For many the term sex offender is repulsive and is synonymous with every known true evil imaginable. This is not for the faint of heart but a chilling account of how this seemingly normal nice guy evolved over time into a SEX OFFENDER and the path he traveled from his conviction, sentence, treatment and then ultimate release back into society. Today he is a member of a growing "despicable group of sex offenders" that society loves to hate and is now REGISTERED FOR LIFE!
Registered for Life
Consequences of a former sex offenderBy R Luther CooperAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2012 R Luther Cooper
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4685-0039-4Chapter One
My journey began back in the summer of 1951 when I became the first child of both of my parents' second marriages. During my first five pre-school years we lived in a small farming town with a population of about 3,000 in the middle of the Central Valley in California. My mother and older step-brother (by five years) had come to the Valley from the San Francisco Bay area (following her divorce) to live with her older brother (my uncle) Steve and his wife (my aunt) Susan. Uncle Steve was fifteen years older than my mom and had established himself as a heavy equipment mechanic. He and his wife had two daughters (my cousins) Grace and Virginia. They had moved to this small town and built their own home just a few blocks away from the home in which my father was born and raised. Uncle Steve, being more than just a mechanic, had built a smaller second home on the back of his property. His retired parents (my grandma and grandpa) lived in it.
I remember grandma's house as a quaint little cottage behind my uncle's "big castle" guarded by a big black dog that, of course, scared the heck outta little boys. But I cherish those wonderful childhood memories of the many times I was allowed (as a five year old kindergarten kid and "big enough") to venture all on my own through the "big forest" of sycamore trees (between the sidewalk and curbs) full of big, bad, imaginary wolves and hop-scotch skip along the sidewalk to Grandma's house, a couple of blocks away. I'd feast on freshly baked bread with real butter and home-made jam or those special warm cookies that only Grandmas know the secret to making. My grandma was a small framed, short, rather stocky woman, warm and loving with an infectious smile. She made me feel special. It seemed she had all day to spend time with me while my mother was busy with two of my younger brothers, one still in diapers.
When my parents first met, my mom was a young single mother working as a waitress at the local bakery/coffee shop just a few blocks' walk from her home. My dad was a veteran of three tours of duty with the Marines in the Pacific during World War II. He was a decorated veteran and surviving three tours then was unheard of. In fact, prior to his last deployment he gave away all his worldly belongings declaring that "nobody comes home a third time."
Sounds like we're heading in the direction of some "forties war hero meets the young, struggling waitress (damsel in distress) and rides in on his white horse (1939 coupe) to rescue her (and the kid), fall madly in love and live happily ever after" crappy movie. There probably were some elements of that. But the reality was she was alone, trying to raise her child and had many fears about her unsettled future hoping for the "dream" and in need of serious emotional healing. He was a returning soldier (I mean Marine—they hate being called soldiers) trying to start a career while stuffing his war experiences and, in my opinion, suffering from what is now called Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). In those days, a real man certainly didn't talk about that sort of thing. During the summer that I turned six we moved to a larger small town with a population of 13,000 about 25 miles away. My dad was a railroad engineer and we were able to afford a brand new, sub-division home close to his work and within walking distance to public schools. We were part of the emerging middle-class, post-war, "baby boom" suburban expansion taking place all over the country. I showed up on the first day at my new school with the usual Dad-inflicted buzz haircut, a button-downed farmer-plaid shirt, Penny's "plain pocket" jeans and a pair of Redwing boots all ready to "get an education." Our family prospered and grew with the addition of another brother and (at last) my little sister, the princess. So you see. I was raised in a middle-class family from a typical small town with my older and three younger brothers and a younger sister. We had plenty of the things it took to live in middle-class America in the 50's and 60's. We all went to public schools back when they had structure and discipline. I was taught most importantly that I was fortunate to live right smack in the middle of the Great Central Valley of California in the heart of America, the greatest country in the world!
Only as I grew older did I realize how special a place it was to grow up in. On any summer day we could just go down the road and get our own fresh strawberries, cherries, peaches, tomatoes, corn or watermelon, you name it, directly from the farmers. We could jump in the car and in minutes be out boating in the Delta waterways or go down to the local public swimming pool. Adding to all that, we were only a few hours drive to the Sierras for some of the greatest mountain camping in the entire world. I could ride my bike all over town, day or night, without any fear. Doors were left unlocked. To me it was a lot like "Mayberry." I had the privileges of playing Little League baseball, to be in Cub and Boy Scouts (I'm an Eagle Scout), to play sports in high school (earning four varsity letters) and all-in-all had a NORMAL up-bringing.
So for those of you who picked up this book with the notion that a Registered Sex Offender can't possibly be NORMAL and certainly must be the result of a horrible childhood or the victim of some heinous act or even, God forbid, was just born that way, I'm sorry to disappoint you. That would be too easy. One of the biggest reasons that I'm writing this book is to show how subtle and destructive the "sins of the father" can be visited upon the sons for generations to come, especially in normal families.
