Photograph by Kevin A. Roberts
July 4, 1990, after being raped by her drunken father regularly for 10 years and threatened with death if she told, Stacey Lannert heard him molest the little sister she’d spent her young life protecting. She grabbed his gun and shot him. She was 18. She was sentenced to life without parole. The judge recommended her case for clemency, but Gov. Mel Carnahan died before he could sign the papers, and Gov. Bob Holden did not respond. Finally, after she’d spent 18 years in prison, Gov. Matt Blunt ordered her freed immediately. Now Lannert, 39, lives with her partner in an old house in Maplewood. In her upstairs office, big, bright, 3-D butterflies cling to the walls, looking ready to soar.
In Redemption (released this spring), you differentiate between the times your father was “Daddy” and the times he was “Tom.” Was it that easy to keep them separate?
Yes, because he would change. He would physically change. He had really beautiful blue eyes, and when he’d become this other person, they’d get lighter, almost become ice. Very cold.
You developed pelvic inflammatory disease because of the frequent rapes. Can you have children?
No. And when I was 17, that meant everything. Since then, I’ve had a lot of time to come to peace with it. I do the best I can in my niece’s life—I’m banned from buying any more large stuffed animals!
Your father used to advise you, “Never let a guy treat you badly”?
That’s the thing. He would give me talks, sit me on his lap for hours and give me this worldly advice. I would just look at him like, “Wow. Do you not get this?”
What do you suppose went wrong with him?
To this day, I search for answers. Alcohol, feeling inadequate, losing jobs… I don’t think he was sexually abused… emotionally, maybe… I can create any theory I want to; my question will always be left unanswered.
Do you try not to think about it?
No, I still run theories. I always think that someday, something will just click.
Are there any theories that you’ve formed and discarded over time?
It’s hard to say, because once I voice them, other people will say, “No, no, that’s not it.” The beginning of it was blaming myself: I loved him too much; I would sit on his lap all the time. I really had to learn that it was not my fault.
Why do abused kids assume they’re bad?
I think we don’t know where else to put it, so we put it on ourselves. Why else would this person that we love so much hurt us?
Would it have been easier if your father had never been a loving parent?
Yes, because then I could have hated him.
He alternated between a fun father and a monster.
I do think the alcohol had a lot to do with it. It allows people to cross a threshold they wouldn’t normally cross, and then it allows them to create this false reality around them. That’s why I have one glass of wine and I am done.
Did he ever rape you when he was sober?
Never. People say, “How could you love this monster?” but he wasn’t always a monster. There would be periods when he would lay off the drinking, especially when he was more concerned about me. I’d get a glimpse of who he could be—and then it was gone. So you have that endless cycle of trying to get that person back, fighting for them when they don’t even fight for themselves, until you just eventually give up the fight.
When did you give up?
July 4, 1990.
I thought it might’ve been earlier, when he’d collapse in puddles of vomit and smash the chandelier.
I always think—another theory!—that he was so miserable, in ways he forced the situation.
Tried to goad you?
Yes. In a way. He wanted to be stopped. Not necessarily by the route I chose. But by something.
If you could put yourself in your father’s presence again, would you?
I don’t know. [Long silence.] As who I am now? Then yes. Yes, I would. If nothing else, just for the opportunity to tell him that I forgive him and to ask for his forgiveness of me.
You hesitated.
I had to really think, “If I were in his presence, would I be instantly stripped of all that I’ve become? Or would I be able to hang onto it?” Truly, in 18 years in prison, I became a new person.
How can that harsh environment transform you?
You feel so shattered, time and time again, that you are just forged into something new. The women there—they’ve all led hard lives. You couldn’t fall into self-pity; there wasn’t a ton of sympathy. So many times, I see victims staying victims because we don’t know how to empower them. And had I been out here, I never would have been able to meet the shame head-on. I would have always had an opportunity to run from it or deny it.
So you don’t regret 18 years in prison?
I regret the actions that led me there, but I really like who I have become. Of course I wish it was less time. But shame is extremely powerful in my life, and whether people believe I was abused or wasn’t abused, I was incarcerated for 18 years. I rendered unto Caesar. Truly, it should satisfy the harshest cynic. Having that behind me—it moves me forward, where otherwise I might stop because of shame.
At what point did you feel “fit for forgiveness”?
You know, it was kind of slow. I’d peek through that door, and then I’d shut it. Really, truly, only with the governor’s clemency was it final.
It must’ve stung when Gov. Holden didn’t respond.
It was devastating. I sat there waiting, while all these other women were getting their answers. He could have denied me, and I would have been able to make some kind of peace with that.
