The killing of Jamie Dean

[unhappycamper]

Jamie Dean, Dec. 17, 2006.


The killing of Jamie Dean
By Julia Dahl
Sept. 5, 2007

Jamie Dean had been holed up in his childhood home for six hours when the tear gas canisters came crashing through the windows. It was a little after 4 a.m., the day after Christmas 2006, and Sgt. James Emerick Dean, 29, formerly of the 25th Infantry Division, knew he was surrounded. The white farmhouse was tucked beside a grove of trees in Leonardtown, a rural hamlet in southern Maryland, where Dean's family once raised tobacco. Now, from behind the blinds, Dean could see cops with flashlights creeping around his backyard. He could see police cars on the dirt road outside the house. He could hear the sirens and the shouting and the buzz of the police radios.

It had been a month since Dean had gotten word he'd have to go back to war. He had already served a year in Afghanistan. He'd done and seen things over there he couldn't talk about, and now they were sending him to Iraq. Like tens of thousands of soldiers fighting the post-9/11 wars, Dean was being treated by the Department of Veterans Affairs for post-traumatic stress disorder -- but the Army didn't know that because the Army and the V.A. don't typically share medical records.

Before joining the Army, Dean was a merry prankster with a contagious smile. But the terror he felt clearing caves in Afghanistan followed him home to Maryland, and despite having a loving family, a new wife and a good job, when Dean got called back up, he began to crack. On Christmas night, he snapped. The outcome would be tragic. The Maryland State Police would be cited for flawed and overly aggressive military tactics. And the whole sorry state of America's need for fighters in Iraq would be exposed.

Christmas Day began with a fight between Dean and his wife, Muriel Dean. It was about his drinking again. Ever since he had received the notice he was being shipped to Iraq, it had gotten heavier and heavier. Late in the afternoon, Jamie fled for Toots, the bar in Hollywood, Md., where he and Muriel had met a year before. The outgoing Muriel, who worked in the personnel department of a computer company, adored her husband. But she was frustrated and angry. She called Jamie at the bar and he came storming home.

"If you wanna be at the bar, be at the bar," she told him. "But if you're gonna get drunk tonight, don't come home." Jamie threw a box of wine onto the kitchen floor and started beating the cupboards with his fists. Glasses shattered and shards fell to the floor. Muriel was scared; she'd never seen him like this before. She went into the bedroom and started putting clothes into a bag to leave for the night. If you leave, Jamie told her, "I'm going to burn the fucking house down." He went out back and got a gas can and lighter. When he came back, Muriel managed to get the gas away from him. "Why would you wanna burn something down we've worked so hard for?" she asked. "You don't know how much I love you," Jamie said, standing in the doorway. "The next time you see me I'll be in a body bag."

Dean fled the house and drove his Chevy Silverado eight miles to his family farm. His father, Joey, lived there alone -- he and Jamie's mother, Elaine, had separated while Dean was in Afghanistan -- but his father wasn't home. Dean started drinking again. He took a shotgun from one of the gun cabinets in the back of the house, and called his mom's house. His sister Kelly, an Air Force medic who has served in Germany and Iraq, answered the phone. To her, Dean didn't sound like himself. He was agitated and then his voice got scarily calm. "I just want to go home," Dean told her over the phone. "Everything will be easier then."


Rest of article at: http://www.salon.com/news/feature/2007/09/05/james_dean/index.html

[w8liftinglady]

1. How many more before this nightmare is over?