Thomas Bradford’s little league games would sometimes get canceled due to the outfields being overgrown– dandelions cause allergies, and distract the children– and even a half-inch of rain would be the demise of his soccer games. Thomas, who always preferred ‘Thomas’ to any other iteration of the name, graduated from St. Michael’s Catholic– the all-boys Franciscan school in the leafy Dartwood suburb of Hartford, Connecticut opened in 1883– before controversially attending Penn, rather than his mother and father’s alma mater, Yale. “Son, you are going to study in my field anyway, why not just stay close to home?”his father, John Bradford, would ask him. He obtained his PhD in Psychology from Yale in 1954, the same year he met Helen Barsham, Thomas’ mother– Helen kept the last name Barsham because of her status of merely being a Barsham, the extravagantly wealthy family who traces their roots back to Lord Charles Barsham of County Dorset, in England– and after Helen graduated with a degree in Art, the couple settled in Dartwood, the most affluent suburb of Hartford.
“I feel as if I practically go there,” Thomas would always reply. John, along with his research into adolescent psychology and various philanthropic endeavors, was a professor at Yale, and though never clearly admitted, is a member of the Skull and Bones Society. But Thomas always motivated himself to step out of the shadows of his parents, as impossible as it seemed. He wanted to at least enhance the Bradford and Barsham names, and prove that he could make the most of the luxury he grew up in. Always aware of the privilege he had– although, being unaware of one’s wealth when growing up in Dartwood would be hard– it, to the pride of his parents, instilled a humility in the young Thomas that his parents believed must be earned. John and Helen told the young Thomas that, “it’s good to give more than you receive when you have more than you need.”
Admiring his son’s individuality, and after encouragement from Helen to let Thomas go on his own route in life, John was eventually more excited than nervous for Thomas’ time in Philadelphia. After Thomas obtained his bachelor’s from Penn, he went to Cornell, where he, like his father, became a PhD in Psychology. Thomas’ thesis was on people who are “early offenders,” or who are convicted of felony charges before or at the age of seventeen, and how intensive psychological and psychiatric care is needed for younger offenders. Thomas wrote that with the brain developing through a person’s teens and into their twenties, making sure that the proper psychological development is instilled while a person is serving time during these stages of late-brain development will help lower the risk of reoffending.
Thomas grew into a handsome, brunette and full-eyebrowed forensic psychologist, and had a trustworthy countenance with seemingly permanently relaxed shoulders that bookended his slender, five-foot ten frame. After his years at Cornell, the 26-year-old made a big, and rather surprising move to Missouri. He did a two year residency at the University of Missouri, and then began working within the Psychological Development Department of the Missouri State Department of Corrections. There, he worked in various aspects including in-patient sessions at the penitentiaries, juvenile outreach, and psychiatric referrals. However, after maintaining a high reputation, and not burning out from working in corrections like most others in the field at that level do, Thomas was appointed to serve on the board of forensic psychologists that assess alleged criminals before they go to trial, or during the trial itself. Thomas, only 34 at the time, was the youngest of his peers, but his educational past, name, and swift rise in the field was matched with an undoubtedly humble nature, soft-spoken, and deep-thinking.
***
On October 12, 2003, 28-year-old Elroy ‘Tre’ Stephens III shot and killed his girlfriend Tamia Howard while their two sons slept in the next room. Tre then got in his car, picked up 17-year-old Day’Ron Hayes from his house down the street, and the two drove into the 55th Street block of the Greenview neighborhood in St. Louis, Missouri, shooting endless rounds out of both front windows towards anyone who was outside. After a short-lived police chase down Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, the two crashed into the empty storefront of what used to be the Pickens’ Food Mart, going over forty miles per hour. Tre broke his left foot, right arm and his collarbone in the crash. Day’Ron, who wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, compounded by the passenger side’s lack of an airbag, died on impact.
In the hospital, and in his initial hearings, Tre remained almost completely still, rarely showing any outward emotion. His brown eyes maintained a cold stare, always looking forward but slightly downward. When he spoke, he showed no remorse or sadness. The news cycle inevitably picked up the story, and although Tre was not convicted of any crime, nor had his trial even begun, the verdict was a certainty, and it was portrayed as such in the media. Tre admitted his guilt from the outset, almost boastfully at that. In his first official hearing, he said, “She snitch, and I had to do what I had to do. Day’Ron my lil day one, so he rode wit me. I’m sorry he had to go like that, but he woulda understood.”
On October 7th, five days before the murders, Tre was robbed and had his car stolen in front of him while he was at Culver Park with his sons, Elroy and Donte. The robbers were Five Five Disciples, a Gangster Disciples outfit that had territory between the 55th and 59th blocks of Greenview St. in Northwest St. Louis. Tre was the leader of the Greenview Gangster Crips, the ‘GGs,’ and he lived in the heart of GG territory on the corner of 63rd St. and Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. Tre was robbed in neutral territory, though, and this convinced him that someone tipped off his location. His car, a 2002 Dodge Charger SRT, had over $15k cash and a half-pound of cocaine in it, and Tre was very diligent on not having too much in his car unless he really had to wait to drop it off somewhere, and Tre really wanted to take his sons to the park.
