Sunday, October 13, 1996

A victim fights for victim rights

By ANTHONY WILSON
Staff Writer

Leah Herron is a strong, tough-talking woman who doesn't shy away from discussing the shotgun slaying of her daughter last year.

But Herron's dark eyes water and her voice quivers as she recalls all Laurie Beck has done for her since her son-in-law gunned down Samantha Silva in a convenience store as the 22-year-old woman cowered behind the counter frantically dialing 911.

Beck, the crime victims assistance coordinator for the Taylor County district attorney's office, helped the Herrons recoup their funeral expenses. She talked to them several times a week, answering questions and explaining updates in the case against Michael Silva.

She arranged a meeting with another violent crime victim to help Herron cope with her anger and grief. Beck assured the family the killer's acceptance of a 55-year sentence was, for parole purposes, nearly the maximum.

She helped the Herrons secure day care for their three grandchildren and successfully lobbied prison officials to move Silva from Abilene to a Huntsville lockup. She sat with her arm squeezed around Herron during court appearances.

And, most importantly, Beck listened and cared.

"I'm proud to call Laurie my friend," Herron said, struggling with emotion. "It's a privilege to know her. I wish it could've been under different circumstances. But through this, I've seen a goodness and kindness as she stood there beside us."

Beck wasn't unfamiliar with violent crime when she was hired in 1994.

While a college sophomore 16 years ago, she answered a late-night knock at her door, expecting her boyfriend. Instead, a stranger wearing a ski mask and wielding a knife stood before her.

The girl fought like a wildcat, ransacking her San Marcos apartment while scrambling to escape the intruder. When he caught her, he held the knife's blade against her throat and raped her. Police never captured her assailant - at least for that crime.

"That'll never, ever go away," Beck said. "I still can't drive through that town without thinking about it. You can't dwell on it, though it's something you never forget. It's what you do with it."

Oddly, the attack didn't factor into Beck's career choice. She was instead spurred by a fascination with criminal justice, her college major. She once considered being a police officer, dabbled in investigations, and worked as a paralegal.

When she applied for the victims coordinator post, Beck confesses, she had "no idea" what the job entailed.

"And I had no idea I'd be as crazy about it as I am," she added. "I can't imagine doing anything else. They would have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming."

State law mandates each district attorney's office designate a victims assistance coordinator. In most offices this involves a secretary mailing notices and other information to victims, but Taylor County's swelling case load necessitated a new position.

District Attorney James Eidson said the post meets needs swamped prosecutors can't.

"It's become increasingly significant for someone to shoulder the load of personal contact with the victims," Eidson said. "To the victim, the system often appears cold and uncaring. Laurie is the face, the voice, and more importantly, the ear of the criminal justice system to victims and their families."

Beck contacts victims when a case is filed, advising them of their rights under the law. She keeps them updated and informed about movement in the cases and refers them to resources that provide services ranging from counseling to day care to financial aid.

During trials, she sits in the courtroom with victims' families, holding their hands and explaining the often confusing legal maneuvers. While awaiting verdicts she paces the courthouse halls with them.
The job, Beck admits, is an emotional grind.

"You get to know people deeply in a short period, and you experience some of the worst moments of their lives," she said. "It can be overwhelming.

"But as gut-wrenching as it is, it's also incredibly heart-warming to help someone get through that. I cry with them a lot. You experience what they experience. It's not your loved one, but you couldn't experience it any more."

Beck has been trained by the local Crime Victim Crisis Center, but most of her schooling is on the job. She was "thrown in the lion's den" her first week, charged with assisting the victims of serial rapist George Prince.

One of the women initially refused to discuss the most degrading and violent moments of her rape, declining to even utter the word "penis." To help the woman overcome her block, Beck took her into an empty courtroom, sat her in the witness stand and repeated the word "penis" with her over and over until the two women were giggling about it.

When the woman testified, she looked at Beck and suppressed the slightest smile when she first spoke the word, going on to calmly and graphically detail Prince's torture, convincing jurors to sentence him to 88 years.

"It just goes back to having compassion and being a human being," Beck said. "That's the only criteria for this job. Sometimes you don't have to say anything. It's more about listening. They just want to be heard and have someone listen and understand their pain."

Occasionally, she recounts her own experience in college to assure victims she understands and that they can survive.

"I thought I was going stark-raving mad after my daughter's murder," Herron said. "I told her, 'How can you tell me how I feel?' She said, 'Let me tell you what happened to me.' I needed to hear that, to know I wasn't the only one something bad had happened to.

"She's a tower of strength."

Her husband, Mac, a man of few words, simply added: "She's a classy lady from the word go."
Other victims echo the Herrons' kudos. Beck, whose office is decorated with gifts from victims, returned the compliments.

"I'm here to assist people, but I get a lot in return," she said. "The courage I see day in and day out is phenomenal."

Sixteen years ago, there were no victims assistance coordinators. Beck believes she could have benefitted from some help, recalling that after her rape she locked herself in her room for days on end.

So she is pleased to see the criminal justice system she's always admired finally taking notice of victims and their rights.

"People are no longer comfortable with being observers," Beck said. "They want to participate. All the rights have been focused on defendants. Victims were becoming statistics and names in a file without a say-so. That's no longer the case.

"It amazes me that it's just gotten to this point in the last 10 to 15 years. It amazes me we had to legislate this stuff. It just goes back to compassion and giving people respect and fairness."