Carol Jose - Evil Web. A True Story of Cult Abuse and Courage

A TRUE STORY OF CULT

ABUSE AND COURAGE

MARY RICH

AND

CAROL JOSE

New Horizon Press
Far Hills, New Jersey

Copyright 1996 by Mary Rich and Carol Jose

First reprint 2012

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever, including electronic, mechanical or any information storage or retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in the 1976 Copyright Act or in writing from the publisher.

Requests for permission should be addressed to:

New Horizon Press

P.O. Box 669

Far Hills, NJ 07931

Rich, Mary and Jose, Carol

Evil Web: A True Story of Cult Abuse and Courage

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 95-69346

ISBN-13 (hc): 978-0-88282-441-3

New Horizon Press

Manufactured in the U.S.A.

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To the innocent children... everywhere.

Terrors are turned upon me:

They pursue my soul as the wind:

And my welfare passeth away as a cloud.

Job 30:15

by Robert T. Cross, Ph.D., Psychotherapist

Books today are rarely the result of an author sitting alone in a garret, yellow pad and number two pencil in hand. Nor was this one.

Our gratitude goes to the following: Larry Guarino, whose book A POWS Story: 2801 Days in Hanoi (Ivy/Random House, 1990) was the catalyst that brought us together to write this story; special friend, guiding light, and literary agent Ray Nugent of Naples, Florida; Dr. Robert Cross, psychotherapist, of Indian Harbour Beach, Florida for professional guidance and the Afterword; critical first reader and faithful assistant, Linda Downie; Randall Larrinaga for his insights and experiences; our computer guru Michael Herman; and Todd Robert Poch, PsyD. MALD, of Denver, Colorado.

Wed like to thank Bob McDonald, Theresa DeCapua, Craig Bailey, and Melinda Meers of FLORIDA TODAY. We also thank Joan Dunphy and Dennis McCarthy of New Horizon Press for their encouragement and able assistance.

Most of all, we are grateful to Dale Jose, Lou Francavilla, and our families, who were always there with patience and love, and generous with moral, and emotional and Financial support when we needed it during the more than four years spent in seeing this book through from first word to publication.

This book is based on the experiences of Mary Rich and reflects her perceptions of the past, present, and future. The personalities, events, actions, and conversations portrayed within the story have been taken from her memory, extensive interviews, research, court documents, letters, personal papers, press accounts, and the memories of participants.

To safeguard the privacy of certain individuals, the authors have changed their names and the names of certain places and, in some cases, altered identifying relations or characteristics. Events involving the characters happened as described; only minor details have been changed.

I stood at rigid attention at the back of the bedroom closet, facing the wall, hands behind my back, barely daring to breathe. Sweat beaded up on my body, and the tiny drops prickled as they detached themselves and went sliding down my scalp, down the sides of my nose, down between my breasts, down the inside of my legs. I had been standing there like that for hours.

The urge to move, to wipe away the drops of sweat, to turn and run was agonizing. I prayed. Please, God, help me. Help me be obedient. Save me from more punishment.

Here and there, a faint sound told me that the household was stirring. I stole a glance sideways. The neat rows of empty clothes on their hangers seemed like watchful sentinels, waiting for me to make a wrong move so they could pounce. I held my breath, not daring to move. I felt dizzy, and feared I would fall.

I seemed to be operating in thick mists of fog that shrouded my focus and my perspective, even my ability to function. It was about eight oclock on a Saturday morning in April, but I didnt know that. I had long ago lost track of days and hours.

Consigned to the dimness of the closet in that small suburban house in Palm Cay, Florida, I felt only cold and numbness on my bare feet and legs, heat in the rest of my body, and pain. Always pain. And hunger and thirst. Food and water were frequently withheld as punishment, and we were fed only sparingly otherwise. There were many mouths to feed, and we were always too poor, or so we were told.

Dishes clattered in the kitchen. I breathed in lightly, and the smell of coffee slid up my nostrils, bringing saliva into my mouth. Coffee! Hunger wrenched my stomach. Stealthily, I shifted one foot slightly, then the other. Sweat ran into my eyes, burning them, and the things around me blurred. Cautiously, I reached up and wiped the sweat away from my face, then brought my hand down to clasp the other hand behind my back as I had been ordered. Surely no one could have seen that one little move, that one little infraction of the rules, I told myself.

Closing my eyes, I prayed again, fervently. Dear Lord, make me see the error of my ways. Help me to do better. Help me to be worthy enough to be back in Rons good graces again. Help me to endure this punishment.

If I didnt falter, I might get something to eat this morning. I might not get another beating. I might even get to leave the closet. If I could just hold on long enough, just endure, Kathleen might call me to the kitchen for a bowl of cold oatmeala sugarless, choking pastebut welcome, oh so welcome, because with it would come a precious few minutes of freedom, a chance to sit, a brief respite from the hunger pangs gnawing at my belly.

The walls of the bedroom closet had been the boundaries of my world for weeks, maybe even a month now. When I was permitted to sleep, which wasnt often, I dropped to the floor and slept there. Ron liked it when I was banished to the closet for punishment. He would come creeping in, shut the door carefully, order me in a hoarse whisper to lie down, to take off my clothes. Then hed amuse himself with me, away from the eyes of his wife and the other adults, away from the childrens curiosity. I was his creature, totally at his mercy. He could do whatever he wanted to me.

That day, I was wearing the same light cotton dress Id been wearing for days. Maybe Ill be forgiven today, I dared to hope. Maybe today Ill be allowed to bathe, put on clean clothes.

Some times I fled to the closet on my own, seeking a haven. Mostly, the closet was my cell and no haven at all from the constant, unrelenting beatings or humiliation, as the pain lancing through my feet and the soreness across my back attested.

Suddenly, the door was thrown open. Rons lieutenant Kathleen came into the closet. These are Rons orders, she said. She began to beat me severely on my feet and legs, using a flat piece of dried palm frond from the yard, one that was edged with sharp stickers. It made a whispering sound as she wielded it again and again, with sharp staccato slaps on my bare feet and legs.

I cried out in pain, imploring her to Stop, oh stop! Please! Dont, ooh! Ive repented and will be good. I avowed over and over again, Ill obey, to please God and do His will. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, she stopped. I fell in a heap on the closet floor, facing the wall, my body drawn up in a ball, trying to protect my legs, sobbing and whimpering. She added a few sharp swats across my back for good measure.