My offensive behavior was not a result of my childhood. I bear full responsibility for my actions. I am only suggesting that the choices I made were somewhat influenced by the people and circumstances around which I grew up. Most of my decisions were made without much conscious thought. I believe that we all make choices or react to situations based on our past experiences and current circumstances without really thinking about them.
I am very grateful for the childhood I had, my family, my hometown and most of the things that happened to me growing up. I can't in any way blame any of those to justify my offense. I alone am responsible for what I did. I'm a REGISTERED SEX OFFENDER FOR LIFE.
So what possible credibility could I have that you would be interested in what I have to say? After all, I AM a convicted sex offender! Before you burn this book or regret that you bought it, I challenge you to read on as you may be more like me than you think. For some of you that could be very scary.
I decided to share my story with you so what happened in my life may not repeat itself in yours negatively affecting those you know and love. Later I'll get into who I victimized and try to unravel the reasons behind what moved me to behave in such a way. For now I ask you to open your eyes and mind to look beyond the OFFENDER and explore with me as I attempt to convey what went on. For some of you this might become uncomfortable. If it does, then my hope is that you find something in here that may alter the way you approach and make choices in your own life. You might even have the courage to explore the motives behind your choices that could ultimately lead to similar destructive consequences. I will share with you my life leading up to my offense, my prosecution, the outcome and the challenges that I face today as well as the way the public sees offenders and their role or exclusion in society.
Please take a moment before you read on. Think about your feelings and opinions regarding SEX OFFENDERS. Okay. Are you in touch with your biases? Do you think offenders are a lower class of people? Are you pissed? Disgusted? Are you suspect? Do you think I'm manipulating you? What if I am? Do you think you're big enough to handle this? Well, try to set all that aside and open your mind for now the story begins.
Chapter Two
My defense attorney at the time of my trial had an interesting saying about most defendants. He said, "The difference between the criminals and the rest of us is that we all know where the line is. Some of us choose NOT to cross it. Not that we don't think about it." My brother-in-law told me, "We're all a little twisted. Some of the things that go on in my mind would scare the shit out of Steven King but I wouldn't DO it." (Come on, you've thought about some crap you're not proud of. You just haven't acted on it or have you and you just haven't been caught?) Once I asked him how he found the courage to defend criminals in court with a clear conscience. He told me in order to effectively do his job; he preferred to not actually know if an accused was guilty. He just knew that "at the end of the day, at least one of us was going to walk outta here."
(Gulp! Not a lot of real assurance for me at the time.)
The last week before my graduation from high school, my father took me down to the Railroad office (remember he was a railroad engineer) to introduce me to the Trainmaster and get me hired for what I thought was the summer. He showed up at my high school and found me goofing around during "water-balloon/squirt gun week." He said, "The party's over kid. It's time to go to work." As it turned out, one had to be eighteen and a high school graduate to get hired on the railroad. That was a problem because I was a month away from my eighteenth birthday. So his fatherly advice to me was to simply lie a little about my age by telling me to "Make a six (I was born in June) sort of look like a five (May) on the application." And he said it would take them more than a week to check on my graduation (they didn't have computers back then). By the time they got around to it I'd have my diploma anyway. He assured me it would be no big deal and a little secret between just the two of us.
I had very few special moments alone with my father when I was growing up because his job kept him "on the road." And I had four brothers and a sister to compete for his attention when he was home. So a job at the railroad would be a BIG deal. I wanted him to be proud of me for following in his footsteps. Looking back now I see that taking me to that office was his way of helping me become a man. He wanted me to get a "good union job" and told me he wasn't able to help me go to college. I did exactly as he advised and was hired immediately.
That was the first time I remember actually knowing I'd done something to please him. Bending the rules a little was no big deal. Right? So the lesson I learned was bending the rules just a little or telling a small lie and keeping it a secret was okay, in fact it was preferred, to get ahead. Today I'm sixty years old. This is the first time I've actually shared this particular incident with anyone.
I no longer work for the Railroad. My father has passed away. I'm qualified for benefits with the Railroad Retirement Board. I've decided to be a little more honorable and apply for them when I'm actually sixty-two instead of a month earlier because of that little lie that still remains on the record today.
I learned many lessons from my father as we all do. Even though he meant well, that was not a particularly good one. It is just a small example of the "sins" being passed on, a small portion of what would turn out to be a larger multi-generational "curse." I learned that it was okay to manipulate things just a little for my own purposes, that the rules 'don't apply to me.' These "skills" and many others survived well into my adult life and, when practiced enough times, brought unbelievable hurt and devastation to the ones I love the most. My dad meant well, but just think about this. If it was okay to lie a little, bend the rule a little, then driving over the speed limit just a little, swiping a piece of candy at the store or some coins that weren't mine or cheating on a test or my taxes just a little was okay, too. Right?
