Don’t Open the Door

You stare at the coverlet. You always liked it. It’s white and pretty, the tufted balls arranged in an old-fashioned, zigzagging pattern across the top of the four-poster bed. Your little sister is seated beside you, and she is scared, crying. You hold her hand and tell her, “Don’t worry, it’s okay.” But you’re scared, too.

You are scared for your mother. She’s crying. There’s a loud thump on the bedroom door, and your heart skips a beat, your stomach tightens. She screams, “Stay inside! Don’t open the door!” Are you crying? Are you calling out to her? You know you’re supposed to act like a grown-up. You’re in charge of your sister, and you should know what to do. You start feeling even worse—maybe you’ll be in trouble afterwards for doing the wrong thing.

You can hear her begging, “Stop, please,” on the other side. You want to make it stop, but you can’t move. Your stomach hurts even more as you hold your breath.

Your father is beating your mother, and not for the first time. One day, he will knock out her front teeth. One day, she will finally leave him. But you’ll never be the same. You’ll be a grown woman before you realize you are still holding your breath. You’ll even be the one on the other side of the door. And you won’t understand how you got there.

To continue reading Aryn’s story, click here to purchase your copy of Dying for Love.

She Wanted to Save the World

The Story of Simonette Mapes, Featured on Dateline: Secrets of the Sliding Door

“It’s my fault my daughter is dead.” These words came spilling out of Theresa Mapes as we pulled into the driveway of her Staten Island home. I wasn’t prepared for her to start talking about Sissy so quickly, but she had so much pain to unburden, it couldn’t be held back.

As we sat parked in her driveway, Theresa poured out anguish and guilt over her daughter’s brutal murder. She had always taught her children that family sticks together no matter what and lamented, “This is the reason my Sissy is dead.” I knew it wasn’t her fault, and I prayed in that moment I could not only give a voice to Sissy but also help her family realize only an abusive person deserves to carry the guilt of abuse.

Simeonette “Sissy” Mapes was a beautiful young woman, inside and out. Equipped with the master’s degree she had earned in an accelerated program, she became a beloved teacher in a school situated in a disadvantaged neighborhood. Many of the students were living below the poverty line and in need of guidance—these were the children with whom Sissy most wanted to work. Sissy went above and beyond her duties in the classroom: she took “her kids” on educational field trips, taught them etiquette, made sure the girls all had a dress for prom, and bought a baseball glove for a child in need. She loved them as if they were her own and often spent her own money to supplement their education.

Sissy knew many of the girls in her class were being raised in families affected by violence and economic hardship. She believed in hands on motivation and began a special tradition for young students about to graduate high school. She would take them to have their hair and nails done, then into the city to a museum or event, and afterwards to lunch. Over lunch, she would emphasize that, if they stayed in school and earned a college degree, they could one day treat themselves this way, with their own money. Her students loved her; she was called Mamma Mapes, and everyone wanted to be in her class. Sissy believed nobody was beyond help, that everyone deserved to be given a chance.

She was also devoted to animals. Her heart broke for any abused animal; she wanted to save every one of them. One day, Sissy heard about an abused dog who needed a home right away or he would be put down. She went to see him and learned he had a sister from the same litter. They had always been together and were badly neglected. Sissy called her mother from the shelter and said, “Ma! I have to take both of them. I can’t separate a brother and sister!” Theresa said Sissy always wanted to help, always wanted to please. Sissy was a hero to many.

Every day in her diary, she wrote a loving letter to her deceased maternal grandfather. She wrote prayers to Jesus and asked for guidance to do the right thing, to help others, and to not let her life be a waste. The only person whom Sissy didn’t shower with love was herself. She put herself down—often. Her hair was too dry, her hips too fat, her chest too small. She called her ankles “cankles.” She would say, “Ma, look at this fat, chunky body you gave me,” and she often criticized her “fat ass.” She pushed her students to honor themselves and their dreams, to learn how to be strong and independent, yet she didn’t measure up to her own expectations. Worse, she felt she wasn’t good enough—not even for her husband. Sissy also couldn’t bear to be alone; it was her worst fear. Having a husband, being loved, being a good wife—these things meant the world to her.

