Moroney - Through the glass

One month into our marriage, my husband committed horrific violent crimes. In that instant, the life I knew was destroyed and I vowed to myself that one day I would be whole again.

This is my story.

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This book is dedicated to my extraordinary parents and to my Golden Circle of family and friends for their courage, love, compassion, and willingness to walk alongside me through this dark time.

I also dedicate this book to those who have experienced the devastating effects of violent crime, those who have perpetrated violence, and those working to bring all of us and our communities together by seeking justice that restores our fundamental human right to live in trust, safety, peace, and toward the fulfillment of our highest potential.

Several names and identifying details of people portrayed in this book have been changed or omitted.

In preparation to write this book, I organized years of newspaper clippings, court transcripts, psychiatric reports, cards, and letters. When I found that I was missing documentation or was concerned that my memory blurred time, facts, and emotions, I sought information from court transcripts, medical records, and by checking my recall of events with other witnesses. It was impossible for me to keep a journal, especially in the earliest days, because of the extraordinary stress and demands that were placed on my time and energy. I recorded my emotional experiences through artwork, and letters to others that I copied and kept for myself as well. Somehow, I knew I would need them later.

This is my own story, one that very much reflects my own experiences and perspective on what took place. Its a story I tell with reverence and respect for the fact that there are many other people who have their own stories to tell about how their lives were impacted by the tragic crimes recounted in these pages. Not one day goes by when I do not hope and pray for the safety and healing of everyone affected.

Shannon Moroney

June 2011

I was happily writing a thank-you card for a wedding gift when I heard the knock at my hotel room door. It was November 8, 2005, I was thirty years old, and my life was about to change forever.

I was away from home, attending a school guidance counselors conference. When I opened the door I expected to see my colleagues at the threshold, inviting me to breakfast. But instead, I saw what no one wants to see: the silhouette of a police uniform filling the frame. A colleague was standing behind him. My heart instantly filled with dread. Whatever news the officer was delivering, it was going to be bad.

Are you Shannon Moroney? he asked.

I nodded, fear blocking my throat.

I was in Toronto, 100 miles away from my home in Peterborough. I thought of my dad and my brother first. As salesmen who worked in and around Toronto, they both drove a lot, and I pictured a car accident. Had one of them been hurt? Were they going to be okay?

Seeming to read my mind, the officer said, Im not here because someone has died or been in an accident. Im here about your husband. Are you Jason Stapless wife?

His question flustered me at first. Today was my one-month wedding anniversary and I wasnt used to my title of wife yet. During the last few weeks, Jason had been meeting me at the front door when I got home from work, saying, Hello, my wife. Batting my eyelashes theatrically and pretending to blush, I would reply, Hello, my husband. Then we would giggle and hug, and Id step inside.

I nodded again to the police officer, still unable to speak. Yes, I am Jason Stapless wife.

He was holding a newspaper. Confused, I glanced down at it and tried to read the headlines, but it was upside down, so I couldnt make out anything. I glanced back up at the officer. My colleague looked at me from over the officers shoulder, his face full of concern.

Do you want me to stay, Shannon? he asked gently.

I shook my head. He was kind, but I didnt know him well. I didnt want to involve him in whatever I was about to find out. The officer stepped into my hotel room. The door closed behind him.

He stood in front of me, still holding out the newspaper. I reached for it, again trying to scan the headlines.

Oh, he said. Theres nothing in this paper. I just picked it up from in front of your door. He put the newspaper on a nearby table.

Im here about your husband, Jason. He was arrested last night, charged with sexual assault.

I felt my body go numb. My mind began to race with questions: What does he mean? There must be some mistake! My mind clouded with confusion.

The officer continued. I understand that your husband called the police himself. So there was no mistake.

What happened? Who did he... assault? I asked.

The officer was from Toronto, not Peterborough, so he didnt know the details. He handed me a slip of paper with the phone number of the police station and said I should call right away and ask for Sergeant DiClemente. Then, quietly, he said, I think you better expect that it was full rape.

My stomach flipped. I felt like I was going to be sick. How was this possible? Desperation now pushed into my chest, making it hard to breathe. I had to stay calm. This cant be happening. I turned away from the officer, walked over to the desk by the window, and put my hand on the phones receiver, terrified at the thought of what I would hear when I dialed that number.

Less than two hours earlier, I had been lying in bed with day just breaking outside the hotel window. I was so happya newlywed filled with satisfaction and eager anticipation. I closed my eyes and an image of a shiny silver bowl came to my mind, filled with all the people and experiences of my recent pastmy thirtieth birthday, our beautiful wedding on Thanksgiving weekend, and then a brief honeymoon at a cottage where Jason and I had lain in a hammock and daydreamed of our future and children. Everything had come together.

Under the blankets, I reached my hands down and rested them on my belly. I imagined cells splitting and multiplying inside me. The night before, in our talk at ten ritual that we followed when one of us was away, I had told Jason I thought I might be pregnant. That would be great, he said. Well take a test when you get home.

I promised him that though I was tempted to take the test immediately, Id wait until I was back so we could share the moment. The night before, Id also spoken with my friend Rachael who lived in Colorado. Wed been close for years, ever since we lived in Ecuador as development workers in our early twenties. I think this is it, I had said to her. I think Im pregnant! Lying in bed at daybreak, I focused on what it would mean to become a mother.

When I was small, my mum explained to my siblings and me how wed started off as one speck, then become two specks, then four, then eight and so on, until her mental multiplication skills ran out. Delighted, we could always ask her how many specks we were at any given moment in our development: Mummy, just before I was born, how many specks was I? She would pause, ponder for a moment, and then say something like, Let me see... I guess you were eight hundred and ninety-seven thousand, four hundred and thirty-two specks.