LIFE BEHIND BARS More than two decades after being convicted for murdering their wealthy parents, Lyle and Erik Menéndez search for “meaning beyond the tragedy.”
THE MENENDEZ BROTHERS
In the days leading up to the grisly 1989 shotgun slaying of his wealthy parents in the family’s sprawling Beverly Hills mansion, 21-year-old student Lyle Menéndez enjoyed a life of privilege that included a wallet full of credit cards and a new offcampus townhouse at New Jersey’s Princeton University. But these days, the 49-year-old convicted murderer can’t even finish a phone conversation without being told to get back to his prison cell. “I gotta go,” Menéndez says during a phone call as a rainstorm raged outside of Mule Creek State Prison in Ione, California. “We lost power, and I have to get back to my cell. I’m not sure the generator will come back on in the storm.”
Lyle Menéndez is used to being in the centre of storms. He and his younger brother, Erik, became infamous as the main characters in one of America’s most shocking double murders. On the evening of Aug. 20, 1989, the two burst into the den of their Beverly Hills home with 12-gauge shotguns and fatally shot their parents, Jose Menéndez, 45, an entertainment executive, and Kitty, 47, a stay-at-home mother, as they watched TV. In two high-profile trials, the first of which was broadcast live on Court TV in 1993, the
More than two decades after being convicted for murdering their wealthy parents, Lyle and Erik Menéndez search for ‘meaning beyond the tragedy’
brothers’ defence team claimed that Lyle and Erik, 18, killed their parents in self-defence after years of sexual abuse by their father that was ignored by their mother. The prosecution, meanwhile, pointed to a money motive and the lavish spending spree the brothers went on after the murders, buying expensive watches, cars and tennis lessons. “This was all about money,” insists former Los Angeles assistant district attorney Pamela Bozanich. “The only way they could go to trial and have any hope of not getting the death penalty was to make up an abuse excuse.” In 1996, the brothers were convicted of first-degree murder and sentenced to life without parole.
Now after nearly 27 years behind bars, Lyle contends that he still “has sleepless nights” over the murders. “This tragedy will always be the most astounding and regrettable thing that has ever happened in my life,” he says. “You can’t escape the memories, and I long ago stopped trying.” As for those who don’t buy the brothers’ abuse claims, he says, “There’s always going to be scepticism. But I think if someone isn’t believing it, it’s because they didn’t get to see the evidence.” Despite not being allowed to see or speak to his brother since 1996, Lyle’s connection to Erik, now 46 and in another California prison nearly 800km away, is as strong as ever. “I miss my brother every day,” he says. “We even play chess through the mail, but it’s a little slow.” Lyle, who like his brother is married, credits his wife of 13 years, a lawyer named Rebecca, with helping him survive “the unpredictable, very stressful environment” of prison. “People are judgmental, and she has to put up with a lot,” he says of Rebecca, who visits him for six hours every Saturday and Sunday. “It would be easier to leave, but I’m profoundly grateful that she doesn’t.”
For the past 15 years, Lyle, who shares a 1.8x3m cell with another prisoner, has served as president of the inmate government while also running a support group for inmates who have endured sexual abuse. “It gives me a chance to feel like I’m doing something meaningful,” he says. Erik, he notes, devotes his time to working with terminally ill inmates. “You can still lead a purposeful life beyond the tragedy,” says Lyle. “And that’s what my brother and I are doing.”