Like Sissy, Jonathan Crupi was a high school teacher. He was finishing his master’s degree when Sissy’s family decided to move to Texas. Sissy and Jonathan went with them, and the Mapes treated Jonathan like their own son. At twenty years old, he didn’t know how to drive and was uniformed about numerous basic life skills. His hobbies and demeanor were pronouncedly adolescent, but since their daughter loved him, they took him under their wing and overlooked his oddities. Soon, they would be overlooking much more than immaturity and oddity.

When the family arrived in Texas, Sissy immediately secured a great teaching job, but Jonathan could not. As it turned out, he’d lied about having a master’s degree, and the Mapes family was shocked. Jonathan cried and begged for forgiveness. He said he was too ashamed to admit he had lied, but as he’d been caught trying to scam the system by the Texas school board, he now had to come forward. Theresa and her husband John were furious, but Sissy felt sorry for him; she stood by her man and forgave Jonathan. She asked her parents to forgive him, too. It wouldn’t be the last time.

Sissy and Jonathan’s engagement party was a big event; the soon-to-be newlyweds were showered with presents. But the monetary gifts totaling over $5,000 disappeared. The family was frantic—what kind of jerk would steal money from an engagement party? Jonathan Crupi was eventually found out to be that jerk. He threw himself on the ground at Sissy’s feet, begging for forgiveness. He said he had a gambling problem and that he’d blown their engagement money on NFL betting. While it was true that he’d stolen the $5,000, her family would one day learn what he’d actually done with the money, and it wasn’t gambling.

Sissy and Jonathan had always behaved like two buddies. They loved the same movies, music, and jokes and enjoyed going dancing together. Where Jonathan had no friends and was a loner, Sissy was more accomplished, pretty, and loved by all; Jonathan was like a stray dog she’d taken in. As Sissy began to uncover even more deceit, her default response was feeling sorry for him.

A year later, the Mapes family moved back to Staten Island. It wasn’t long before Jonathan was in trouble at the school where they now both taught. He’d fallen behind on reports, missed classes, and failed to show up for meetings. He would fall asleep in class with his feet up on the desk, and he verbally abused his students. As the final straw, Crupi threw a shoe at a student’s head. He was quickly fired, but Sissy intervened. She begged the principal to give her husband another chance, promising to straighten him out. The principal greatly respected and admired Sissy, and as a favor to her, he relented. Sissy requested that Crupi’s classroom be put near hers, so she could keep an eye on him. Now, on top of her own responsibilities, she regularly checked up on her husband, covered his mistakes, and kept him out of trouble.

Despite his poor behavior, Crupi wrote his wife dozens of romantic love letters, swearing he couldn’t live without her, that he would always love her, and begging her to never leave him. She carried these around in her purse like a precious treasure. They were her reassurance when things went wrong, which was becoming often.

I’m now sitting at the Mape’s family kitchen table with Sissy’s mother, father, and brother. Though they have relived this story many times, it’s obvious they’re still in tremendous pain and disbelief. Like most family members who lose someone to domestic homicide, they seesaw between, “How could we have known?” and “How did we not know?” Sissy’s protective brother, Little John, hadn’t thought much of Crupi from the start, regularly complaining, “Ma, I don’t like him.” While Little John didn’t trust Crupi, Theresa just wanted peace in the family, so she urged him, “Please, she loves him. Your sister’s happy with him. Let her have her happiness. Nobody’s perfect.” Nevertheless, Little John tells me, he never liked Crupi’s attitude and thought he was a two-faced liar. He even informed Theresa that Crupi showed one face to her and another to him.

Crupi would be invited out with Little John’s friends and get drunk, smoke cigarettes, pull out a joint to get high, and then beg Little John, “Please, don’t tell Sissy.” John had a pair of sandals that went missing; Crupi said he hadn’t seen them, but then one day, John saw them lying on the floor of Crupi’s bedroom closet. Sissy had no idea her husband did these things, but Little John, never suspecting just how deeply deceitful Crupi was, assumed maybe his sister was a nag? Maybe that’s why Crupi was doing things behind her back? Nevertheless, he felt unsettled and made a point of spending time with his little sister every weekend. Despite their close relationship, however, Sissy did not confide her troubles to her big brother. For many years, Sissy only confided in her diary.

