Lesson from a murder trial: Kids need dads

Strangulation, gunshots, burials, drugs, desperate flights from police. Two days of disturbing testimony in a disturbing murder trial.

But what I can’t stop thinking about is the dads.

Yesterday, a jury heard from the alleged sidekick of the man accused of killing a woman and a girl in Alpena in 2021. The floor was all Josh Wirgau’s during the second day of testimony, and he told his story with a straight face and earnest voice, with the occasional self-effacing giggle lending him a boyish innocence.

I'm pretty sure he lied.

Not all of it. I believe much of what he related about the incidents surrounding the deaths of Abby Hill and Brynn Bills. And the prosecution will prove he told the truth, at least in part. But I can’t believe even the prosecutor believes Wirgau’s description of the moment of Abby’s death.

Josh, Brad Srebnik, and Abby are in the woods. Josh turns his back on the other two. He hears Abby scream, then hears an immediate gunshot. Josh turns to find Abby on the ground at Brad’s feet and Brad standing with his right arm outstretched, still holding the just-fired gun.

The medical examiner says the bullet that killed Abby entered the back of her head, as though she were executed, not just killed. For Josh’s story to be right, Abby would have had to scream while her back was to her killer, an arm’s length away from him, not running away, with the gun against her head.

It makes no sense.

In exchange for his testimony, the prosecution promised Josh a sentence of 15 to 30 years. If he lies, that promise goes away. I’m curious to see how that plays out. If the state doesn't nix the plea deal after what appears to be a blatant lie, they go back on their word and do the residents of Alpena County a grave injustice. If they admit he lied, that opens the rest of his testimony to scrutiny, and their case weakens.

I’ll leave that to larger minds than mine to figure out.

What my mind keeps turning over is the dads.

Monday’s witnesses included the now-14-year-old who may have been the last person to see Brynn before the 17-year-old was driven to where police say she was killed.

Brynn had been living in the girl’s house on and off for some time, and the girl, then 12, thought of Brynn as a sister. On the stand, she coolly schooled the prosecutor on the intricacies of social media. She talked about Brynn’s meth habit. She described the night Brynn left and never came back.

Through it all she stayed calm, impressively poised for a preteen.

She only broke down once ― when she had to tell the jury she’d seen Brynn smoking meth with her dad.

After her testimony, the girl met her dad in the parking lot as he was escorted into the courthouse in handcuffs. He’s been in prison for coming up on a year after he threw her a birthday party where her friends used and abused substances kids shouldn’t have.

The girl could hate her dad for introducing her to a life she shouldn’t see. But I don’t think she does.

I think she cried on the stand because she needs her dad to be a good man.

Though he has a long history of crying when he gets in trouble, according to old police records, Josh kept a straight face through all of his hours of testimony. All the way until he described the night he decided to turn himself in and called his dad for a ride to the police station. When he got in his dad’s truck, “I got in trouble,” Josh said, his face crumbling.

From all reports, Josh’s dad is a decent man whose heart has to have broken repeatedly throughout the last two years. That night, knowing police wanted his son in connection with a missing girl believed to have been murdered, the father must have been overwhelmed with sorrow and disappointment. I can only imagine what Josh heard when he got into that truck.

With all that he saw and did, his tears on the stand say the part of the story that hurt him the most was disappointing his dad.

So many dads in this story. The dad known to police as violent and dangerous, still wanted by his daughter as she fled from police alongside her alleged killer. The dad whose criminal charge for forgery police announced the week of his daughter’s alleged murderer’s trial. The dad who sits behind Brad at every court hearing.

We need our dads. We need to believe in them, and we need them to believe in us. We need them to stand up strong and lead us down the right path. We don’t need them to be perfect, but we need them to try to do what’s right and show us they care.

Love your kids, dads. They need you more than you know.

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It’s now Wednesday morning, and Josh is back on the stand. He just answered a question about his kids, who he said are 4 and 9. They’ve got a tough row to hoe, those kids, with their father incarcerated and splashed on the front page of the paper. So do all the other kids tied to this murder trial. There’s a lot of them. I hope they are surrounded by people who are giving them the support and mental health help they must need.

