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PROLOGUE
It
was Tuesday, June 12, 2001 at 6 o’clock p.m. when the train conductor
announced we had reached the final stop in Hoboken, New Jersey. I had
just spent a long and stressful day working at my TV production job and
was psyched to finally be home. The train screeched to a halt and the
familiar commotion of commuters packing up their belongings began. My
apartment was only a few blocks from the train station and I savored
the sweet smells of summer as my feet guided me out of the train
station and down the main drag of town. Approaching my garden-level
apartment, I fetched the keys from my bright yellow backpack. I could
hear the phone ringing while I was unlocking the front door. I burst
through and grabbed the call just in time.
The
voice on the other end was familiar, yet unusually tense. “Erin, it’s
me, Janel.” Janel was one of my best friends and sorority sisters from
college. Her tone had a sense of urgency, and I wondered who the new
man in her life could be. Janel proceeded to utter the standard
question that is the precursor to tragedy in the movies, "Are you
sitting down?" Standing in the center of the kitchen, I told her that
I was. She took an audibly deep breath and the six words that followed
would change my life forever.
"Shannon McNamara was murdered last night."
* * *
I
grew up in the suburbs of Chicago and attended Eastern Illinois
University. EIU is located in Charleston, Illinois, a tiny town of
20,000 people swallowed by miles of corn and wheat. I had the
quintessential college experience and enjoyed some pretty wild times as
a co-ed, but the real reason my college experience was so fantastic was
because of the people. I don’t know how a school in the middle of
oblivion manages to attract the most genuine and down-to-earth
individuals I’ve ever known.
EIU is a
Greek-dominated campus and having a social life can be challenging if
you are not a member of a fraternity or sorority. Sophomore year, I
received a bid into Alpha Phi, the sorority on campus known for its
‘work hard, play hard’ approach to college life. I quickly made
friends for life, all of whom refer to me as “Weed.” (It’s one of
those last names you must proudly embrace or you are taunted for
life.) Senior year, I was elected president of Alpha Phi. The
downside of being president was having to participate fully in the
dreaded recruitment process referred to as Sorority Rush. The concept
of standing in front of our sorority house wearing matching clothes,
clapping and singing songs in unison wasn’t my idea of a good time.
While Sorority Rush 1999 was a treacherous week for me, there was a
bright spot. It was the day I met a rushee named Shannon McNamara.
* * *
Shannon
was the girl men adored and women sought for friendship. She was an
ideal student, an accomplished athlete and a patient listener. She
possessed a quiet confidence and an appreciation for the simple joys in
life, including family, friends and cheap beer. She was the girl who
wore barely any makeup, but was still the prettiest one in the room.
To me, she was the friend whom I did not speak to every day, but whom I
needed to talk to on my worst days. She was a source of peace in my
ever-turbulent life and a reminder of good people in the world. She
was a running partner who was ranked as an All-American sprinter, but
always paced me anyway.
Shannon and I
were such different people, yet we had a sincere admiration for one
another. Many a night I spent teaching her the mastery of amateur
thumb wrestling, through which she eventually became my prodigy.
Sometimes when we felt like dancing, we’d put songs on the jukebox and
pretend we knew how to do the Irish jig. When I graduated from
college, it was people like Shannon who made it so hard to leave. But
for me, the future was filled with possibility. My dream was to move
to New York City and pursue a career in the fast-paced world of
television. Within months of graduating from EIU, I packed my bags and
boarded a plane, ready to meet my destiny in the Big Apple. I found
work right away, and was put on the production team for a documentary.
I had only been working in television for 10 months when that dream
came to a halt.
* * *
“Are you still there? Are you okay?”
Janel, trying to lure me out of my shock, knew how much I had loved
this girl. Fighting back tears, I was now filled with questions. How
did it happen in a town like Charleston? Are they sure it’s her?