Nobody ever knew how much Crupi put Sissy down—she only told her diary. She didn’t tell anyone about how much her mother-in-law hated her or how her husband left her alone every weekend to spend time with his mother, without inviting Sissy. Sissy wrote that on the day of her wedding, Mrs. Crupi handed her a vindictive, frightening letter. Still, she kept these things to herself. It was only later in the marriage, when she began to learn his dirty secrets, witness strange behavior, and grow tired of the put downs, that Sissy divulged her sadness and fear to her mother.

For now, the diary learned how Crupi’s mother had berated him for holding his wife’s hand while they walked through the mall, prompting him to drop Sissy’s hand for hers. She said Crupi’s parents never slept in the same bed, and when he stayed with his mother on the weekend, Crupi slept in her bed. Crupi’s mother even once told Sissy outright: “I hate you—you took my son away from me.” Sissy wrote in her diary how she was afraid of her mother-in-law’s jealousy, but she was just going to try harder to make things right and asked God for guidance. On multiple occasions, Sissy had come home from her mother-in-law’s house violently ill and once had gone to the emergency room. She was deathly allergic to mushrooms, a detail her mother-in-law forgot—four times—preparing a dinner with mushrooms finely chopped and hidden in the food. Sissy stopped going there for dinner.

Sissy used to go out a lot; she had many friends. Within a year of dating Crupi, she had withdrawn from everyone; Crupi wanted her all to himself and hated her friends. He was always “too tired to go out” with them, he had allergies, he was jealous. She made up excuses to her friends about being sick or exhausted. After this had gone on for years, Sissy called up her best friend Pinuccia and said, “I need a girls’ night out—please make it happen!” Pinuccia, thrilled to have her friend back, shouted, “Absolutely!” and arranged for Sissy to meet all her friends at an establishment in Brooklyn. After they had been there forty-five minutes, Sissy and Pinuccia stepped outside so Pinuccia could smoke a cigarette, and, lo and behold, there was Crupi in the parking lot.

He told Sissy he was there because she asked him for a ride home. “I told you I would call you when I was ready,” Sissy said. “Well, I’m here now, so let’s go,” he said. And she did.

His control steadily intensified. Crupi insisted on listening to her conversations; he hated for her to speak or be with anyone unless he was around. Sissy even stopped driving, which shocked her family. Out of nowhere, she became afraid to drive over bridges, pass someone in traffic, or merge onto the highway. Crupi criticized the way she drove and encouraged her to let him do the driving. She’d always been extremely independent, but suddenly, her husband made her rely on him for everything; Sissy no longer went anywhere without him. Theresa observed her daughter’s spirit shrinking.

Crupi tried to maintain a good image in front of her family, but sometimes he’d slip and call Sissy a bitch or yell at her in their presence. This wasn’t flying with Sissy’s father, who would yank his son-in-law back into line. Her parents didn’t want to interfere with their daughter’s marriage, but no way they were going to stay silent when Crupi verbally attacked her. Sissy would sometimes stay at her parents’ house, saying, “Oh, Crupi’s just acting like a butthead,” which they now know was her euphemism for Crupi abusing her. His anger wasn’t reserved for Sissy; Crupi had terrifying road rage, getting into screaming matches with other drivers and making aggressive, retaliatory moves that terrified her.

Money began to go missing. Their bank account showed repeated withdrawals of $400 dollars that added up to thousands. When confronted, Crupi made excuses, telling Sissy he paid cash for new sneakers and clothing. Crupi, in fact, had lavished himself with expensive matching sneakers and hats, while keeping close tabs on what his wife spent. But Sissy was a saver; she paid all the bills and put money aside for their future. However, the more she tried to save, the more wildly he spent whatever she had put aside.

Sissy’s mother was brought up to believe that a family stays together, no matter what. Theresa’s own stepfather was terrifying, and she had lived in constant fear of him. She also loved and felt sorry for him; he was in a lot of physical pain, and this, to her, was his excuse for being so abusive. She said, “He was an angry, miserable person. But my mom needed him, and so I was good to him. He could be charismatic—lighting up a room and making you feel wonderful, giving you what you wanted—then become filled with rage and take it out on the family.” He beat his stepdaughter all her life until she was a married woman—his last beating was the day before her wedding.

