Talk to Me Page 18

  It’s customary in Japan to bring a token of respect to the people you visit, even something small. We brought things like Arizona Wild West Sheriff ’s badges and Arizona trivia books, and they received them as though they were the Hope Diamond. We received from them origami cranes and frogs, candles, etc., and we appreciated the sentiment. We also have a new admiration for bowing to pay respect to those around you.

  Our hotel room overlooked the Tokyo Tower, and it was marvellous. We got a chance to see the sun turn red, just like on the Japanese f lag—a breathtaking sight. People who can travel should see as much of the world as possible. It changes how you think and how you see others. In fact, my trip reinforced for me that we are all given the chance to be feeling beings, and when we exercise that part of ourselves, there are no barriers between us. Language barriers are not so hard to overcome in life or death, as long as you remain open.

  Years later I asked Joe, ‘What would the world be like if everyone believed in life after death—if everyone was open to communication?’

  While in Japan we noticed most people were Buddhist or believed in honouring their ancestors, knowing that spirits remain around us. They were not smug or arrogant. It felt so light there, so accepting. Then I came home and the energy was so different. I wouldn’t have known this if I had never gone there.

  In some areas in the world people just want to be right or win an argument. They have no belief system (not an internal one anyway), an inner navigation system, if you will, or an unbreakable spiritual connection to one another—and that’s a crying shame. Each and every country exudes a different sort of energy, and unfortunately we seem to lack cohesion in our country. Our energy is a little scattered; nobody seems to fully agree on anything.

  After 9/11 there was a brief time when we stood united behind our f lag. I think we were all proud to be Americans; we were secure in our unity and the American spirit. Now, we have people who hide behind religion and picket our soldiers’ funerals, the same soldiers who fight for our freedom. It’s so despicable. I never thought I’d see freedom so abused, but it happens on a daily basis.

  I hope for more for my children’s generation—that there will be less hate in the world and fewer people to judge them.

  I always tell my kids that it’s healthier to be around people who will allow you to be true to yourself, not individuals who will try to make you into another version of themselves. Our girls ‘get it’, and they embrace being interesting kids. What they learned in Japan will always stay with them. The experience has definitely made us all better people.

  9

  Bad acts

  People often ask me, ‘How many murder victims have you brought through?’

  I don’t know the answer to that question, sadly. I lost track a long time ago. That sad fact really struck me after one of my events where I brought through a woman’s young daughter who had been killed by a family member. I had to ask the mother if the male cousin had killed himself, because the case sounded like another reading I did that was practically identical. In this case, though, the killer didn’t commit suicide. He was in jail, and that was the only detail that let me know I hadn’t read this woman before.

  I still don’t know how people who take someone’s life selfishly can live with themselves. That would torment me every day of my life. I’m sure for those who kill and find their conscience through Jesus while in jail, the memory of their crime must eat them up from the inside out, as they realise the enormity of their actions. At least I hope so. I tend to sympathise with the victim, not the perpetrator. I never understand people who are more concerned with the criminal’s feelings rather than the victim and their family. I’m not one of those people.

  I think we’ve become desensitised to murder through movies and television, because we see it all the time. So I decided to share the stories of the real people who lose their life in this way, so that you never forget them. This chapter is an effort to open people’s eyes to murder victims, so that you recognise that they, like you, had a pulse; they had a life, and they all matter to someone.

  I believe we need harsher laws and penalties and more enforcement of them, but that’s a topic for another day.

  It’s hard to explain to somebody why people kill . . . there are different motives behind taking a life, whether it be possessiveness, hate, war, money—whatever the reason, they all result in death, which leads to a memorial, mourners, flowers and a finality that leaves loved ones asking themselves, ‘Why him?’ or ‘Why her?’ and sometimes, ‘Why my baby?’

  A MURDERED BROTHER SPEAKS OUT

  I meet many people who have lost a family member or friend to murder, and, yes, it takes a toll on me. How can it not?

  I was in Phoenix, Arizona, at one of my events, and I met a young man named Justin Privett, who wanted to hear from his brother who had been murdered. Justin looked like the kind of young man who doesn’t enter arenas like mine often, but he seemed willing and eager, so I was up to the challenge. He also looked like, under other circumstances, he would be a great deal of fun to know personally.

  My first impression of Justin was that he was a very strong person who was in a lot of pain—pain that he was trying to both understand and attempt to rid himself of. It’s always hard reading a young person, because sometimes information comes through that has to be confirmed by an older generation. I was hoping his guard wouldn’t be up, because that makes my job somewhat harder. When a person is read, they’re already a little like a deer in the headlights because their grief is causing them stress, and it makes it harder for them to process the information I’m giving them in the reading.

  When Jereme came through, he was cool and edgy with a wicked sense of humour.

  Justin was actually more receptive than I had expected, and he seemed to ‘get it’ more than most, because he knows his brother’s energy and knew this was his best friend in the room. He appeared to be able to sense Jereme, too, because they were so close.