Tamia Shepard, Elroy and Donte’s mother, was in a relationship with a member of the Five Five’s before the relationship ended when the man went to prison for an aggravated robbery. Throughout their relationship, Tre always accused Tamia of interacting with Five Five’s, and never wanted to trust her, but kept her as close as possible once Elroy was born. After a few days of searching and deciphering who gave him up to the Five Five’s, Tre correctly deduced that it was Tamia. Tamia knew that Tre would not fight back with their sons nearby. Tre also found $3,000 in Tamia’s closet a few days after the robbery, which was her cut of the deal, but he left it there.
So, early on the morning of the 12th, Tre got his revenge. Before his family awoke, Tre took his Glock Nine, with its silencer attached, and shot Tamia four times in the head. The attack did not wake his sons. Then, he called Day’Ron, who was waiting by his phone. Day’Ron was completely unaware that Tre had killed Tamia, only knowing the two of them were going into Five Five territory that morning to do some robberies and get back what was stolen from Tre. But in the car, Tre told Day’Ron to shoot anybody and everybody he saw in Five Five territory– a demand that the 17-year-old happily followed.
Tre’s lawyers argued that Tre was not mentally fit to stand trial, as he “clearly suffers” from major psychotic symptoms that prevented him knowing right and wrong, and the mental disorder defense was to be their only defense. And so, on November 15th, Tre Stephens’ mental analysis, and thus his interactions with Dr. Thomas Bradford, began.
***
“Shit, man c’mon,” Tre said to Thomas. “We ain’t have no organized shit or nothin. No fields to play on. You had to, like, have shit to do sports and all that. And if, like, a nigga had a baseball bat or some shit, a nigga wasn’t playin baseball wit it,” Tre continued and chuckled a bit in his chair, sitting eerily profound across from Thomas. “A few niggas play ball at the park on Irvine but like, you get to that point and you can’t play no more.”
Thomas looked at Tre and tilted his head a bit as he pondered this, and a look of slight confusion took over his brow. “Well,” he finally said after a few seconds of silence, “why, though?”
And after only but a second, Tre shrugged and said, “Niggas gotta step off the porch, bro.”
This confused Thomas even more. His bushy eyebrows scrunched together, and he stuttered a bit as he asked, “Wha-… I-… What do you mean by that?”
“Step off the porch. Once you step off the porch, you in the street. And then you workin in the street.”
Thomas sat up. “Ah, yes. Ok.”
Thomas paused and looked at Tre, who seemed to be looking at Thomas’ left arm, or perhaps beyond it, or at nothing. Tre looked unamused, his big lips were pursed together, and he smacked them when he talked in his short and choppy sentences. Thomas was sitting with a pen and paper in his lap, but he put them down and rested his hands below the table on his lap. He leaned down just a bit and said, “Tre, if you’re okay with it, I’d like for you to tell me more about–,” and he paused.
“Everything?” Tre asked as he looked Thomas in the eyes for the first time.
“Well, I suppose so, yes.”
“Well, shit bro. I’m a open book right now. Ain’t nothin to hide over here,” Tre said as he slightly shook his head and licked his lips.
Thomas let out a long exhale and asked, “Okay, well, can you tell me when this all started?”
Tre chuckled. “Hmph. Shit, with my Pops I guess. He started the GGs back in the 70s or 80s or somethin. And, you know, I mean, shit. I mean, niggas ain’t got nothin but theyselves out there, bro. So like, you gotta do whatever to make it, survive. I ain’t never cared. I know who I got by me. Pops knew too, so, yeah.”
Thomas took another deep breath and looked at Tre, who was now looking at the corner of the room. “Can you tell me more about how all of this felt growing up?”
“Hmph. I ain’t ever grow up. It all hit like, pow, like, ‘aight nigga, you grown.’ Pops been locked up since I was nine or ten or somethin. So like, I was grown after that. Had to do what I had to do after that. Like, after that I was cool with it all, though. Like, I knew, you feel me? This my life and I’m happy bout it.”
Thomas, for the first time in a long time, showed his reaction in his whole face. The word ‘happy’ startled him and his chin tucked down and his eyes shut. “Can–… can um–…,” he stammered. “Can you elaborate on the word, ‘happy,’ Tre?”
Tre’s right ear touched his right shoulder, he looked up at the ceiling, and he swayed slightly as he thought about this. He had never thought about what the word truly meant to him, or what it meant at all.
“Yeah, like,” and then he paused. After a few seconds, Tre sat up straight, sat his cuffed wrists on the table, and looked Thomas in the eyes again.