Lots of kids grow up without good dads.

The rest of us need to fill that gap.

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According to attorneys, today’s witnesses will include a man who requested a transfer into Brad’s jail cell and then said Brad confessed to killing Abby, a woman affiliated with a biker club associated with violent crime, and Josh’s dad.

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Photo credit for the father/child hand pic: Image by drobotdean on Freepik.

Murders and monsters

I don’t believe in monsters.

I’m in a courtroom for the first day of a two-week murder trial in the deaths of Brynn Bills, a small-town 17-year-old strangled and buried in an Alpena-area back yard, and Abby Hill, a woman executed because she knew too much.

When police named a suspect in the killings, social media rang with anger, demanding a swift and terrible vengeance upon the “monster.”

We couldn’t fathom such a deed in our peaceful, pretty city. Someone capable of squeezing a girl’s neck until she died or holding a gun to a woman’s head and pulling the trigger had to be someone almost inhuman, with a mind incapable of only evil.

Not like us.

Not one of us.

A monster.

I don’t know if the man accused of the killings, Brad Srebnik, actually did them. I have a theory, based on the research I’ve conducted, but I don’t know for sure. But let’s say he did. 

That does not make him a monster.

The truth is much scarier than that.

Brad is from Alpena. He attended Alpena schools. Hung around with Alpena kids. Got caught with a group of troublemaking preteens at Rotary Island Mill Park when he was 14. Gave someone the middle finger at Walmart when he was 18 and ended up in the middle of a midnight, middle-of-the-street brawl.

Got too drunk sometimes. Tried to break into a safe at the Culligan Water store when he was 20. Stole music equipment from a church with some friends. Sold a little weed.

Got chance after chance to straighten up, then went to prison when he ran out of chances. Came back to Alpena with new, crime-connected connections. Hooked up with some old school buddies and broke into a string of hunting camps, stealing and selling the guns they found. Did more prison time. Met more of the most dangerous people in Michigan.

Just a kid from Alpena, who ended up in a biker gang clubhouse and, if police are right, in an Alpena kitchen with two people he would eventually kill.

I’ve sat in Alpena courtrooms and watched the same story, over and over. Minus the murders, of course. But the rest is the same. Kids from Alpena, drawn into bad places and bad situations, becoming Alpena adults stuck in a loop not social workers nor police nor prison can break.

There are probably hundreds of people in Alpena, right now, walking the path Brad walked. Coping with the same life-changing, horrific trauma he endured as a teenager when tragedy struck his family. Surrounded by the same drugs, the same temptations, with the same weaknesses and inadequacies and unwillingness to change.

Hundreds of people who could walk to the same edge and possibly jump.

Alpena didn’t raise a monster. It raised Brad. If the murders never happened, nobody would have raised an eyebrow at his history. He’s just one of the bad ones, we’d say, turning our attention to more important matters.

Maybe we need to do more. Maybe we need to figure out what got him from Rotary Island Mill Park to that Alpena kitchen.

Maybe we need to make changes before the murders happen.

We don’t know how, we cry. Nothing works. The systems we’ve created to stop crime before it happens and punish it when it does can only do so much. We are out of options.

So we dig deeper. Look harder. Stop calling them monsters. Stop thinking locking one man away solves the problem and prevents the next death, because it doesn’t.

I don’t have a magic solution.

But doing nothing is not an option.

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The murder trial in the deaths of Brynn and Abby runs Jan. 29 until, at the court’s best guess, Feb. 9, 2024. I’ll be here. 

I tried to create a signup that would let you receive email updates about the trial, but technology has defeated me. So I’m going to share reflections via this blog. I won’t include graphic or gory details, but murder is a difficult and painful topic any way you approach it. Please use your judgment whether it would be good for your mental health to read those posts.

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Fakers

Ain't nobody should get to all of a sudden call themselves a Lions fan now.

