Cleveland, Ohio. April 23 2022

My name is Megan Kelly, and it has been a rough life. The week before he took me, I had been to court about custody of my son. My son, Jason, was three years old, a happy, curious little boy with a head full of curls. A few months earlier, an accident occurred, and his arm was broken. I tried to tell the doctor it was an accident. Jason was just running around the living room and fell into a coffee table. The doctor didn't listen. He just looked at me with cold, judging eyes.

He called DFACS on us. A social worker came to our house to evaluate the situation. She was friendly, but they always are, a smile that never reaches the eyes. She was judging and assessing if I was good enough to raise my son. My son! She inspected our house, looking in all the rooms. She went through the kitchen cabinets, looked in the refrigerator, and even felt the temperature of the water in the sink. She talked to Jack and to me. Jack was my boyfriend; he played too rough with Jason, which is how his arm broke.

The social worker didn't even give us time to try and fix the things she found wrong. She just called the police and took my son away the same day. I'll never forget the way it looked when that woman picked up Jason, a small, terrified bundle, and carried him out of my house. His little face was a mess of tears, and he was reaching for me, his little hand outstretched.

I wasn't the best mom, I know that. But it was an accident. They had no right to take my kid because of an accident! A week later, I went to the courthouse on Ontario Street in Cleveland. The case went in front of Judge Miller. I wish I could tell you what happened in the courtroom, but I don't remember. The words were a blur, the legal jargon a language I couldn't understand. I remember hearing Judge Miller grant custody of my baby to the state. He said Jason would go into foster care. I thought my life had ended at that moment. I had no idea how much more hellish it would get.

I stayed home, crying for two or three days after the court case. The house was so empty without Jason's laughter, the silence a constant, painful reminder of what I had lost. I kept asking myself over and over why this was happening to us. On Friday, August 23, I couldn't take the silence anymore, so I went to visit my cousin Laura. Laura lives at 2890 Fulton Road. I don't have a car, so I walked there from my house on Castle Avenue. I got there around 4 in the afternoon. Laura and I sat inside, and I told her about what was happening with Jason. She just listened, a quiet, empathetic presence, and it made me feel a little better.

We had dinner around 6 p.m. Laura made meatloaf and mashed potatoes. It was a simple, comforting meal that filled the hole in my stomach. She made it really good, so good that when I was locked up in that basement, I often dreamt about Laura's meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Around 8:30 p.m., I hugged Laura goodbye and started walking east on Wade Avenue to go home. I took a right on W. 25th Street, the streetlights a warm glow in the evening gloom. I noticed a car pulling out of Caribe Grocery. It was Alan's car, a beat-up old blue Buick. I knew him from the neighborhood. He waved at me, and I waved back.

We didn't know each other well, but I knew his daughter, Carrie, from school. He waited for me to get to the shop, and when I was close enough, he said hi and offered me a ride. I didn't want to be alone, and the idea of walking the rest of the way home wasn't appealing, so I said yes and got in the car. I would never have gotten in the car with a complete stranger, but since I knew Carrie, it wasn't that strange to take a ride from her dad.

Alan was kind; he was very sympathetic to my situation with Jason. He told me he had heard about it and just felt awful for me. The empathy he expressed made me feel better. Alan had just been to the grocery store, and the backseat was filled with four bags of groceries. I remember that the car stank of old cigarettes; the ashtray was overflowing with butts.

We were driving south on W. 25th when all of a sudden, Alan said he had ice cream in the grocery bags. He asked if we could stop at his house so he could put it in the freezer. I didn't have anywhere to be, so that was okay with me. Alan turned right on Walton Avenue. We just kept talking like old friends. It was nice to have someone being so sympathetic to me. We took another right, this time onto W. 32nd Street, and then a left on Erin Avenue. He parked the car on the street and got out. He asked if I'd help him with the groceries. So I got out of the car and got two bags out of the backseat. We walked up to the house. He unlocked the door and went inside. I followed him, my mind still on the sad, empty house I was returning to.

I thought we'd take the groceries to the kitchen, but then he told me he had a freezer in the basement where he kept most of his food. So I just followed him through the house to the basement door. We walked down the stairs, and I could see a big, poorly lit room. In the corner was a freezer, and three other doors were in the basement. I assumed for storage rooms or something.

I walked over to the freezer; Alan was in front of me. He opened the freezer and bent over to put the bags inside it. Before I understood what was happening, he came up fast out of the freezer and hit me with a frozen block of something, maybe a piece of meat. At first, I didn't fight back; I was confused. But then I realized he was grabbing me and holding me tight. I tried fighting back, but he was too strong. He is a 200-lb man, and I'm not even 5' tall. I was biting and kicking, but it didn't affect him.

I don't know where he got the rope, but he had it. He tied my hands behind my back with a speed that spoke of practice. All I could think was, this can't be happening. After everything I've been through, will this guy kill me?

I guess I was fighting too much because he hit me again, a swift, brutal blow to the head, and when I woke up, I was in a small, dark, windowless room, lying on the floor with my hands tied behind my back.

Sincerely,

Megan Kelly