Still reeling from the news herself, Janel did the best she could to
answer my emotionally charged inquiries. Most of her replies were
based on rampant hearsay and rumors were flying through Central
Illinois like reckless tornadoes. All we knew for certain was that
Shannon was killed in her apartment, only blocks from the main drag of
EIU where we conceived so many outrageous memories. My final question
to Janel was the most difficult. “Did they catch whoever did this?”
After a quiet moment, she softly answered, “Not yet.” My reply to the
news was silence. I had to let her go.
After
hanging up the phone, I walked over to a wood bookcase leaning against
the exposed brick wall of my living room. Gliding my hand across the
books on the shelf, I paused as my finger hovered over the spine of a
hardcover journal adorned with antique-looking suns and moons. Only
about five inches tall and five inches wide, at that moment, it became
my most priceless possession. I flipped through the pages, remembering
the night my friends at EIU had given it to me as a graduation gift.
They had each taken a page of the journal and written me a personal
letter wishing me well in my post-college endeavors in New York. It
turns out this journal has also become the place to remember my friends
when they die.
Flipping
through the pages, I thought of her final living moments but quickly
stopped myself. I was not ready to think about the fear and horror
she must have endured as she literally fought for her life. It would
be a very long time before I could go to such a dark place. Finally, I
stumbled upon Shannon’s letter. Her encouraging words were looped
together with bubbly handwriting, filling every last space on the
parchment. To my astonishment, the last sentence nearly leaped off the
page with undeniably tragic irony: "Weed, I will never forget you."
While
this sentence is common to say to someone graduating college, it now
took on a painful new meaning. She promised not to forget me and now
it was my chance to return the favor. I vowed to remember her always,
while she stayed 21 years old forever.
* * *
The
next day, I boarded an airplane bound for Chicago. It seemed surreal
that Shannon’s funeral was my destination. Exhausted from not sleeping
the night before, I hoped to catch a nap on the plane. The young woman
sitting next to me smiled as she asked me, “So, where are you from?”
Not feeling very talkative, I told her I was going home for a funeral.
She turned to me and asked, “Are you going to Shannon McNamara’s
funeral?” What are the chances that she would know this? Amazed, I
nodded yes. She told me she had been classmates with Shannon in high
school and, while they were just acquaintances, she always really
admired her. I didn’t know it at the time, but in the years to come,
people all over the country who had been touched by Shannon would share
their stories with me.
Upon arriving in
Chicago that afternoon, I learned that Shannon’s murderer had been
caught. It was a dim ray of light amid dark and stormy skies. Knowing
that our friends needed to be strong and get through this together, I
scheduled a bonfire that evening in my parents’ backyard. Several
hours before the bonfire, I took on the long overdue task of cleaning
my closet and reorganizing the belongings I had left behind when I
moved to the East Coast. Just as I finished up, a song we used to sing
in Alpha Phi rhythmically began floating through my mind. Sitting on
the closet floor, I scrawled new lyrics onto the back of a Taco Bell
receipt that I found jammed in my pocket.
I want to linger, a little longer, a little longer here with you.
It’s such a tearful night, it doesn’t seem quite right,
We’ve had a lovely time with you.
A
few hours later, it was time for the bonfire and our friends showed up
in droves. Each of them approached the front door with a smile offset
by a tear. We were all reaching out for one another in a way we’d
hoped we would never have to. The bonfire was lit and the firelight
danced upon our faces. We knew the next two days were going to be some
of the hardest of our lives, but we made a pact to stick together and
be strong. It was at this bonfire that we began to get the first
credible information about what had happened to Shannon. The
inevitability of facing the horrors she endured that night were upon us.