Not when the team is basking in the glow of a long-awaited playoff win, earned with such grit and toughness on Sunday night. Nobody oughta be able to jump on that bandwagon when everything is bright and rosy and hopeful . . . not when real fans have stuck with their team for years, rooting them on through season after dismal season.

Real fans have been there through thick and thin. Through the curse of Bobby Layne and the departure of Barry Sanders and, Lord help us, 2008. You think you get to eat some chicken wings and whoop it up and call yourself a Lions fan without living through all that? Huh-uh. You’re nothing but a faker, and you know it.

…Which explains why, on Sunday night, I felt a little bad as I sat on the edge of my seat, hollering and whooping for the team I had adopted mere days earlier.

Yep, I’m One Of Those…a bandwagon-jumping, fair-weather fan who only declared allegiance for her state’s team when they were about to make themselves look really ding-dang good. 

I’m kinda embarrassed about that.

I can claim a shirttail Lions connection, I guess. My dad was a Lions fan. I remember him watching games from his recliner with a Manhattan and his pipe when I was a kid. I was born in Detroit, too, also when I was a kid. That doesn’t earn me fan status, though, not by a long shot.

I like football, but I’ve never latched onto a team, even though I envied other people’s sports passion and the camaraderie that came with it. It always seemed unethical, somehow, to start cheering for a team just because I wanted to have someone to cheer for. I figured people would tell me my enthusiasm was fake, and I was afraid they would be right.

But then, in the days before last Sunday’s game, I saw the warmth and the gusto with which Lions fans talked of their hopes, their trepidation, and their excitement for the game. You should be a fan of this team, they told me.

So I figured, what the heck. Maybe I can be a Lions fan.

After all, if you want to add something of value to your life, you kinda have to start out as a faker.

Fakerdom isn’t limited to sports, of course. I’m a faker as I contend, this cold week, with frozen pipes for the first time and pretend I know how to fix them. I’m a faker coffee drinker, having decided to add the beverage to my life but still unable to sip it without wincing unless it’s swimming with creamer.

I’m a faker as I tell people I’m writing a book, knowing good and well that, hard as I’ve worked to learn what it takes to get published, I still don’t actually know what I’m doing.

I recently started work as the editor of a magazine. I know I’m equipped for the job and will do good work, yet I feel like a faker wearing a hat I haven’t earned. 

The husband on Sunday gave me a hard time for my sudden Lions fandom. (Then again, he’s a Cowboys fan, so he wasn’t in the best of moods that day.)

Starting something new means running the risk someone will call you out on it. A new project, a new exercise routine, a new direction in life could earn you raised eyebrows and a voice ― maybe even the voice inside your own head ― telling you to get out, quit pretending, give it up. Fakers not wanted.

But if we don’t try ― if we don’t put down rookie fear and shove back self-accusation and just START ― we’ll never discover how those new roads could enrich our lives and make us more the people we want to be.

I want to root for the Lions. Not because they’re doing well, but because they were my dad’s team, and they’re my state’s team, and they have engendered the love of those of you who have stood by them faithfully in their darkest seasons. I know I haven’t earned a spot by your side, but I hope you’ll make a little room for me.

I don’t know how to write a book, but I’m writing a book. I’m not a home repair guru or a veteran editor, but I’m determined to perform well for my employer and take good care of my century-old house. 

I’m totally faking it, folks. But sometimes you’ve gotta just jump in, whether you feel like you belong there or not. Take the risk. Do what needs to be done. Pick someone to cheer for and whoop it up. 

Go, Lions.

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Open minds

I spent the past day and a half hunkered on a meeting room floor, watching people promise to keep their minds open.

Yesterday marked the start of jury selection in Alpena, the serene up-north town where, in the summer of 2021, a 17-year-old girl was strangled until she died and a 30-something woman was executed in the woods with a gunshot to the back of the head. 

Two-and-a-half years after those deaths, the man accused of killing them goes to trial this month. I was there when they dug up the teen girl’s body in a back yard, and I’m going to be there for the trial.