Theresa’s mother had also grown up in a broken home and was determined she would make this marriage work. No matter what, she was not going to leave Theresa’s abusive stepfather. Pappi loved and adored Sissy, though, from the day she was born, and she, never knowing how violent her grandfather had been, adored him in return. Pappi’s death was hard on her, and after he died, Sissy wrote to him every day in her diary.

When Sissy was a young girl, her own parent’s marriage went through some turmoil. There was stress within the family, and occasionally, her father John would leave for a while. John loved his family dearly, and Theresa and John always reconciled—today their marriage is stronger than ever. But even knowing she was loved, those early rocky years had some impact on young Sissy’s self-image. Like all small children, when her father was gone for a few months, she internalized her sadness. She developed into a young woman who couldn’t stand to be alone, and her heart ached for anyone or anything that was abandoned. Though she’d matured into a driven overachiever, her self-esteem was low; her diary entries often lamented she didn’t think she was being a good enough person for Jesus. Like her mother, and her mother before her, Sissy vowed (in her diary) to always stand by her man—no matter what. For this generational and cultural inheritance, Theresa suffers tremendous guilt.

Sissy never wanted to disappoint her parents or Jesus by getting a divorce. Giving up on someone was wrong, and divorce would be shameful for the family. Found on Sissy’s computer were the search terms, “How do I ask Jesus for a divorce” and “How do I tell my parents I’m getting divorced”. These searches were mere days before she was murdered.

Sissy had finally caught Crupi cheating. She had suspected but didn’t want to believe it; however, there was now proof of Crupi paying prostitutes, spending a lot of time and money with one in particular. She was devastated; she cried as she said, “Ma, I’ll never be good enough for him.” Pinuccia had often heard Sissy say she hated herself but never that Crupi wasn’t good enough for her. Not long before her death, Sissy called and confessed she was thinking of leaving Crupi. She asked, “Pinuccia, are you afraid of being alone?” Pinuccia said, “No! If Craig was cheating on me, I would take the baby and leave.” Sissy replied, “But aren’t you afraid of doing that alone?”

Pinuccia said, “Listen, I want you to open up a checking account, and I want you to start putting aside money.” She took her best friend’s advice and saved over $5,000 in preparation to leave Crupi. It never occurred to Sissy to go home to her parents, regardless of finances. Sissy hung in and fixed her own problems.

But Sissy finally reached her limit in July 2012. Education was especially important to her and to Crupi, or so she thought. After his lies had been revealed in Texas, when they returned to Staten Island, Crupi resumed his coursework to earn his master’s degree. He was teaching under probation and had five years from the day he was hired to complete his degree. He was now up against the deadline.

On July 3, 2012, Sissy called up her mother, frantic. Even though he was supposed to receive his diploma the following week, Crupi’s picture was not in the graduation program. Sissy had called up Staten Island College and discovered that not only was Crupi not graduating, but he had never enrolled in the master’s program. Where had Crupi been going every night? And what had he done with the $55,000 set aside to pay his tuition?

Theresa put her foot down and told her daughter, “That’s it! No more excuses—we are not going through this again!”

By now, Sissy had discovered more than she could bear: Crupi was paying to have sex with prostitutes, he’d never enrolled in college, had never attended any classes, and had squandered $55,000 of their money. But what she didn’t know was something life-threatening: Jonathan Crupi was soon going to be fired, thereby making Sissy the sole breadwinner. But Sissy was done covering for him, and he knew it. His free ride would be coming to an end. That made him desperate—and dangerous.

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Even Me!

“Let us reject the myth that strong women, bold women, independent women do not find themselves in the throes of domestic violence at the hands of someone who claimed to love them.” – U.S. Representative Ayanna Pressley

None of us think it could happen to us. We are not that weak, stupid, or foolish. “Not me!” “I would never be that gullible.” “No one would ever get away with treating me like that.”

Such assertions are typically reinforced with denials allowing us to avoid the frightening reality that we’re being abused: “This is not that.” “My situation is different.” “It’s not all bad.” “You don’t know them like I do.” “It only happened(s) once (in a while).” “I can’t just walk away.” “Everyone deserves another chance.” After all, you’re too smart and strong; you’d never “let” anyone abuse you.

Being in an abusive relationship has nothing to do with common sense, intellectual capacity, or physical/mental/emotional strength. And the story that follows is proof.