* * *
In
the early morning hours of June 12, 2001, a man Shannon did not know
attempted to break into her apartment. First he tried to break in
through the front door using a bent credit card, but was unsuccessful
since the deadbolt was locked. He went back to his place to fetch a
box cutter and then returned to Shannon’s apartment. He gained entry
to her home by cutting a hole in the screen of her first floor
apartment window and crawling inside. Investigators believe that
Shannon knew right away something was amiss and immediately began
fighting the stranger in her apartment. It was a loud fight and many
residents living nearby heard the scuffle. Several neighbors went on
police record the next day saying they thought the sounds were “two
people having rough sex.” In actuality, the murderer strangled Shannon
and choked her to death by stuffing a washcloth down her throat. After
he killed her, he slashed her body with a kitchen knife.
To the very
end, under the absolute worst of circumstances, she fought back.
During the fight, Shannon somehow knocked the credit card out of her
attacker’s grasp and it was found lying near her body when she was
discovered the next morning. Investigators saw the name printed on it
and tracked down his residence, only to discover that he lived right
across the street. When they found him, he had extensive lacerations
and injuries covering his body. The investigators asked him how he
received all his injuries and he explained that he had broken a shot
glass the night before. (That’s a pretty vicious shot glass.)
Subsequently, investigators took him into custody. Several days later,
they had collected enough evidence to charge him with first degree
murder. While having Shannon’s killer behind bars was a relief, it was
only the beginning of a very long road.
* * *
The
day after the bonfire was Shannon’s wake and about 50 of us girls
gathered in the funeral home parking lot to try and get ourselves
together before facing what was ahead. We made copies of the song I
had written the day before and we rehearsed it a few times. The plan
was for us to sing it after a short service toward the closing of the
wake. There was a very long line to walk by Shannon’s casket and I
yearned to see her the way she was. Having been to quite a few
visitations before, I knew it would just be the body our angel had left
behind. It’s a person’s spirit that makes them beautiful.
As
I neared her casket, I saw she was wearing a maroon Alpha Phi
sweatshirt and jeans. And yes, her spirit had left long ago. I barely
recognized the young woman in the casket, but knelt in front of her and
prayed for peace. As I looked down at her face, I recalled the last
time I had seen her. The two of us were sitting across from each other
in a booth at a tavern tossing Cheez-its into each other’s mouths. I
never could have imagined these would be the circumstances of our next
meeting.
Shannon’s parents, Bob and
Cindy, as well as her brother Bobby, stood in a greeting line after the
casket. The person in front of me gave Cindy a hug and told her how
much she would miss Shannon. Cindy simply replied, “She was my best friend.” Being at a loss for words, I offered a sincere hug. Bob asked my name and I told him, “Shannon used to call me Weed.” To my surprise, Bob and Cindy smiled and exclaimed, “So you’re Weed!” Laughing through tears, I had to wonder what ridiculous stories she had told them about me.
Shortly
after going through the line, the religious service began. Toward the
end, the priest announced that the Alpha Phi’s would be singing a song
in her memory. By this time, I had completely crumpled the piece of
paper with the lyrics and the ink had bled into my sweaty hands. I
just lip-synced the words because otherwise I would have made some
pretty hideous sobbing sounds. I’ve never been a good crier.
The
next day was Shannon’s funeral and the church parking lot was
jam-packed. A solitary bagpiper stood in the distance, his music
drifting in the gentle wind of the perfectly gorgeous June day.
Inside, not a single seat was unoccupied. Her casket, now closed and
draped in a white cloth, lay near the altar. Most of the funeral
service is a blur to me, but there is one part of it that I will always
remember. Two of our college friends, Tim and Jeff, performed the Dave
Matthews song “Angel.” Tim softly played the conga drums while Jeff
sang and strummed on the acoustic guitar. I thought of all the times
Shannon and I had seen these two crazy guys perform with their band,
The Charleston Sound Machine, at dingy college establishments over the
years. The lyrics floated high into the cathedral ceiling.
“Wherever you are, you’ll be my angel … ”
After
the funeral was over, we all walked out of the church wearing our black
dresses and dark sunglasses. Not knowing what to do or where to go, we
just stood in the middle of the parking lot, each of us wondering, “Now what?”