My dad had the personality and sensitivity (or lack of it) of TV's Archie Bunker. He could watch All in the Family and not get it. He seriously didn't understand why everyone was laughing while we kids thought we were watching home movies complete with all the same bigotry, cynicism and attitudes. Sadly he treated my mom like Archie treated Edith. He showed no outward signs of affection in our presence. He expected her to serve him and respect him for providing for our family. Our home was HIS domain. HE was in command. I know that he cared for and protected us. He would have gotten after anyone that threatened us. But he was seemingly unable to express himself. He died, when I was thirty-four. He had never seen me in a sports contest or even in a uniform. I had never heard him say that he loved me, my mother or my siblings or that he was proud of any of us.
Dad retired early from the railroad around age sixty due to health reasons. During his last few working years we had a pretty good relationship, considering by that time I had become one of his Railroad supervisors. The tools, the love, the encouragement and the support that I should have gotten from a nurturing father I just didn't get. But I love and forgive my dad for his short-comings and don't blame him in any way for my actions. I accept that he was a flawed man like most of us, doing his best while enduring things that happened in his own life. I'll always respect his service to our country. He was a true hero in that respect.
As you read this book pay particularly close attention to the choices I made. I hope can see how very easy it was for me to miss the 'red flags.' See if you may be missing similar warnings in your own life. You might even review how you make your choices and avoid devastating mistakes. Now I invite you to explore with me the events in my life that caused me to realize the consequences of being REGISTERED FOR LIFE.
Chapter Three
I graduated from high school and got my diploma (nobody ever checked). I thought I was well on my way to the "American Dream."
During the first few years after high school I continued to work on the railroad at a seniority based job. After the summer business slowed down I was laid off throughout the fall and winter. I took advantage of the time to take classes at a nearby Community College. It was the height of the Vietnam War and going to school allowed me to stay draft-deferred (kept me out of the military) as long as I maintained decent grades.
Several years later when my student deferment ran out, the military changed its draft procedure to a lottery system by assigning a random number between 1 and 366 (to include those born on Feb. 29th) to each date of the calendar year. It then ranked those dates (birthdays) in numerical order to fill the draft requirement. The morning following that year's lottery (before there was an internet) I got up, dressed and went over to my parents' house. Together we opened the Saturday morning paper to see if I was in the top group. I had already decided to enlist the following Monday if my number was in the first 150 (lower numbers were drafted first). My number was 346. The dates right before and right after my birthday were both in the top ten! The following year the draft ended (and the Vietnam War). I continued to work and go to school. I did not serve in the military. I thought the Marine would have been disappointed that I hadn't volunteered. Instead he told me he thought Vietnam was some "real bullshit" and offered to help me avoid becoming a part of it. He never mentioned any details. I still don't know exactly what he meant.
During the months I was off the railroad and going to school I worked in construction for a local contractor I met at church. I learned many valuable trade skills from Bill. In fact, I probably should have been paying him for my "education." Three years later, still working my "summer job" at the railroad, I built my own first house (with Bill's help). There I was. All graduated from high school, working a union job, driving a new car and an old pickup and building a three bedroom house. Might as well keep the "American Dream" going and get the wife and two and a half kids.
I met my first wife Nancy at college. She was there to get her MRS. degree (looking for a husband). I was there to maintain my student deferment. Only one of us "graduated." It was the beginning of a tragedy that lasted nearly twenty years. I entered adulthood optimistically thinking I was ready for the "Dream." In reality I was neither prepared to choose a mate nor start a family. My role model was Archie. My hormones ran rampant. I was twenty-one and, like most twenty-one year olds, didn't seek relationship advice. Confident and naïve, I dove right in.
Nancy was the third child of four being raised solely by her mother. Her parents divorced when she was four years old. Her father remained in the Mid-west when her mother brought the kids to California to be near their grandparents. Nancy, her older brother, older sister and younger brother were unsupervised growing up. Her mother was a nurse at a convalescent hospital across the street from their house. She worked the graveyard shift leaving the kids home alone during the night and she slept during the day.
Her father, while her parents were still together, was an alcoholic who abused all of them. Repeatedly he beat their mother right in front of the kids. He was also suspected of molesting them, too. But he passed away (via suicide) before that was ever verified.
When I met Nancy I didn't know how extensive her abuse had been. When she was nine years old she became the incest victim of her sixteen year old brother. She suffered various forms of his many sexual assaults, including intercourse (or more accurately rape), for four years. Then he enlisted in the Navy. That continuous abuse terrorized and enraged her. But her anger wasn't limited to her older brother. Her sister was four years older, big enough to tell him NO and fight him off of her. She did nothing to help her little sister. Her mother, whose memories of her own past abuse were "triggered" by Nancy's complaints, refused to believe her. She was so entrenched in her own denial that she wasn't "healthy" enough to protect her own daughter. Nancy was devastated. The abuse was allowed to continue unchecked. When she sought any assistance from anyone, the physical and sexual abuse she endured from her brother only worsened. Even when he was home "on leave" from the Navy he still tried to 'do things' to Nancy. By then, though, she was in her teens and able, with some effort, to fend him off herself.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Registered for Lifeby R Luther Cooper Copyright © 2012 by R Luther Cooper. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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