chance to confront the people who took my dad's life but I've dreaded being in the ... Every happy moment in my life has
Victim Impact Statement by Kimberlyn Woodard Daughter of Eugene Mallove I have both dreamed of and dreaded this day. I dreamed I’d get the chance to confront the people who took my dad’s life but I’ve dreaded being in the same room with anyone who could do such a thing. It is virtually impossible to express in words the pain I’ve gone through for the past 8 years and the pain I will continue to experience for the rest of my life as a result of this man's actions and the outcome of this trial. When people say they have a “broken heart,” I understand what they mean now. I experience a physical pain when I think of the life my dad lost on May 14, 2004.
I lie in bed awake most nights imagining what my dad’s final moments were like. The images of the horror of his beating are nightmares in my mind that replay over and over and over. Only it’s not a nightmare. It’s real. I live in a nightmare.
When my dad was murdered, he had just met his first grandchild. My dad only got to meet Matthew once, when he was 1 week old. He was such a proud grandpa, taking videos of Matthew doing nothing but sleeping and just beaming with pride. The birth of Matthew was the happiest time in my life but it immediately turned into the worst
when I was startled awake by my mom's phone call the morning of May 15, 2004. No one ever expects to hear the words, “Kim…..Something too terrible to speak of has happened…Your father has been murdered. " The cries that came from me that day and in the days/months to come were the deepest, most heartfelt sobs I’ve ever experienced. The cries were ones that don’t make you feel better because just when you catch your breath, you realize the greatest sadness is still there and you will never be able to escape it. It is so deeply painful to lose someone you love and it adds a new dimension of hurt when it happens so violently; to know that this person didn’t care one ounce about my dad’s life; thought he was so worthless that even when he begged for help, he showed no mercy.
Every happy moment in my life has a black cloud hanging over it because my dad isn’t part of it. I cry in the car when I'm alone. Holidays, birthdays, father’s day, special moments our family celebrates…we’ve found a way to go on but there’s an emptiness in my heart and soul because I can’t share the things I want to with my dad. He should be here with us but he was robbed of the rest of his life and we were robbed of a life with him in it.
My husband and I have kept most of the details of my dad’s death from
our children because they are too horrifying even for us as adults to comprehend. But as they’ve gotten older, they’ve started to ask questions. Recently, our oldest child, Matthew, asked “Mom, what happened to the people who killed Grandpa Gene?” When I told him that one of them is going to jail for 16 years, his response was “I thought when a person killed someone, they went to jail for the rest of their lives.” So did I, Matthew. So did I. I used to wonder how I'd go on living when it was so painful to be alive? Now I'm faced with a new question: how do I come to grips with the fact that this person, who has no value for human life, is being given a slap on the wrist for murdering my dad?
I never expected to have what people call “closure,” even if the jury had been given the chance to find this man guilty. But I certainly never thought that I'd feel like I'd been the one given the punishment. But I have. Now, not only am I living with 8 years of unspeakable grief since his murder, but a life of not understanding how the state of Connecticut could let it go virtually unpunished.
My dad was the head of our home, the life of the party, the love of my mom’s life, the one who protected me, lifted me up and loved me unconditionally. In the end, nothing can change the course of events,
though I'd prayed this trial would help with my healing. Today, my heart is broken and the outcome of this trial has done nothing to repair it.