Eventually the bagpiper stopped playing. Little did I know that it’s
after the casket is closed and the dirt falls upon it that you really
start facing the music.
* * *
It
might sound strange, but it was only after flying 800 miles back to
Newark Airport that Shannon’s death started to seem real. I quickly
learned that many people expect a grieving person to forget about their
loss and just move on. Apparently, this didn’t come easy for me and
within two weeks of returning to my job, I quit. Or got fired – I’m
not sure which. (It depends who you ask.) I was twenty-three years old
with no money, no job and my friend had just been murdered. I
officially had what some might qualify as a quarter-life crisis.
It
was at this point that I started to feel an incredible surge of anger.
The night I lost my job, I decided to go for a run to take the edge
off. My jog began down the streets of Hoboken and ended up on a path
alongside the lapping waters of the Hudson River with the New York City
skyline on my left. Mid-run and out of breath, I stopped. I put my
hands on the railing separating me from the green waves, my head
sinking between my shoulders and my eyes to the ground. I was out of
tears, overflowing with rage, and in that moment it was time to make a
choice. It was time to decide between letting this powerful anger
consume me or using the pain to do something in Shannon’s memory. So I
raised my head to the sky and chose to transform my anger into a
passion to end violence against women. I promised Shannon that people
all over the United States would know her name. Then I asked for her
help.
I was
so inspired by the way Shannon fought for her life, that I decided to
learn to physically defend myself. Having never taken a self-defense
class in my life, it was intimidating at first. But one self-defense
course turned into two, three, four and so on. I trained in stick
fighting, Krav Maga, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, kickboxing, firearms, edged
weapons defense, car jacking scenarios and multiple assailant
confrontations. During these trainings, I had realizations about my
own strength that I had never known were possible and I was hooked on
the feeling of knowing how to kick some ass. For the first time in my
life, I felt dangerous!
Soon after
becoming a certified self-defense instructor, I put together a personal
safety and self-defense program just for college women. I named it Girls Fight Back
in honor of Shannon’s fierce resistance on the night of her death. I
wrote Shannon’s parents a letter telling them about my vision for GFB,
and they were 100% supportive. Cindy McNamara called me and said, “Erin, I believe Shannon hired you for this job.” With the McNamaras behind me, I set out on my new mission.
The
college women who attended my programs started spreading the word about
Girls Fight Back and before long, people all over the country were
hearing about this new and hip approach to personal safety. I started
getting calls from the media, which put Girls Fight Back in the
national spotlight. In January 2002, I started traveling the nation
giving the GFB program full time.
I
had been doing this for a little over a year when Cindy informed me
that justice was knocking. On February 3, 2003, the trial began in
Charleston for Shannon’s killer. While most people come back to their
college alma mater for Homecoming festivities or football games, I had
returned to attend a murder trial. The courtroom was not what I had
expected, but my only exposure to murder trials was watching Law and
Order. The fluorescent lighting in the room was blinding and all the
chairs for the audience were the same as the ones you’d find in a movie
theater. Perhaps what jolted me most was my close proximity to the
defendant’s table and the man who murdered Shannon. I wondered what my
reaction would be upon seeing him. I had seen photos in the newspaper
covering the story, but I had never seen him in person. Would I cry?
Would I freak out? Would I hop the guard rail and claw his eyes out?
At
9 a.m. sharp, the door leading to the bowels of the courthouse swung
open. Standing between two armed sheriffs in bullet proof vests was
the man who had taken so much from us. As he walked toward the defense
table, he wore a cocky smile and an expensive new suit (paid for by the
State of Illinois). I looked right into his face and he stared back
with his tiny black specks of eyes. It turns out the only thing I felt
upon seeing him was disgust. My main reaction was this recurring
thought: “What a coward.”