Some days my fascination with the case feels like morbid curiosity mixed with the yearning of a former cops-and-courts reporter who misses her beat. It’s more than that, though.

Certainly, it’s interesting, especially as I dig into court documents and police reports and learn never-made-public nuggets in off-the-record interviews.

But there’s more to it than that. The murders aren’t just an anomalous blip, appearing out of nowhere and disappearing again as soon as we put someone in prison for them. They have a bigger story, and someone needs to look at it so we can see where we can do better.

That’s why I spent yesterday and today on the floor of a multi-purpose space in Alpena’s events center, taking notes during a marathon jury selection.

(For the record, they offered me a chair. I just like floors.)

The trial proper doesn’t start until the last days of January, but the court decided to pick the jury early. The selection was held at the event center to accommodate the 130-some people attorneys hoped would be enough to seat 16 jurors, four of whom will be dismissed before deliberation begins.

I awed at the patience with which 100-plus strangers sat quietly in black plastic folding chairs, waiting for the judge and attorneys to appear. More than 90 minutes they waited, not rustling with impatience, not heaving sighs. When the court figures emerged from the judge’s makeshift chambers and the selection process finally got underway, the prospective jurors listened with attention, raising their hands when asked and answering questions politely.

Several hours into the process, the county clerk called 16 names to fill two rows of chairs at the front of the room. The next round of questions turned serious quickly.

Does anyone in their family struggle with addiction?

Could they sit through the trauma of listening to stories of domestic abuse?

Could they look at grisly autopsy photos?

Some shrunk back, saying they couldn’t do it. Most said yes. They didn’t want to, but they could.

When asked if they knew any of the potential witnesses, practically the whole room raised their hands.

One woman’s daughter babysat for the child of a witness. Some went to school with the defendant. Knew witnesses’ kids. Lived next door to an investigating officer, down the street from the victim, around the corner from the defendant’s parents. Friends with the prosecutor. Related to a witness’s mother.

Could the prospective jurors set those ties aside and only listen to the facts of the case?

Yes, they promised. We can.

Murder makes a big splash in a small town. Most everyone in the room acknowledged they had heard at least a little about the murders, and some admitted they had strong feelings about it.

It’s only human to want to find someone to blame when something bad happens. Could they set aside those emotions and only consider what the evidence tells them about whether this defendant is guilty?

We will, they said.

Attorneys thanked and excused many who filled the 16 chairs. With each dismissal, the clerk called a new name from the quietly waiting gallery, and a new person faced the same questions: can you set aside your biases? Will you be fair?

Yes, yes, they said. We can. We will.

At noon on the second day, attorneys on both sides nodded and closed their file folders. They were satisfied. A jury had been chosen.

Now, the judge instructed them, they have a big job to do. They have to spend the two weeks between now and when the trial starts with cotton balls in their ears and tape on their eyelids. They mustn’t read about the case, mustn’t talk to coworkers or friends or even family members about it. 

When the trial gets underway, well, then, they still can’t talk about it. They can’t share the shocking details they will hear or describe the heartbreaking photos they will see. They will have to yank themselves away from headlines on the front page of the newspaper and resist the urge to scroll social media. They can’t let any outside thing influence the decision they will make at the end of the trial. They have promised to be fair. And they will.

“All rise for the jury,” the bailiff said as court was adjourned, and all of us, including the judge, stood to honor the people in whose hands the community has now placed a trust these everyday folks will fulfill to the best of their ability.

As they gathered their coats and gloves, finally dismissed for the day, the now-sworn jurors exchanged excited/terrified looks and nervous pleasantries. A month from now, they will know much more than they want to know about frightening forces that live, unseen, in their community. They will have heard testimony that will make their hearts break. And maybe, after seeing what they will see and hearing what they will hear, they will believe what I believe: that we can’t just do nothing and hope it all doesn’t happen again.

Blessings to you, jurors. The road before you will not be easy. Be strong, and be fair.

You can, and you will.

