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Alyssa Lee Clear

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Caril Ann

February 1, 2018
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The more I read about Caril Ann Fugate, the more intriguing her story becomes. Her ordeal was high profile, to say the least, and it was replicated repeatedly in books, movies and songs. But the most interesting thing to me was reading the emotionally charged reactions that so many people have towards her. Writers, psychologists, internet commentators — all these people so insistent on her guilt that when her husband crashed his car in 2013, killing himself instantly and leaving 70 year old Caril critically injured and hospitalized for months, there were those who swore she must have orchestrated it. There‘s been a great deal of anger ever since she was released from prison, despite the fact that she had served 18 years without incident and remained a model citizen since her release. The father of her ex-boyfriend, Charles Starkweather, insisted that she should have been on his lap when he was executed.

The remarkable thing is that Caril was just 14 when she was arrested. The vitriol directed at her even then is telling of the way that we view teenage girls and the way we demand they meet our expectations. Yes, girls younger than Caril have committed heinous murders, and we regularly see couples draw out violent impulses in one another, so its not an impossible scenario, but is it even a likely one? Are we so sure that this is what happened with Caril that we're ready to publicly condemn her?

It took a bit of digging to discover that the state never actually claimed Caril took part in any of the murders. The entire case against her was based on her attitude. Yes, as astonishing as it is that a conviction could be obtained based on feelings or “gut-instinct,” 14 year old Caril was deemed guilty because well, she seemed like she could have been. Essentially, they decided that because she didn’t act like a proper kidnapping victim, she couldn't possibly have been a kidnapping victim. She must have gone along willingly, enamored with the older, forbidden Charlie. Surely her parents put a stop to the relationship and she gleefully watched as he slaughtered her entire family. The fact that there was no proof, the fact that everyone else claimed Caril had ended the relationship on her own, the fact that only Charlie was supporting this romanticized version of events, none of that meant that the prosecution's telling of events couldn't be true in theory.  No one could prove that Caril didn't assist in the murders, and therefore, she was just as guilty as Starkweather. The only thing that saved her from the chair was the fact that she was only 14. She was sentenced to life in prison, but released after 18 years for good behavior. She has always maintained her innocence.

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I must say, I’ve never seen any instance of a young girl committing murder where she had developed the skills to lie so convincingly and never once admit her guilt. Young people like to talk, and they lack the same understanding of consequences that we develop with age. A longing for the twisted romanticism of the killer couple will always be pervasive in our society — in fact, just the other day on the radio, I heard two modern songs that made Bonnie and Clyde references. Caril Ann had another thing working against her, though: our insistence to see young girls as much older than they really are. Once the slightest hint is given that a girl may not be 100% pure & innocent, the general public is ready to pounce. There is a reason we have “jokes” about when a young girl will become “legal.” And that underage perversion aside, this obviously raises another problem when it comes to women like Caril Ann. We see her as a grown woman, just waiting for the law to give us the O.K., so we feel as if the law should treat her like an adult. What’s more, we expect her actions to be in line with the decisions an adult would make, so we fail to see the poor and bizarre choices she makes as simply the choices of a confused child.

I believe it’s clear how that would have an impact on a jury’s decision.

See, Charlie initially insisted that Caril had nothing to do with the murders. This was her story as well. After some time in a jail cell and hours of questioning, he was reportedly told that Caril was claiming he’d kidnapped her. This revelation apparently did not sit well with him, and he changed his story to say she was a willing participant. When Caril was first arrested, the warden claimed she was so broken up to hear that her family was killed, there was no way she could have known. At her trial, he changed his story and claimed that when she was arrested, he found newspaper clippings describing the deaths of her parents in her jacket pockets (apparently he had either completely forgot this piece of information, or lied at some point.) No one questions these inconsistencies, but we’re more than ready to poke holes in Caril's character.

In theory, yes, Caril had opportunities to escape, and no, she did not play the proper victim role. But her guilt was decided on flip-flopped stories and witnesses recounting her behavior. At the very least, it’s a case that, even if “in your gut” you feel like she did it, there was no suitable evidence that should have been able to win a conviction.

