all. I wanted to step on him. On his twitching hurting face hole. But I didn’t want him on me, and they made me step over him.
They said he took twenty minutes to die. They say the others were dead before they hit the floor. I’m glad.
They took me outside. There were police, medics, press. I did what I was told. They checked my hands with some kind of swab and took me out of the cuffs. I couldn’t have my phone back. I was in my pajamas. I was bloody. The medic put a gauze pad on my ankle and taped it. It soaked through. They added another. It soaked through. They didn’t add any more. I went to the hospital, the police station, the hotel. I talked a lot, calmly, to official people, then got my phone back from the police and talked a lot, calmly, to all the people who weren’t next of kin who were in the phone numbers who the police wouldn’t call. Her friends. Her clients. Her godmother.
I can remember just fine.
Her birthday is this week. She would have been 29. She isn’t.