As
court began, the clock chimed, and we sat back to support the
prosecution in its attempt to re-construct the crime. For two weeks,
from 9 a.m. until 5 p.m., we sat in the
courtroom looking at crime scene photos and hearing testimony. We
listened to DNA specialists talk about the evidence collected under
Shannon’s fingernails and heard her boyfriend testify about their last
night together. About halfway through the trial, Shannon’s killer made
eye contact with her father and actually had the nerve to wink
at him. Witnessing this was shocking, but it only solidified my
mission to teach college women to defend themselves. The wink served
as a reminder to me that there are people in the world committing
heinous crimes without the slightest hint of remorse.
Finally,
the day came for the verdict. Despite the prosecution doing a thorough
job of making its case, we were still nervous that somehow the system
would let us down. After several hours of deliberation, the jury
returned to the courtroom and the judge began reading the verdict.
Amid a sea of legal jargon, I found solace in the only word my ears
yearned for. “Guilty.”
After the
verdict was read, the town hall bell rang. An eerie silence filled the
courtroom, only to be interrupted by sobs from people in the audience.
Shannon’s murderer was led out of the courtroom with a blank expression
on his face, void of emotion or remorse. We all just sat there,
immobilized by the power of the moment. While we were thankful justice
had prevailed, we couldn’t help but think to ourselves, “Is this what
victory feels like?” I certainly didn’t feel like I’d won anything.
I
realized later that when the guilty verdict rang out in the Coles
County Courthouse that day, it was not a triumph for us. Instead, it
was a victory for Shannon. She single-handedly fought and convicted a
trained ex-Marine who spent his free time raping and murdering women.
Shannon stopped a serial killer in his tracks.
Also in the audience
that evening was the family of another young woman named Amy Warner.
The police believe that two years before Shannon, the same man murdered
Amy in the very same town. Amy won that day as well, and God only
knows how many others. I like to think there was a rockin’ party in
heaven that night, with all these lovely, glowing angels toasting to
the fact that he would never commit his evil again. I can see them
rejoicing that women everywhere can sleep a little more peacefully.
One
of my self-defense teachers (a former NYPD officer) named Phil Messina
once said, “A true warrior is more afraid of losing than dying.” I
believe Shannon shared this philosophy. She knew this man would attack
again and she was not going to let that happen. She did not equate
surviving with winning. For her, victory would be attained by catching
the man who was killing her. It is just the way she was. She was fair
and tough, yet sweet and simple. I am just grateful that God let me
know this amazing woman. She’s my heroine.
* * *
On February 26, 2003 Shannon’s killer was sentenced to death.
Today he remains on Illinois death row awaiting execution.
* * *
While
I didn’t know it at the time, Girls Fight Back was born the day Shannon
died. Since 2001, I have spoken at college campuses large and small,
near and far, and left behind young women who know a thing or two about
opening up a can o’ whoop-ass. At press time, I have visited more than
a hundred college campuses across the nation and taught over 100,000
women how to defend themselves. In June 2006, I opened New Jersey’s
only women’s self-defense studio. Through it all, I have heard
countless success stories of girls who learned to fight and later
applied that information in a life and death confrontation. I have met
shy girls who emerged from their shells once they learned to fight and
tough girls who broke down crying at the thought of being attacked. The
awesome women I meet on the road are my constant reminders of female
resilience.
Girls Fight Back is not
just a book, an educational seminar, a funky website or a cutesy
gimmick of girl power. It’s a movement among young women who are tired
of being scared, sick of being victimized and angered by the shocking
statistics of violence against women in America. Girls Fight Back is a
conscious choice to reclaim our sense of security in the world. It’s
thousands of women across America acknowledging that yes, violence is
happening. And no, we’re not going to stand for it.
Prior
to this book being released, many people asked me exactly what the book
was about. Instead of describing all the crucial safety and survival
information contained within these pages, I simply replied, “This is the book I wish Shannon and I had in college.”
I hope you read this book and pass it on to a girlfriend you couldn’t live without.
Strong. Resilient. Spirited. Unified.
Erin Weed
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