  The reading became more complicated when I said, ‘Your brother lets you know he’s around by messing with wires and electronics.’ Just then the fire alarm and lights started f lashing in the auditorium, so I had to continue trying to concentrate on the messages with a few minor distractions. The audience understandably gasped, and a couple of people actually exited the room. I thought that was sort of amusing, but they did come back when they were less spooked.

  JUSTIN’S STORY

  I first heard of Allison DuBois through a mutual friend, who is a prosecuting attorney.

  This friend also happened to be the prosecutor on the murder case of my brother, Jereme Lee Privett. Allison came up in a discussion I had with my friend after a status conference in downtown Phoenix regarding my brother’s murder. We were in the hallway of the courthouse discussing upcoming court dates and so on, when she mentioned Allison and the story about the jury that was deliberating for a long time (this not being good for the prosecution). She told me about Allison’s predicting when the jury would return a verdict. I jokingly said, ‘Call your friend and ask her the outcome of my brother’s trial, so we’ll know the result without all the worry and stress!’

  My Aunt Thel (Thelma Vivian) called me in early January 2010 to tell me that she had bought two tickets to an Allison DuBois conference for that month, and she asked me if I felt up to going with her. She later admitted she had been nervous about asking me to go with her, not knowing how I felt about this ‘sort of thing’. I told her I’d love to go with her, as we had both lost a number of people close to us lately and so I thought it would be very interesting to see if any of them came through. (My mother, Bonnie, passed in March of 2007. She was Thelma’s second sister to die young.)

  We arrived early, hoping to get ahead in line and be seated close to the stage. We were both surprised at the small personal setting that the conference provided. By my count, there were about 200 people in attendance. The first four rows were sectioned off for ‘VIP ticket holders’ by a red velvet ro
pe; Thelma and I sat two rows behind that.

  It didn’t take long for Allison to jump right in and start her thing. She began with a witty introduction and described her ability and how she uses it. Inside, I was a little bummed, thinking that if this lady starts doing these awesome family readings, then only the VIP people were going to get the hook-up. I was wrong. As it turned out, I was the first audience member on stage.

  I was shocked to be the first person selected to talk to Allison and ‘make a connection’ with a loved one. As a sceptic, having never done this before, I was a little nervous. Not because of the crowd, or my eyes already welling up with emotion, but because I didn’t know what to expect.

  We introduced ourselves by first name and I took a seat next to Allison. She asked the relation of the person I wanted to contact. I responded, ‘Brother.’ There was a small table between us covered with about 30 neatly arranged pencils, a yellow legal pad and a box of tissues. Allison picked up the paper and a pencil and wrote down my first name and the word ‘brother’. She then said, ‘Give me a few seconds,’ as she sat focused on the pad of paper and a square box she was tracing over again and again. Allison gave a little chuckle with a smile and said, ‘I’ve got him.’

  I am four and a half years older than my brother and we were our mum’s only two children. We grew up together very, very closely, always sticking together, never being separated from each other for more than a couple of days, except during my four years in the US Navy. This continued all the way through adulthood—we shared apartments together, owned a business together, had a boat together . . . like I said, very, very close. We even had a regular ‘40 Night’ once a week on my porch, where we would just sit outside, smoke cigarettes and drink 40-ounce beers, discussing the week, friends, girls, business, all of the fragments that construct a life.

  After she chuckled, Allison said, over and over, ‘Bro the man, bro the man . . . He keeps saying, “Bro the man.”’ Jereme’s name for me on his mobile phone was ‘Brodaman’. No one knew that.

  Next, she pointed out three tattoos that I got in memory of my brother which he thought were awesome. None were visible on me; they were covered by my clothes. On my left rib cage I have the same tattoo as my brother: the Privett family crest. Seth Rowan, a close family friend, did the artwork for the tattoo on Jereme on one of our trips to Oregon shortly before he died. I got that same tattoo, done by the same hands, months after my brother passed away. It’s very special to me. The second tattoo is a large ‘OE’ (old English) gangster-style tattoo across my stomach that reads ‘brother’. The third is an old cowboy-type ‘Wanted’ scroll on my right rib cage that simply says ‘in loving memory’ with my brother’s full name and a big ‘83’ for his birth year. There’s no way she could’ve known about these tattoos . . . she nailed this on the head. Pretty cool.

  The third thing Allison said was that she was being showed how he died. She pointed to the correct side of the back of her head, tapping it, and said, ‘He keeps repeating, “Cheap shot, cheap shot . . . 100 per cent accurate.”’ Then, not even knowing the situation, she told me that Jereme said he could hear me talking to him when he was on the ground . . . This was incredible because she could not have known that I was there, nor that I was digging blood from his ears and telling him how much I loved him as he lay dying.

  Allison said all this in just the first 30 to 45 seconds. She read me for over eight minutes. A lot of what she said was personal, so I choose to keep it to myself. I’m sure you can understand that.

  Allison then stated that my brother could get my attention by messing with electronics. The next thing you know, the fire alarm went off . . . loud! I had a handheld microphone, she was wired up, and no one could hear us now with this alarm going off, not to mention the flashing lights. Allison looked at me, told me that this was memorable and asked, ‘You know that’s Jereme, right?’ To which I nodded ‘yes’ with big tears in my eyes. The audible alarm shut off within a couple of minutes and we moved on through the reading with the bright warning lights from the fire system still blinking.

