Originally written in January 2015, I'm republishing this today, as a tribute, a rant, a something in honour of Zia Hoya who lost her life three years ago today at the hands of Heather Marie Brent.
So, I’ve been asked by a few folks why ‘the thing with Heather’ bugs me so much. I’ll tell you. And for those of you that know me, really know me, it doesn’t have nearly as much to do with Andy’s death as you might think. Yes, his death is absolutely a factor. But, after asking myself this same question, it doesn’t seem to be the biggest factor. Honesty is. Here we go.
Some background about my relationship with Heather. I know her best friend. I’ve known her for a decade or so. And in knowing her, I got to know many of her friends. Indeed, came to love many of her friends. Heather was one of those. I saw her often enough as we all live in the same area. I’d see her at street fair, renaissance faires, family gatherings, out on the town, all sorts of places. She came to my classes (I teach belly dance regularly). I came to be very fond of her and always called her by her nickname ‘Squishy’. Hugs were always part of good-bye and hello and, while we weren’t calling each other close, I was very fond of her. I would have been comfortable having her in my home. There are people that have known me far longer that have never been in my home, so that’s saying something.
It was no secret that Heather was the party hound of that group of friends and while I am older than they are, I still enjoy a good time. I guess I’ve just learned moderation in the years between us. During our friendship, I learned that while at a family wedding, Heather downed close to half a bottle of Crown Royal herself. How did I learn this? She poured me her version of a small drink from this bottle while telling me. So, I asked her friends ~ was anyone worried about her drinking? Had she ever been arrested over it? Had they talked to her? Yes. No. Yes. Turns out, she had a habit of drinking herself into blackouts and doing questionable things. I won’t go into details, but driving under the influence was certainly the most egregious of the things I was told. The comment I heard was ‘if, not when, Heather gets arrested for drunk driving.’
Because Heather has insomnia, something which I myself have, I could sympathize with being at home and drinking oneself into a calmness that shuts off the brain. At one time in around 2009, I gave Heather the names of different herbs that she might consider for her sleep issues and she stated she would try them. I have no idea if she did or not.
Fast forward to May of 2012. I don’t have cable TV so I missed all the news about a hit and run accident here in the valley that happened out on Gene Autry, just past the Via Escuela intersection. I remember seeing the crosses the next time I drove into Desert Hot Springs and feeling bad that someone had died there. I have a friend who did a book on roadside crosses, so I know how emotional the areas around them can be.
A year later, almost to the day, I am told that Heather will be on the news with her father. I am told that there are warrants out for their arrests and they are turning themselves in. I am told that she is being arrested for a hit and run accident that involves the death of a teenager. A sixteen year old girl that Heather doesn’t remember hitting because she was blacked-out drunk (not my words). I am told that she stopped on the roadway and looked around, but saw nothing and drove away. As my mind rushes to process all of this, I am worried if Heather has a good attorney. I am angry at her father as I am told that he insisted that she not go to the police. Somewhere in the haze of my shock, I realize this accident took place a year ago.
A year.
Heather was thirty when this happened. She was not some young, just out of high school girl who panicked. She has a child. My own anger starts.
A year.
I remember a conversation where a mutual friend asked me what I would do if someone confessed a crime to me and they were sure that the person that confessed had actually committed the crime. I put two and two together and realize that Heather confessed to this person, well prior to her arrest or her coming forward to the police.
A year.
I remembered Heather sitting in my office with our mutual friend while we all chatted and laughed during the previous summer, just a month or so after she’d killed this poor girl. I specifically asked her if anything was wrong, not because she seemed sad, but because she spent much of the time playing with her phone. She said she was playing a game, but that she was fine. Fine.
I bring my focus back to the conversation at hand. A year, I say out loud. Last year. A year ago. I am told that Heather cannot be completely faulted for not going to the police because of her father’s control over her life. I remind my friend that she is thirty, not thirteen, and that she has a child of her own.
I say very slowly and with great intention, ‘You do realize that this is exactly, exactly, how Andy was killed don’t you?’ The magnitude of that statement hasn’t even begun to impact me yet, but it will. It does. Weeks go by and I keep seeing Andy’s body on the hood of the car after being hit. It’s with me every night like it was after the accident, only now, it’s a friend’s face behind the wheel. On September 4, 1982, I was with my fiancé, Endre Szatmari, when we ran out of gas on Interstate 10. Shortly after we started walking to the nearest exit, he was hit and killed by a drunk driver named Deborah Eoff. She took a plea deal and was given six months. I can still see all the details of this to this very day. Over the decades, I had made a place for it in my mind and heart and now, thanks to the thoughtlessness of a person I had considered a very close acquaintance, if not a friend, it was all I could see.
Days go by and I am angry. I read everything I can find on the accident – statements both Heather and her father made to police that have been released after their arrests. What they are charged with; what the maximum sentences are. I become angrier than I expected and I am disturbed by my own emotions. People try to upsell the “she’s really sorry about it, it’s not going to bring back the dead girl no matter what. Why can’t she just go on with her life?” Ummm, cause she killed someone? For a few days I vacillate between feeling badly for a friend who did an extremely stupid thing, followed by an extraordinarily selfish thing, to disgust and almost intolerable anger at her actions. I quickly land on the side of incredibly, outrageously furious. Furious that someone else has to experience the same pain I went through and furious that the friends Heather was with that night didn’t stop her from driving. In my mind, they all become somewhat responsible.
I watch the video of Senta Florez, Zia’s mother, and I burst into tears. I knew that pain, that rawness of emotion. Not a child, no. But a loved one taken by someone who didn’t think, didn’t care, someone who didn’t. I knew that anguish and my heart broke. I haven’t been able to put it back together quite yet.
At some point, it is mentioned that Heather is upset because people are calling her a murderer on the Desert Sun website. I say softly to our friend in common that she is a murderer in my eyes and that if she had waived a gun around while drunk, the issue wouldn’t seem muddy at all. And yes, I know the legal definition of the term murder. I work in the legal field. It doesn’t change my opinion here.
It is briefly mentioned that the victim had no business being in the roadway that late at night. Excuse me? Victim blaming? No. Do not go down that alley with me. You will come back bruised and sore. I have been a victim of too, too many things to allow it ever again at my table.
I am livid, wounded, hurt, sick, anguished by the dishonesty that this, this person has wrought in my life. Most of her other friends have gone on being her friends and I find that I question their ethics. I find it harder to be close with my friend the way we were before this happened. I cannot seem to comprehend her forgiveness of Heather, nor can I understand how she can remain so immune to the entire situation. Why she didn't come forward about the phone call that night. I ask myself, what if? What if my closest friend did this, could I continue to be their friend, support them, work with them or would I walk away, broken like the victim whose life they destroyed? I don’t know. I truly, honestly, do not know the answer to my own question. But I am broken and angry every time I even think about having to ask it of myself.
You are a liar, Heather Marie Brents. You brought your lie into my home, into my head. You ruined the Rest in Peace burial I had made years ago for my own loved one. And yet, somehow, you don’t think I have the right to be angry? I am angry because I know you are still lying. While you might have made a phone call that night, why didn’t she ever come forward? You know your father never went to the police four days after the accident ~ otherwise, why arrest warrants? Why a year’s worth of investigation before those warrants? You covered it up. You hid it for a year and if one or more of your friends hadn’t turned you in, you would have hid it forever. Every single person that you lied to has the right to be disgusted, livid, and deeply disappointed in your lack of humanity. If they’re not, perhaps they need to reexamine their own morals and ethics.
https://www.facebook.com/...
and
http://www.opposingviews.com/...