Then Gov. Blunt freed you instantly.
It happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to wrap my mind around it. All we were asking for was that the “without parole” be lifted. I still would have served years before parole. Never in my wildest imagination did I dare dream for the outcome that happened. My life was changed on July 4, 1990, in the blink of an eye, and it was changed again on January 10, 2009.
Had you fantasized about getting out?
I found that if I lived in a daydream, I was too resentful of where I was. I would watch TV and see beautiful sights, like the Pacific Coast Highway, and think, “Wow, someday I just want to see that.” When I’d start feeling melancholy, I’d have to really look for the beauty around me. Butterflies playing chase between the chain-link fence, or the kiss of a sweet dog.
You train service dogs now, which you started doing in prison. How did they affect you?
By the time they came in, I was cynical, very closed off from just about everything. But I love animals. And [I was] very, very lonely. All I could really love was—don’t print this. But I had this teddy bear—
Um, Stacey? The teddy bear’s in the book.
Yeah, but I feel like such a sissy. Anyway, when they were first talking about bringing the dogs in, I didn’t want to get my hopes up. They always messed everything up. Just stupid stuff, like we can’t have bread because somebody would try to make hooch. Every good thing that would come along, somebody would mess up. So I didn’t want to get attached to something just to have somebody else snatch it away.
What changed your mind?
I looked into that first dog’s eyes. A golden retriever named Finders, of all things. There were two dogs at first: Finders and Keepers. I thought, “Yeah, you’re right. I found this, and I’m going to keep it.” The first dog I trained was Tory. He looked like Prince, the dog I had when I was a little girl.
The one you used to confide in, and your father insisted on getting rid of? Prince broke my heart.
Yeah, mine too. But dogs really taught me how to love—how to open up, how to be kind and patient, how to forgive yourself for failing. I heard that saying once, and it still chokes me up: “I hope I can be the kind of person my dog thinks I am.” [Her voice is calm, but when I look up, her face is wet with tears.]
Do you think what you did was hard to forgive?
I think it was…understandable. But after 18 years of incarceration, I know the power a human has to change, and my deepest regret is my father will never have that opportunity. Because of me.
Did you ever worry that having killed someone would make it easier to kill again?
I really had to walk that. Once you realize you are capable of crossing a line, what kind of person does that make you? I had to put that in context: the amount of fear I felt, the anger, how trapped I felt. I took a lot of psychology courses so I could understand how it was possible for me to cross that line, and once I realized that pretty much anyone is capable, that helped me find some forgiveness for myself.
What else helped?
Realizing I’m not that same scared child anymore. That’s why it’s so crucial for people to find their voice. By talking about it, we create a whole different scenario. It happens to so many people. And I felt so alone.
You’ve been on Oprah, done media—do people recognize you?
At first, all the time. Once I was in Macy’s with a friend, and this guy turned around and looked and said, “Aren’t you that girl?” I didn’t know how to react. In that moment, I thought, “I could deny who I am.” But instead I squared my shoulders and said, “Yes. Yes, I am.” He leaned over and tapped his wife, who’d been looking at something else, and said, “Look, honey, it’s that girl.” She turned around and looked at me, and she just started crying, and she gave me a hug and she said, “I am so glad you’re home.” That’s when it dawned on me: This affects so many more people than just me.
What gave you the courage to say yes?
I have no idea. It’s surprising what strength lies inside each and every one of us—and you never know until that moment. I realized later that if I denied myself, I’d be dismissing everything I’d been through, all the people who stood behind me, and all the people who still need to find their voice. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I made a very powerful decision.
If I were in prison for life with no parole, I think I’d lose all sense of who I was. You handled it with a lot of grace.
But see, that was the thing—I didn’t know who I was before I went to prison. So I discovered in there who I truly was. And I think that is what I’m proudest of: I know who I am. I always tell people, “There are three things I hope you find in prison: God, forgiveness, and yourself. And you won’t have one without the other two. You can’t forgive without God’s presence in your life, and you can’t forgive yourself if you don’t know who you are.
What role did religion play in your life?
Not much of one. We went to church every once in a while—you know, my mom would get on a roll, and we’d go, but that would only last about a month. I didn’t have a strong belief in God because I had asked God to make this stop—and it didn’t. My life was such hell that I really couldn’t believe in any saving grace.
Your first act when you got out was to buy chewing gum, and you write about the blur of choices you faced when you were released. Have you gotten used to it?
I don’t even want to tell you how long I debated on this color of lip gloss. But it’s getting better. The more decisions I make, the more I trust myself.