  A number of other pertinent things were communicated to me by Allison, all the way down to the unique music I selected for my brother’s wake—it was all punk music. After all, he was young. Now we’ve all heard ‘Amazing Grace’ at these occasions . . . so I picked music from Transplants, Pennywise and Offspring. He was 25 years old—it fit.

  After the many cool things Allison brought up from Jereme, it was time to move on. She asked if I had any questions for her. ‘I’ve got a million!’ I replied. ‘But I’ll limit it to one, ’cos there are a lot of people here that want to meet you.’

  So I asked about my brother’s remains and what he wanted me to do with them. Allison smiled. After a second or two, she made it clear that my brother was saying this jokingly—he was showing her an image of me driving a car at high speed on the freeway and dumping his ashes all over the other cars! Totally what I would say if I was the stiff. That’s my brother!

  I stepped off stage and as soon as I hit the bottom step, the emergency lights shut off. So frickin’ weird! Now I pop light bulbs everywhere I go. It kind of sucks, but I know it’s because my brother’s beside me and always will be . . . a small price to pay for his company.

  JUSTIN’S UPDATE

  As a footnote, Justin later let me know that the person responsible for his brother’s death was indeed convicted of first-degree murder. It’s a small measure of justice for his family that will hopefully save someone else’s loved one by taking a criminal off the street.

  THE PAIN OF A MISS ING CHILD

  I get to meet a lot of people when I’m touring. It’s one of the perks of my job. Some events are heavier than others, depending on the cause of death and the age of the victims, and the energy of my audience varies, depending on what city I’m in.

  During my meet-and-greet at an event in San Diego, California, in June 2010 I met a family of four women who all wore T-shirts with a picture of a little girl on them and the word ‘Missing’. The mother, Melissa, explained that her ten-year-old daughter, Lindsey, had disappeared almost a year ago, and they had no answers. Their pain was palpable and their anguish was visible in their eyes. I have a little girl the same age as Lindsey, and putting myself in their shoes, I would do anything for answers, too.

  I went on the stage, and this family was in the front row. I was absolutely going to do whatever I could to help them move forward one day at a time. I brought Lindsey’s aunt up on stage and made sure they wanted to hear whatever I picked up on, because you never know what will come through. She nodded in affirmation, so I put my pen to my paper and began to scribble.

  I began sensing the man who took Lindsey, and a young female energy was giving me the information that saddened me. As I suspected, it was their Lindsey. I felt like she was immediately removed from the scene in his truck, and I did not feel she was alive any longer.

  Lindsey showed me some details involved in her crime that I passed onto the family for the police. The little girl said to assure her mum that the detectives and the officers took her abduction very seriously, so much so that sometimes they can’t sleep at night because they’re wondering where she is, so she was in good hands with them. Lindsey talked about how loved she felt by her family and shared other details. She said her mum wore something around her neck for her, and Melissa confirmed this. She then said she wanted to go to Disneyland. The family gasped because they were debating whether or not to go the next day. Melissa told me she hadn’t wanted to go because her daughter never got the opportunity. I replied, ‘Well, she wants you to take her. She says she’ll go with you tomorrow, that you can go together.’

  I concluded the reading by saying, ‘I’m going to end my connection with her now and send her with you.’ But then, as I began my next reading, I had to stop. ‘Um . . . Lindsey’s singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” in my head, so that’s the song that will let you know she’s around you.’ I then shifted my energy back
to the new reading.

  Lindsey’s mum left the auditorium to collect herself. When she came back she said, ‘I don’t mean to interrupt, but when I was in the lobby just now “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” came on over the speakers. I thought I was going crazy, but there it was.’

  I responded, ‘Lindsey’s letting you know she’s really here beside you, and in a very good place.’

  That was a truly touching moment for everyone there that night. There were not too many dry eyes in the house, including mine.

  LINDSEY’S GREAT-AUNT’S STORY

  My great-niece, Lindsey Baum, was a sweet and vivacious ten-year-old at the time of her disappearance on the evening of 26 June 2009, from McCleary, Washington, a small town of only 1400 people. She was walking home from a friend’s house a short distance from her own home when she vanished without a trace. On 7 July 2010, we celebrated another of Lindsey’s birthdays without her. This would have been her twelfth birthday.

  Ten long and agonising months after her disappearance, there were still no solid clues leading us to her. Something needed to happen, and so in our quest for answers about her disappearance and to find ‘Our angel, Lindsey’ we sought out the help of renowned medium Allison DuBois.

  We first checked Allison’s website for information about contacting her and found out that she would be in San Diego, California, on 2 June, as part of her 2010 Family Connections Tour. We promptly purchased VIP tickets for the seminar which allowed us to attend a pre-event meet-and-greet with Allison. Four of us, including Lindsey’s mother, Melissa Baum, flew from Seattle, Washington, to San Diego, for the chance to see and possibly capture the attention and ear of Allison.