I’m seated in a conference room filled with accomplished women trying not to stare at the woman sitting to my left. Wearing a spectacular champagne silk blouse, elegant jewels, with beautiful hair and makeup, she radiates…something indefinable. I can’t help wondering, “WHO is this lady?” Soon enough, we’re introduced, and when I answer Amy’s question about what I do—support survivors and educate to prevent domestic abuse—her eyes open wide. “Really? I was in an abusive relationship, and I’m a former prosecutor! Even me!” she declared with emphatic candor.

Amy had me at “former prosecutor,” but her declaration “even me” tapped at my heart. It’s one reason why victims stay silent: the myth of stupidity or weakness behind “even me.” I ask Amy if she’d like to tell me more about her life and perhaps include her story in my book. She says she'd love to help and graciously invites me for lunch.

I learn that Amy is well-educated, having studied at prestigious universities. Now semi-retired, Amy had been the Chief of Bureau of Investigations, a formidable and savvy prosecutor who is still well-respected by hundreds of elite police officers, FBI agents, and top-level politicians. In her career, Amy was never to be underestimated or trifled with. She describes once sitting face to face with a serial killer. I ask if she was frightened and Amy replies, “Well, it was certainly an uncomfortable situation!”

So how, indeed, does a prosecutor with a history of indicting and putting away murderers, mobsters, and deadly drug cartels find herself in an abusive relationship? Why “even me”? Too frequently it is strong, independent individuals, those who “don’t quit” that are ripe for abusive partners to exploit. It made sense that Amy’s story would illuminate a subversive pattern that catches a great number of people off guard.

We chat over an hour about Amy’s lengthy, impressive, and riveting career. Eventually, our conversation veers into deeply personal territory.

When Amy was eight months pregnant with their second child, her then husband abruptly informed her he was in love with someone else. He no longer wanted an equal partner; he wanted an unambitious, stay-at-home, younger wife. He divorced and left Amy with their small child and unborn baby to be with his mistress. It was a cruel blow to an expectant mother, but Amy isn’t sorry for herself.

While it's impossible to know how she truly felt, I learn she never faltered. When she found herself unexpectedly navigating single parenthood, the extraordinary career she’d built was perceptibly damaged. Instead of folding, she braced up, buckled down, and carried on as an amazing single mother and fierce prosecutor. Within a few years, she was back in the swing of her career.

Everything Amy has been sharing about her personal and professional life shows me a woman who is always the one to lean on, the one who takes care of things. I had to ask about her childhood, specifically: at what age did Amy have to become an adult? I had a gut feeling she’d had to assume adult responsibilities as a child, and she immediately replied, “Around eight years old.” Her mother was a beloved and respected teacher, a truly unique and gifted woman. She was also a volatile and often harsh disciplinarian who aroused fear and anxiety in her daughter.

As a young girl, Amy had to be on guard and manage her environment as well as her mother’s moods. She had two younger siblings whom she adored. If her little brother made a mess, panic set in for Amy. She’d race about the house trying to clean up before her mother walked in the door. Amy was afraid to see either of them punished. While she and her siblings had the typical rivalries and shenanigans, all bets were off when it came to deflecting her mother’s anger. Amy became hypervigilant—a little adult looking after her siblings to protect them and maintain a stable home atmosphere.

Even as she relays this story about her mother’s frightening discipline, Amy is still caretaking: she doesn’t feel bad for herself; like the good kid she still is, Amy sticks up for her mother, stating: “I know she loved me, I believe she was just deeply frustrated. My mother had been stifled in her own life by strict parents who insisted she become a teacher, wife, and mother instead of pursuing her own passion for the law.” Like all strong people, Amy places full blame for all her struggles upon her own shoulders. But her iron resolve will prove to be a double-edged sword that unwittingly brings about much suffering.

Some years after the divorce, Amy was introduced to a man who, at first blush, appeared to be exceptionally loving. Exceedingly attentive to her needs, offering to cook, giving her a foot rub, and massaging her shoulders after a brutal stretch of work, Mr. Solicitous frequently assured Amy it was high time someone took loving care of her. Having a partner who looked after her needs was a possibility Amy hadn’t even imagined. “Someone wanted to take care of ME? It was just wonderful.” Mr. Solicitous was charming and sweet and said all the right things. He spoiled her with gifts and lovely dates. He had his own children from a previous marriage and presented himself as a caring father—an important box checked. Nevertheless—once burned we are all, indeed, twice shy—Amy insisted on proceeding slowly. Before she introduced any man to her children, she had to be certain he would not betray the family as had her first husband.