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In this series, I’m obviously not portraying a 14 year-old Caril, and I must admit that her age made me hesitant to tackle this story. But I think it’s important to call attention to the way that we, as a collective society, view teenage girls. There’s this insistence on perceiving young girls as older than they are, & if she’s not hysterical and wildly sympathetic, she must be up to no good. There is no “in-between” the young, sweet, innocent stage, & all the expectations and scrutiny that come with womanhood. I think it’s important to note that grown women will only garner the same sympathy if they’re deemed helpless (i.e. childlike) enough; but behaving as Caril did — in a calm & collected manner that likely had more to do with shock than anything, is a surefire way to be perceived as cold and uncaring.

This must be confusing for teenage girls, particularly when you’re raised to put everyone else’s happiness before your own, which we often are, regardless of whether of not its our parents’ and teachers’ intention. We learn to present ourselves in ways others expect of us, but attempting to behave like a grown woman when your brain is still operating as a child’s can have disastrous effects on one’s development. For Caril, her efforts were both tragically futile and catastrophic as she attempted to placate the very dangerous Starkweather in what she saw as an effort to save her family.

She was likely trapped with an abusive ex-partner who didn't know how to let go and also happened to be a homicidal maniac. She did the best she could to keep him calm, forced to take care of her captor out of fear he'd kill those she loved. She showed remarkable resilience considering her age and inexperience, and when she finally tried to get help, the law refused to believe her and instead sided with her kidnapper. The fact that his words carried any weight is astounding: one’s fate should ever be decided on by an angry ex, and that’s something I’m sure we can all agree on.

