On June 11th, Shanon Frank is scheduled to be sentenced. I was asked for a statement concerning how these actions had an "impact" on me. The following is my reply...
______________________
April 30, 2009
United States District Court Eastern District of Louisiana
Probation Office
Mr. *************
500 Poydras St. Room 505 New Orleans, LA 70130
RE: United States v. Shanon E. Frank Docket No. 08-196 “F”
Dear Mr. ******,
Thank you for your letter of April 28 and our preceding telephone conversation. Your letter issues an invitation for me to submit information concerning the impact that Mr. Frank’s offense had on me. (For the record, I am NOT seeking any financial restitution. Any restitution obtained should go to Susan P. Sharai.)
I don’t believe that any parent could sufficiently describe how the death of a relatively young child impacts their lives. How do you address the loss of a child, offspring, prodigy & student that you watched grow from and infant to a young adult? I’ll begin, but please have patience with my chronology, as this is very difficult to compile.
I watched as the doctor brought him into this world; held him and saw the look on his Mother’s face as she saw him for the very first time. I held him at an emergency room on more than one instance after he had developed an unexplained fever and was the recipient of a spinal tap. I literally felt his pain through my broken heart as I watched the huge orderly hold our little toddler bent in half like a willow switch as they inserted the needle to draw the fluid. Or after falling on a slippery floor and hitting his eyebrow on a window ledge. He actually broke out of the “Papoose Board” used to hold him down while the intern stitched the wound and I stood there crying like a baby.
I saw his fascination with Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles turn into songs and dances that he and his brother would perform for hours on end. I can still hear the unmistakable sound of him scaling the crib rails and landing on the carpet in his room; then, the sound of his diaper rustling as he made a beeline for our bedroom. He’d tiptoe best he could and get inches away from his Mom or I’s face and say, in that unforgettable cartoon character like whisper-voice, “Can I come sleep with you?” This scene was repeated almost every night until he finally grew old enough to sleep on his own.
I saw his intelligence and social skills blossom and saw him as he entered the educational career of a gifted and talented student. I saw a child that was able to drop all semblances of racism through being a member of distinguished classes at Hynes Elementary, Lusher Middle & Ben Franklin High School. He belonged to the best of the best and they all loved and respected each other. Upon graduation, he eschewed offers from other schools out of state and attended Louisiana State University at Baton Rouge. He majored in biochemistry and was in the honors program.
There is an immense debt of gratitude that I owe Pierce and his brother that bonded us in a way that no one else can possibly imagine. Almost nineteen years of sobriety and life as a result of the concern and love of John and Pierce. I actually owe them my life.
He was a communicator and mediator, as much as he was thrust into that role for us. He was a go between with his mother and me. I could always count on him to track down and get a message to his brother, Johnny, when I needed to talk to him. He was loved by all of his friends and classmates, from Louisiana to St. Petersburg, Florida, where he took shelter with his Mom for Katrina. While there, he endeared himself to the students at St. Petersburg High School and build friendships that would have lasted their lifetimes. There is a page on the social networking web site, Facebook.com that is totally dedicated to the “Loving Memory of Pierce Sharai”. (I might add that even Mr. Frank is listed as a member of the group. How ironic.) 477 people whose lives were touched by Pierce took the time to sign in and write about how they felt. From one word cries to multiple paragraph tributes to the friend and confidant that we all lost.
Browsing the photographs show a typical nineteen year old college student, full of brass and ambition. With an attitude that said “I’m bulletproof” and the perceived ability to take on the world, Pierce’s spirit and infectious charm had its way with everyone he came into contact with. From co-workers to freelance jazz musicians and tap dancers on French Quarter streets, Pierce could fit right in and draw a smile.
We play recreational paintball. Had it not been for Pierce, I’d have never gotten into it. I remember the excitement in his voice when he called and told me about the first time he’d played. That was in 2001. Over the years, we all became more and more involved in it. Pierce was responsible for bringing his brother, John, into the game. The three of us have travelled to events all around the South. Since 2003, I’ve been a partner in Gunfighter Paintball Games; a paintball scenario game production company. My close friend and partner, Woody Lovill and I, put on scripted games for players locally. Pierce learned the mechanics of the game by the numbers. He was our Head Referee and ran the logistics for every game so we could make sure that the games ran well on the field. He was one of the best in the business. He is woefully missed by all of our staff and the players. There will never be anyone to replace him. He was unique in what he did.
We also opened a paintball pro-shop in 2004. Pierce was there all the way, from moving in the fixtures to painting the racing stripes on the walls. Every day I walk into the store I think of him because of the faint red paint stain on the carpet by the door where he dripped paint when he stopped paying attention to what he was doing. He worked on markers (guns), especially his own. And he loved to play. He was a member of our paintball scenario team, The Hired Gunz; one of the oldest paintball scenario teams in the Deep South. Despite being a legacy member, he was never looked upon as such and was respected by opponents and peers alike. Since he has been gone, a great deal of the enthusiasm is gone from the game.