But Mr. Solicitous laid on the pressure. He pushed Amy hard to marry and wanted to move into her house as quickly as possible. You might think, “Who wouldn’t?” Amy is a beautiful, accomplished woman. Her kids are great, people respect her, and she takes care of herself. Mr. Solicitous on the other hand was rumpled, crumpled, and unpolished, but Amy didn’t care about the surface. He did, though—noticeably puffing with pride at her side. When Amy asked for more time, he intuitively exploited Amy’s deepest wish: a stable and well-rounded home life for her children. He painted a convincing picture that having a happy mom and caring stepdad together under one roof was the best course of action for the family.

At this point in her narrative, after a long silence, Amy suddenly says, “I knew the first night of our honeymoon I’d made a big mistake. But I couldn’t admit it to anyone.”

In her own words, “That night, for the first time, I saw him without his mask.” Mr. Solicitous flipped a switch and began demeaning and insulting Amy. He was so verbally cruel it rocked her. Who was THIS guy she had just married? He seemed a total stranger. Amy decided that although he may not have been all she had expected, in her mind, it was too late to do anything about it. She’d married him, and now, she would just have to deal with it. I asked what the worst-case scenario would be if she had just filed for divorce straight away. Amy was afraid if she left him only one day after the wedding, “then I would appear to have poor judgment.”

I asked Amy: “So, if you had poor judgment, what, then, would have been the outcome?”

“Then people wouldn’t be able to trust me.”

“And if people weren’t able to trust you, what then?”

“Then I couldn’t trust myself,” she answered.

We both sat with that in silence. There was nothing to be said. Her career and reputation had required sacrifice and decades of discipline and hard work. She shared a great story: An extremely dangerous criminal had been caught, and his defense attorney’s first move was to find out which prosecutor was handling the case. Upon hearing it was Amy, he told his client, “You’re toast! Cooperate fully.” Losing the valuable respect she’d earned wasn’t a risk she could take, and feeling like a fool didn’t square with her inner Wonder Woman. She assumed the responsibility of fixing him because after all, hadn’t he been so wonderful before? Amy could help him find his way, help him shed his anger and behave like himself, again.

As Mr. Solicitous had refused to accept nothing less than marriage, he had placed Amy in a financially precarious position because, as he well knew, from the moment she married him her significant child support was legally terminated. Amy was left with her sole income to support her children; only after the marriage did it come to light that his income was quite insubstantial. Although moving into private law would have been far more lucrative, Amy says she couldn’t do it. Her heart was in busting the criminals who made the world dangerous. She lived for justice served.

Her new husband had more unpleasant surprises: he was terribly cheap and made sure Amy paid more than her fair share. Amy is not one to divvy up a bill with a calculator nor operate from a tit-for-tat viewpoint. She bought groceries, picked up household items, paid for repairs, and did all the things a spouse does in a balanced partnership. Mr. Solicitous, however, went through the bills with a fine-tooth comb. If he bought a soda for one of “Amy’s” children, he would circle it as money owed. He planned lavish vacations, insisted Amy’s children go with them, and then stuck her with the bill; after all, they were her fiscal responsibility, not theirs. He was a shopaholic, purchasing things she didn’t need or use then filing them under the category of shared expenses. Even his gifts for Amy were placed in the “Amy owes” column.

Mr. Solicitous flipped from adoration to undermining Amy’s confidence. He began waking her in the night to whisper that her children resented or didn’t really love her. He insinuated that family and colleagues were merely putting up with or didn’t respect her, and because of course he loved her, well, Amy just needed to hear the truth. Nearly every day, she endured put-downs and snide remarks which escalated into loud fights with foul language. Amy’s home life became something to be managed and navigated—like the home life of her childhood.

But Amy was determined to make things work. She tried couples therapy and individual counseling to help him become that nice guy again, or at least refrain from being abusive. Any progress he showed never lasted; her husband’s abuse would inevitably resume. She was still determined to hang in—this could all be managed—and then he smacked her. Hard. In the face.

To continue reading Amy’s story, click here to purchase your copy of Dying for Love.