xo,

Miss Arsenous Apple Pie

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Current Character

Tree climbing in heels, Christmas edition ❤️🎄👠 . . . . . #alwaysinheels #nevergrowup #heelsforever #climbingtrees #treeclimber #treehugger #fromthe60s #60sstyle #vintagestyle #santastyle #vintagefashion #vintagewardrobe #thrifted #thriftedwardrobe #thriftedstyle
It was our entire life, going up in flames. Cork, silently suffering while I frantically searched for help, help that would never come, help that was never there. That never existed. I’d been watching him burn alive for years now, screaming at
It was our entire life, going up in flames. Cork, silently suffering while I frantically searched for help, help that would never come, help that was never there. That never existed. I’d been watching him burn alive for years now, screaming at him to care, to realize I loved him, the children loved him, to realize he was brilliant and strong and capable, to stop wanting to die. He had so much to live for. Our lives were full of meaning. He sat on the edge of the bed, hands between his legs, his eyes empty as they started at me, silently begging: “stop trying to save me.” ... #pinup #pinupgirl #lemonprint #backseam #vintage #vintagestyle #vintagegirl #femmefatale #storytelling #truecrime #crimedrama #depressionawareness
I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I realized — this was the physical manifestation of the pain I’d been watching him suffer through all these years.
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and ref
I never did admit this back then, but ... there was a moment ... as I became transfixed on that car, engulfed in flames, wrapped in the the still of night and surrounded by lemon groves — those waxy leaves catching the light of the fire and reflecting it back into the darkness. A futile attempt at illuminating something so much more vast and encompassing then they could ever be. After the shattering of glass, the frantic scrambling through the bushes, the screams into the nothingness surrounding me, there was only silence. I was the only one making noise. That stagnant night air had wrapped itself around the car like a blanket, like the blanket wrapped around Cork, who, the entire time, had been silently burning alive, too sedated to move, too sedated to feel, too sedated to scream.
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weeken
Cork was beautiful. He was brilliant. He was kind and sweet and loving. He sent me a dozen and a half roses before we even had our first date — ‘I hope you’ll find these pretty, even if you won’t join me for dinner this weekend, but I do hope you will.’* I couldn’t have loved the man more. But he never could see it — not the love and admiration I harbored for him or all the wonderful qualities in himself that made me love and admire him. He saw all his faults and shortcomings. He saw my overspending and blamed himself for not making enough money. I loved Cork so much, but none of that love could ever make him love himself. Do you know how difficult that is? To see someone you love and cherish just ... falling apart ... right in front of you. *Fabricated: Lucille’s father recalled the note Cork sent to Lucille & it’s general sentiments, but the exact wording isn’t documented.
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I
Maybe I wanted too much. I wanted the life that society says means “I made it,” whatever “it” is. The beautiful husband, the beautiful children, the beautiful house and beautiful things to fill it with. I drove us into debt, I can’t deny that. There was just ... always something more. A dress that made me feel beautiful, a home that felt special, another man that looked at me like I meant something. That’s always been my downfall, I guess. Nothing is ever enough. I want it so desperately until I have it. Then I don’t know what to do with it. I convince myself that this time it’ll be different, this time it’ll satisfy me, this time I can stop looking. Just this once. But then I have it, and I’m still empty, and something else comes along and catches my eye and I start the longing process all over again.
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good&rdq
I can’t say I was ever really a good mother. To be honest, I’m not even sure I can say I’m a good person, but that’s so hard to define, isn’t it? Who decides what makes a person fit into the parameters of “good” or “bad?” A court decided I was bad, as did a prosecutor, a couple detectives. But you take the fragments of a terrible accident, and the fragments of an imperfect life, an imperfect marriage, an imperfect person, you toss them into a binder and you read the worst parts of it all. Anyone can seem terrible when you only look at their flaws, can’t they?
Here’s a hastily-made hyper dramatic “trailer”/bts for my upcoming story, based on the life & trial of Lucille Miller. Look out for it after the weekend! 😘 In the meantime, a little background on the premise of Lucille’s story & Arsenous Apple Pie in general: Now’s as good a time as any to address this. These stories, while rooted in true crimes, are told from a perspective I couldn’t possibly understand. I pull from films, from interviews and articles, from observations and life experiences, and I try to create stories that do more than describe a crime. The crimes become a lens through which we view human experiences, taking the most severe actions & emotions present in humanity, exploring the deepest and darkest aspects of our minds, and ruminating on the things that push us to that place. That being said, I don’t always believe in the guilt of the convicted women I portray — something I try to make clear when appropriate. Nonetheless, they’ve been pushed to an extreme place, and are facing tragedy, demons, or a cruel court of public opinion. I believe there is always a great deal to learn from researching these cases, especially when you attempt to mentally put yourself in that position. In the past, I’ve told stories from the point of view of someone suffering with depression or some form of mental illness, as it’s a perspective I’m acutely familiar with. With Lucille, I decided to flip it, & show a person deeply in love with and hopelessly trying to save a husband suffering from depression. Much has been written about Lucille Miller, including “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream,” a highly-regarded essay by the great Joan Didion & “A Mother’s Crime,” a touching piece for the Los Angeles Times by Lucille’s own daughter, Debra Miller. Many people harbor opinions on Lucille’s crime, her character, and her life. This was true when it all went down in the 60’s, and remains true to this day. For better or worse, this is not one you’ll have read before. 💋, Miss Arsenous Apple Pie
Epilogue: And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate. I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woma
Epilogue: And that, my loves, is how I came to be remembered as the first woman hung by the state of Louisiana. Perhaps unsurprisingly, this too was inaccurate. I was the first white woman to be hanged by the state, but certainly not the first woman. But again, facts be damned, right? History wants what it wants, and all it really wants is a good story. So many lives, reduced to nothing but grocery store gossip and dinner party conversation starters. In a rare instance where someone seemed to realize the gruesome nature of a trial becoming mere entertainment for the bored masses, Arthur Brisbane of the San Francisco Examiner asked, "Does a great State deserve to have on its records the first hanging of a white woman, or a black woman, either?" It all depends on who you ask, Arthur, it all depends on who you ask.
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel
Of course this left me as the central figure in all this nonsense. The adulterous, vain, manipulative "siren," who lured all of these men to their doom. Knowing full well they were cementing my death sentence, reporters made themselves feel better by insisting I loved their attention. Stoic, uninterested, and defiant in court, I "giggled" for the press and "entertained" in my jail cell. They truly seemed to have convinced themselves that not only did I enjoy the attention, but that they were somehow doing me a favor by making me into a celebrity. Or perhaps they just saw this as the pinnacle of their careers and weren't concerned with mere fatal casualties. Facts be damned, they wanted a good story, and a good story needs a good ending. A good ending, it seems, never does include a living antagonist.

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