Cody Osgood's letter to the Parole Board

Dear Parole Board member,

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This letter is going to be tough. 

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That sentence took me 10 minutes to write. All of which I did with tears running down my face. I’ve thought about what I was going to write in short bursts, so as not to get overwhelmed by the importance of it, the importance of this review process, the importance of each of you. You’ll read this letter, most likely not knowing me, or my family, personally. However, with this letter, I hope to introduce you to who we are and what we have survived.  And I hope you will think of us as if we were your own family when you weigh in on Scott Baughman’s parole request. I am requesting he be denied release or the possibility of parole. His actions on July 29th, 1994, sent ripples throughout our lives that began when he assaulted, beat, and strangled my mom in our laundry room and stopped only when he thought she was dead.

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I am 34 now, 5 years older than my mom was on that July day. Phone calls with my mom are scattered throughout my day. Every day having at least one. She is my advisor, my teacher, my cheerleader, my best friend. She is the strongest person I know.  She has encouraged me all my life and has been there for every big moment. For the most part, my life seems normal, unaffected by that day, but the marks are there. My front door is always locked, usually deadbolted. I will check it multiple times throughout the day. And at night, I also must lock my bedroom door. My rationale – it is one more barricade between me and a would-be attacker. That is always on my mind. Wherever I am, I think, “How can I protect myself and others around me if an attack began.” A constant survival guide running through scenarios.

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I am 21, Scott’s age when his name was added to my family’s history book and sent us on an altered trajectory. At this age, I am involved in a college organization where I choose to share the story of my mom and my family. Each time I share, the result is the same, a peer approaches me in private, confiding that they were recently sexually assaulted and are struggling. Each time, I connect them with my mom, and she gives them advice. College is a tug-of-war between my mom and me. I’m the oldest. First to live away from the family unit we have become. This is a normal adjustment for any family, but for mine, it feels different. Since the attack, we have been inseparable. Almost 20 years have passed, and we have been together every day since, never being apart for longer than a night. We regularly communicate on schedules,

announcements, relationships. We have become dependent on one another to survive. My mom fears not knowing where I am, that I’m protected, that I’m safe. This is a hard adjustment.

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I am 15, a decade after the attack. Rules are strict, to protect and keep us close to home. I am not allowed to attend parties. I have never had a sleepover at a friend’s house. I am required to notify my mom when I arrive and depart from any location. To my friends, she seems overbearing, but I know these rules are born out of love and fear. Our house is a fortress. Flood lights on every corner, alarm system, locked glass door, locked and double deadbolted wooden door. When my mom goes to the downstairs laundry room, I’ll join her, or she locks the door behind her as she works. In our laundry room is a corkboard with a collage of family photos. A handful of them are warped and stained and I ask my mom what happened to them. “They were stained by the chemicals used when they were taking blood and DNA samples from the attack.”, she says. I can never look at that corkboard the same way again.  I learn more about my mom and the details of her attack through her recorded statement. July 29th is circled on our calendar in the kitchen each year as a reminder that tomorrow is not a guarantee. 

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I am 5, the age my mom, Vicki Osgood, was stalked, attacked, and strangled just below where my little sister and I sat watching cartoons.  As we played upstairs, mom was downstairs fighting for her life and doing everything she could to keep a monster from hurting us. Several moments are engrained in my memory from that day and subsequent days. A window in the living room gave a view of anyone coming up the stairs. Most vivid of my memories is seeing my mom run past the window with red streaks in her hair. My first thought being, “Why does mommy have fake blood in her hair? That’s so silly.” Next my mom asks me to call 911 and I try, but I cannot. I think she must be mad at me because I cannot do it. She then runs onto the porch and begins screaming, “HELP!”. This is the loudest I have ever heard her, and I am scared. Kelly and Lisa Lauderdale, a couple vacationing in Surfside, are first to arrive. Then our house begins to flood with people. Our neighbor, we call her Aunt Pattie, several police officers, EMTs. I see my mom being asked questions, people looking at her. I am being kept away from her. She is loaded into the ambulance while my sister and I stand with Aunt Pattie, Kelly, and Lisa. Many years later, I was able to read Lisa’s statement of events and she stated that as the ambulance pulled away, I began to cry for the first time, and she knew I had held it because I was being strong and brave for my mom. 

The next time I saw my mom was in the hospital. When I turned the corner into her room, I was scared by her appearance. All the bruises and stitches were not my mommy.  However, the voice that cracked as it said, “Are you scared Cody? It’s ok, I’m alright” was her. I did not want to make her sad. So, I lied and then proceeded to put my bravest persona on while I gave her a hug.

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Over the years, I have told my story more times than I can count. To cope with it, my mind has turned it into this memory that seems like a story I once read, or a movie I watched. Although it is easier to talk about, the pain and fear is still there. Scott Baughman was sentenced by a jury to life in prison and I believe he should do just that. Imagining him free, going wherever he wants, is one of the scariest scenarios I can imagine. I worry for my mom’s mental health if Scott were granted parole. When I was a teenager, mom and I toured the Brazoria County Jail. On the tour, we were split into two groups: men and women. That evening, my mom found out Scott had recently been transferred to the jail we just toured. The mere idea that Scott and I were potentially in the same breathing space, even with him behind bars, was enough to send my mom into panic mode. 

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Therefore, again, I implore you to deny Scott Baughman’s parole request. When you are deliberating think about my family, our story, and keeping others from experiencing what we have been through.

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I appreciate you taking the time to read my story and thank you for all that you do for our justice system.

Sincerely,

Cody Osgood