These seemingly material accomplishments are nothing compared to losing my hope. Susan and I were blessed with two sons. Each grew up in their own manner and each took their separate roads. The oldest, John, has chosen his path in life and is well on his way to a successful career, marriage and a family of his own. My pride in John’s ability to handle himself is exceeded only by my confidence that he will complete whatever task he sets out to do.
Pierce had aspirations that seemed cemented in his desire to succeed. He had told me at a younger age that he wanted to be a doctor. He refined that desire to a career as a neurosurgeon. We used to have a private joke in where he was to become a highly successful neurosurgeon with a big home and a pool with a cabana house. I would come and live in the cabana house. We would toss that phrase back and forth, “Remember the pool house!”
But now I sit here with the realization that this is an exercise in futility. I sincerely believe that nothing I write in this document will have any effect on Mr. Shanon Frank’s sentence. Besides the obvious reasons, (His actions lead directly to the death of my son…), Mr. Frank is a drug addict. He has been arrested before this incident more than once, for either taking drugs or selling drugs. He knew, beyond any reasonable doubt that I could ever come across, that the heroin he sold to the group of young people that included my son, was of a deadly potency.
I’m sure that Maddie Prevost’s parents can relate when it comes to this entire group of bottom feeders that provided the poison that killed her and Pierce. The relationship here was that there were weeks between the deaths of these two children. Between using it themselves and seeing the results, they had to know what it was capable of. They just didn’t care. I make that same assumption that he is a drug addict again, so I call to mind the actions of a drug addict.
The actions of a drug addict, especially a heroin addict, revolve around doing whatever is necessary to obtain his drugs and doing those drugs. This cycle rises to repeat until the addict overdoses and dies or is incarcerated and severed from his supply. Had Mr. Frank not been caught selling or doing drugs, he would not be in the position he is in now. In my eyes, Mr. Frank is guilty of no less than murder. He sold the poison that killed my child. He knew what he was doing before AND when he did it. If he had sold a packet of strychnine and it would have killed someone, he would be guilty of murder. Why not mark this heroin as an instrument of death as would be any other poison or weapon? Simply because there was a bigger fish to catch? We’re told that we must understand that because there is no other choice.
Those of us who love Pierce continue to ask the question, “Why?” Why would such a brilliant young man with a future that shined so bright take such a risk? The thrill? The high? Peer pressure? You might as well blame Hollywood, for I don’t think we’ll ever have the answer to that, or many other questions. Pierce played in a game that, unfortunately, cost his life. Mr. Frank has travelled his merry way until arrested and put in jail. He even had the nerve to go onto Pierce’s memorial Facebook page and sign in; leaving a photo of him holding what looked like a gun! A shallow attempt at faux remorse, or someone with a sick sense of humor?
So because he helped get a “bigger fish”, the Justice Department recommends a few years off his sentence. We start at fifteen years. He gets three off for being a good citizen and ratting out his supplier. That puts him at twelve years. If he gets the standard 2-for-1 “good behavior” time credit, he’ll be out in six. (This may be wrong, but it is my perception.) With any luck, he’ll get out and do what any addict does upon getting out of jail; (Because you KNOW he’ll be able to score in prison. He won’t go his whole term without feeling the effects of his drug of choice.) He’ll hook up with the first old pal he can find that has any chance of scoring. He’ll score his smack and shoot it up as fast as he can. And I hope the first shot stops his heart. (NOTE: I have since found that Federal sentences are not subject to the same "good time" rule that state prisoners get.)
You asked how this all had an impact on me. In so many words, I am destroyed; saddened; I have nightmares; I cry for no obvious reason; anything I look at or hear that has anything to do with Pierce sends me into a crying jag or into a depressive episode; I hate Mr. Frank. I can’t even manage to feel pity for his parents. At least they have their son. Mine is gone. I am bitter and hate filled for the person who destroyed a huge part of my life, a huge hope for my life. I go through life suspicious of everyone who was involved with the incident.
So there it is. If I could put rage, pain, remorse, anguish, terror and several other words in a can, you’d have how this has impacted my life. I say “MY” life. But the lives this tragedy has been pressed upon go on and on. Family, friends and everyone whose existence Pierce Taylor Sharai touched. Thank you, Shanon Frank for destroying so many lives with one selfish action. Fifteen years isn’t enough.
Thank you for the opportunity to voice my concerns.
Sincerely yours,
John E Sharai, Sr.
____________________________________________________
The "victory" was hollow as Judge Feldman spoke the words that we had waited so long to hear. Mr. Shanon Frank would be going to the federal penitentiary for tweve long years. And with a little "icing on the cake", he added six years of supervised probation. 
I'm sure his little brown-eye did a twitch in his seat. His own attorney, whose name I'll refrain from posting here for fear of ruining my Blog totally, slapped his stack of files and made a disgusted comment concerning the Judge. I thought it funny that it bothered him so much. I could even bring a trace of pity to bear when Shanon's Father went to the lectern and proceeded to apologize to every person he could think of. I was beginning to feel a slight tinge of embarassment for him when he stepped over the line; at least in Judge Feldman's opinion.