“Look,” Tre began. “I know, like, why you talkin to me. I know what my lawyers said, all that. But I ain’t no crazy, insane, nigga. I ain’t. And, like, I love my kids, and I miss them for real, for real. But I ain’t insane. What they momma did can’t fly. Snitches die. And, like, yeah. I guess I am happy. I got that shit over wit. That baggage, you know? I ain’t got nothin to worry about. Don’t care, really.”
Thomas took a gulp of nothing and exhaled through his nose. He tried to look Tre in the eyes, but Tre was looking down at his hands. “Tre,” he said. “I just need to know more. If that’s okay with you.”
“Bro, like,” Tre replied quickly, but calmly. “It’s fine. I don’t care. Ask me anything.”
“I just,” Thomas said with a confused inflection. “What was going through your head, then?”
“Like when I did it all?”
After a pause, Thomas replied quietly, “Yes, that morning.”
“Felt fine, really. I had to do what I had to do.”
“But, Tre,” Thomas said a bit louder. “What does that even mean to you? What does it really mean? They were your family.”
And within a second, and with an unheard sternness, Tre said, “They momma a snitch. I already knew I ain’t shoulda trusted her but cus of the kids, I did. I let my fuckin guard down. So, like, yeah bro. I ain’t never lettin my guard down again.”
Once again, Thomas was rather startled. He took a few more deep breaths, thinking with a concerted effort about how to phrase his response. And amongst his shaken thoughts, he unknowingly spat out the words, “your children.”
Tre let out a quick exhale through his nose and shook his head. He scratched his right wrist, right by the cuff. Tre looked up at the ceiling, and then back to Thomas.
“Look, bro,” he began. “This is my life. I ain’t have no dad, so I wasn’t gone be no good dad for the boys anyway. I spent more time with my pops in jail than free in the streets. Like, what the fuck is that? I’m 28, and I been locked up 13 years of them. Like, c’mon man. Shit, man. This is my life. This is my life and I almost died cus of her? Got all that shit taken from me? Cus of Tamia? Can’t have that. Not me. Not Tre. I did all that time in jail just to let my guard down on the outside? Nah, bro. I did what I had to do. I know for fuckin sure my sons woulda been just like me and her. Either a gangbanger like they pops– either a GG Crip, or a fuckin snitch like they momma.”
Thomas just sat there. He didn’t move, and he didn’t say anything for at least thirty seconds. He just sat there thinking. He sat there thinking sad things. He found himself feeling bad for everyone and everything around him. He felt awful for the kids, and he thought that no one should have to be born into that situation, with parents like theirs. He felt bad for Tamia, but was confused as to why she would put her own kids into that kind of danger. Surely she had to have known– surely. But then he thought harder about what Tre finished with. He thought that, if this had not happened, that both sons were still probably doomed. And then, he even felt bad for Tre, because he grew up just like his sons did, and it led him to not only do this, but believe that it was the right thing to do. Guilt was building up inside of Thomas, because a new perspective, a true and tortuous perspective on his own life set in. And with this, Thomas wanted only for Tre to speak more. He asked him in a somber tone, “and you feel this way wholeheartedly?”
Tre shook his head again and said, “yeah, bro. Like, shit. My pops doin life right now for murder. My pops a GG Crip. I bet your pops ain’t no Crip.” Tre looked at Thomas, but Thomas averted his gaze to his pad, sitting without any writing on it, on the table. He shut his eyes for a second and took a breath. “No,” he said softly.
“It’s a fuckin jungle out there man– like the fuckin frontier or some shit. You are what you are. And you are what you are, wherever the fuck you at. And we in the jungle, man. We in the wild west. And you can’t hate a cowboy for bein in the wild west. I’m not crazy. I’m not no fuckin psycho. I’m John Wayne, fuckin Clint Eastwood, bro.”
Almost in a tone of exasperation, Thomas said, “Wha–… What? What do you mean? I–…”
And Tre interrupted, “Look, bro. Like, you got a boy in fuckin Texas or some shit, his pops is a cowboy, and his pops was a cowboy, and his brothers and uncles, too. You put him around, like, horses, saddles, and barns and shit. Is that boy gonna be a fuckin opera singer? C’mon bro, it’s the wild west.”
A short silence sat in the room for a few moments. Both men sat up in their chairs and looked each other in the eyes. But Thomas quickly looked back to his pad, and then softly said, “okay.”
“Fuckin, like, two Chinese people don’t give birth to, like, a Brazilian kid. And two niggas from Greenview St. Louis don’t give birth to politicians and surgeons.”
There was another pause before Thomas nodded his head slightly and let another, “okay.”
“You know,” Tre said. “You and I got a lot alike, bro.”
“Hm?” replied Thomas.
“Like, we got a lot in common.”
Thomas blinked his eyes a few times, looked up at Tre and asked, confused, “and what is that?”
Calmly, and with more assurance than he had ever spoken with, Tre replied, “We both ended up exactly how we supposed to.”
