“Three o’clock,” the gruff speaking guard announced. “Visiting time is over!” Hurried goodbyes were spoken. My father and I stepped aside to let my mother hug her ailing son. It might be the last time she will be able to do so. Her son, my brother can barely hold his arms and hands still long enough to embrace her. His right leg and head shake as well. He has Parkinson’s disease. His face is bloated, his scalp scarred from the severe beatings he received five years ago at a prison in Texas. A prison guard stomped over to my mother and demanded the pair separate. “Time is up!” he reminded us again. We are hurried out a heavy door into an area prison officials refer to as “the gate.” Through the tiny glass we watch Rick shuffle away with the guard to be strip searched. A tragic indignity for him to endure, a tragic indignity for my parents to realize their son must be subjected to. “We’re waiting in the gate,” the prison guard conveyed to a coworker on the other end of the walkie-talkie he breathed into. My mother was inconsolable. She turned her face away from the hard-hearted guard and sobbed into the exterior wall inside the 5 foot by 20 foot enclosure we were locked in when we left the visitation room. The wall her face was buried in is stained with feces and urine from seagulls and cranes that had made their home on the roof of the penitentiary. My mother was so distraught over having to leave her sick son behind she didn’t care about the unsanitary conditions. The image reminded the guard of a funny story and he wasted no time in sharing. “Watch what you touch there, lady,” he chuckled. “Prison gulls are the worst. They’re messy and mean. I’ve seen them eat a wounded pigeon then crap all over that wall. The pigeon’s wing was broken and a big gull swooped down and started tearing a hole in the pigeon’s flesh with its beak. Damn pigeon was still alive. Can you imagine?” The guard was proud of his story. He seemed to be completely oblivious to how much more it made my mother cry. “Even pigeons know how short a life is inside here,” he added at the end of his tale. I am two people. My heart is divided against itself. I know the Lord wants me to forgive. I want to. I long to. But it seems impossible after seeing all I have? I am overcome with grief and bitterness. I loathe the mother and daughter who falsely accused my brother of heinous crimes. They have no regret. No remorse. Will I regret when the tables are turned on them or will my heart continue to be divided against itself? Should I tell them about the prison gulls or let them learn it on their own?
The accusation – a veteran police detective and survivor of Desert Storm molested his wife’s daughter. The accusation – a veteran police detective responsible for investigating numerous cases of child molestation possessed child pornography. The following are items that address the crushing allegations.
Item #1 – The Lie Detector Test.
Item #2 – Letter from former Ray County Prosecuting Attorney explaining the work my brother did for him. While in this former P-A’s employ my brother helped bring to justice a man named B. E. Burtis. Burtis was convicted of molesting his two daughters. He used the internet to research and download sites that described what could be done to children. My brother seized the discs in Burtis’s possession upon the man’s arrest.
Item #3 – The news media reported many inaccuracies about my brother. They had help from his former boss. This letter explains why, at least on one occasion.
Item #4 – One brave woman eventually came forward with what she knew about the case against my brother. It was too late to help him, however.
Item #5 – This brief example shows how the people prosecuting my brother’s case were less than honest. Prior to this case I would never have believed that would be, but I was naïve.
“The websites are indicative of child pornography.” That’s what the prosecution announced to the court about my brother. “He has material on his computer that is indicative of child pornography,” the attorney boldly stated. The spiral bound book the prosecuting attorney in Kansas City, Missouri submitted as evidence against my brother was more than one-hundred-fifty pages long. I was only allowed to scan the book when I was in Rick’s attorney’s office. I wanted to check out each site on my own computer to verify the sites were indeed something bad. Once I finally acquired a copy of the book I did look up all the sites the government claimed were bad. I also hired a computer expert to verify the findings. Many of the sites were visits to a game called “neo-pets.” It’s a game in which you adopt an “on-line” pet and take care of it. The prosecution had the court believe that “neo-pets” was really “neo-peds.” They described the site as something “new pedophiles” visit. The following are a few pages from the evidence book I now have in my possession. The judge never viewed the material to see that “neo-peds” was really “neo-pets.” When you say it aloud over and over again in a courtroom your words can be misconstrued. That’s what the prosecution was hoping for. And when you use scary terms such as “indicative of child pornography” you further cast a cloud of doubt over the accused. That’s what was done to my brother. But see for yourself…
Fueled by an ambitious prosecuting attorney new in the Kansas City area and eager to prove herself and a woman who was having an affair with a co-worker who wanted out of her marriage, accusations were made against my brother in court which were baseless. Although the sleepy, feeble judge on the bench warned the P-A not to repeat her statement that “Rick Enss has an arrest record,” she did so anyway. Transcripts from the preliminary hearing indicate she said it five times after being admonished by Judge Wright. My brother had NO PRIOR ARRESTS. This stand alone entry for the continuation of chapter one of The Plea makes that clear. The collateral damage done by the lies told about my brother in a court of law can never fully be measured. No punishment for such pain and agony will ever fully be realized. And that’s the damned awful misery of it.