All rise for the jury.

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ENDNOTES

* People accused of crimes might be guilty. But they also might be innocent. Read news stories with an open mind.

* People and organizations blasted in social media may be in the wrong. But they also might be trying to do what they believe is right. Read online information with a generous mind.

* You might be ― you ARE ― imperfect. But you’re also just a human doing your best, and imperfection is OK. Look at the person in the mirror with a forgiving mind.

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Time, ball drops, and midnight runs in the dark

We slid into a parking space at seven minutes til midnight. Made it in time, but just barely. 

The adjacent street was dark and quiet. Few drivers were out at this hour, most of them probably busy enjoying a raucous New Year’s Eve celebration or a snooze on the couch.

Jonah unwound his six-foot-something frame from the passenger seat and stood on the pavement, pulling on thin gloves and a hat. It was cold enough for a sweatshirt, he decided, his legs bare beneath his running shorts in the frosty late-night air.

He slipped on the lighted running vest I'd bought him for Christmas, then flipped me a quick wave and was gone, trotting down the silent sidewalk.

After months of increasing dedication to the sport of running, Jonah had decided he wanted to mark the end of 2023 ― a tumultuous, often uncertain, sometimes heartbreaking year in our household ― by running into the new year. 

Being strictly accurate, it wasn’t the new year yet. Our family had traveled a few hours south to visit my mother-in-law, who lives in a different time zone. There in the cold Central Illinois night, it was only 11 p.m. But at home in Michigan, the clock was striking midnight as Jonah trotted along the sidewalk, thinking about what was behind and what was yet to come.

At least, that’s what I imagine he was thinking about. He didn’t tell me what he wanted to ponder as he ran into the new year, and I didn’t ask. It was enough to know that the son I love so much, for whom I ached as he endured a difficult transition to a new home, was ready to greet whatever comes next with resolution and hope, head up, feet moving forward.

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As cheesy television programs mark the occasion with a giant, dropping ball each December 31, I inevitably find myself with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat, unready to let go of the year just past.

It’s not that I want to live the year over or anything. There’s just something about knowing I will never again hold the hours and minutes and moments of that year in my hand that gets me in the gut.

Time slides away under our feet all day, every day and we scarcely notice. But on New Year’s Eve, time stops, just for a moment, and shimmers like a will-o’-the-wisp.

Breaks me right up, every time.

No, I don’t want to do this year again. It had some tough days. Days when I didn’t know who I was or where I was going. Days when I made big mistakes. When I hurt. When people I loved hurt, and I couldn’t help them. I don’t want to go back there.

But it had good in it, too. Lots of good. Moments of hope. Of believing in myself. Times when I held peace inside like a blanket and grabbed joy like a balloon. This year gave me heartwarming words from people I love and the chance to make other people’s lives better. It showed me I am strong.

It was a good year, even if it did have not-so-good parts.

It’s worth pausing at year’s end to look back at what was, even if it means getting a lump in your throat.

And then ― oh, and then ― you get to turn your eyes forward and run into the new year, toward whatever may come.

It will have bad, this new year. And it’ll have good. And at the end of it, you’ll look back, wonder where the time has gone, and give a little sigh as you bid it farewell.

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My feet were cold by the time I saw Jonah's glowing vest in the rear-view mirror. A little cloud of vapor whirled around him as he pounded to a stop, breathing heavily in the chilly air, but his face was bright. Whatever he had been thinking about as he ran, it was what he needed to start his 2024 journey on the right foot.

Back at my mother-in-laws’s apartment, the rest of the family welcomed us back with warmth and light and snacks. We nixed Ryan Seacrest and the big New York ball drop and instead had a ball-dropping ceremony of our own. As my small clan counted down the seconds, I stood in the middle of the living room, arm outstretched, holding a three-inch rubber basketball Mom scrounged up in a back room. At the stroke of Illinois midnight, I let it drop, to cheers from my silly, wonderful family.

Goodbye, 2023. Thanks for being a part of my life.

On to what’s next.