Page 114 of Man On

"We're not quite finished yet," he warns us first. "Mr. Blakely has completed the cross-examination portion of the interview. He was given the option to take a break before he gave his sworn statement, but he’s choosing to push through. He’s requested to have his support system in the room. If you wish, you may join us now. We ask that you take a seat and remain silent during the testimony, which is being recorded."

"How did he do?" Hannah asks the guy, whom she calls Jamison, and he nods to indicate he did well.

My heart thuds so hard in my chest, I'm worried the recording equipment will pick up on it. Jamison leads us down a hallway and through some double doors. Inside, there's a large, oval conference table. It's so polished I can see the reflection of the overhead lights on it. There are three older looking gentlemen with sour looks on their faces on one side of the table. A younger woman with bleach blonde hair and a purple dress sits next to them with folders and a laptop open in front of her. At the head of the table is an older woman with chin length graying brown hair, manning a video camera and keyboard in front of her. On the other side of the table is Shonda Clarke, whom I met earlier. Between her straight posture, no-nonsense demeanor, and the tight bun holding her dark hair back from her face, I have a hard time imagining her not being in charge wherever she goes. No wonder those men look like they're shrinking in on themselves.

My eyes go straight to Lane, relief smoothing out the harsh edges of my tension. His eyes meet mine and I witness him take a breath, his muscular chest inflating. Jamison directs us to sit in some chairs along the back edge of the room, where Lane has a direct view of us. Once Jamison takes his seat next to Ms. Clarke, they nod to the woman at the end of the table, who says some things that I'm assuming are for the recording. She gives the date, time, and court case details, then gives an account of who is present for both the defendants, who are not present, and the witness giving testimony. She mentions that the official deposition and questioning are completed, and that this is the sworn testimony that may be used in court, should the case go to trial. She then reminds Lane that he is under oath before she says he can begin.

For a few moments, Lane is frozen, mouth gaping. I try not to notice the smirk on one of the old guys, because I'm liable to jump over the table and beat his ass. Ms. Clarke begins asking Lane specific questions about some of the answers he gave during his deposition, asking him to give a more detailed accounting of what he witnessed regarding what happened in the basement of the Deliverance Summit Church. He nods, thanking her quietly. He looks up at the three of us. Hannah blows him a kiss. Scott nods encouragingly. I mouth, I love you.

Dropping his eyes to the ground, he takes a deep breath and begins.

"When I was eight years old, my grandfather, Pastor Nathanael Warren, started giving me more responsibilities around the church. He said I needed to pull my weight and work hard to overcome the hardships of the circumstances of my birth. My first job was easy. I was supposed to befriend whatever camper was assigned to me. It was my job to be kind to them, get to know them, and help them feel comfortable. I liked that job.”

“As I got older, I was given more responsibilities. One of the responsibilities involved praying over the boys that came to Deliverance Camp. They were coming to us to be cured of an affliction, and one of the first steps in the process was round-the-clock prayer. It was my job to read specific Bible passages out loud, repeatedly, until my shift was up and other people took my place. Shifts were anywhere from five to eight hours long, but sometimes longer depending on how much Grandfather felt I needed to atone for my own sins. I wasn't supposed to talk to them or allow them food or drink or the bathroom. We weren't supposed to acknowledge them at all. Only pray and read scripture over their bodies. It was terrible, but it wasn't the worst job by far."

"What was the worst job, Lane?" Ms. Clarke asks, encouraging him to keep going.

His eyes squeeze shut. "Cleaning. The treatment rooms and the showers. The drains would get clogged, and—" He shivers, looking sick to his stomach.

Ms. Clarke clicks something in her hand, and a television screen I didn't notice before lights up. On the screen are pictures of rooms I saw in the documentary, but these are more detailed and marked off with cones and police tape.

"Are these the rooms you're speaking about, Lane?"

"Yes ma'am. They're the rooms that the really bad stuff happened in."

"Like what?"

The movement of his throat bobbing is apparent from here. His voice is shaky, but he answers. "The treatments that I witnessed personally involved giving them medicine. I don't know what they were giving them exactly, but the elders that ran the camp were always coming up with different concoctions. I do know they used syrup of ipecac a lot, to make them vomit."

"Can you clarify for us who you're referring to when you say 'them'?"

"We were supposed to call the boys in the program campers or sinners, depending on what part of the process they were in. I'm not comfortable calling them either of those words."

"And, just to be clear, you are refraining from using the word 'victims' because the defense objected to it during your deposition, is that correct?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Thank you, Lane. For the record, since this is your personal testimony, you may refer to anyone you personally witnessed being abused as a victim." Lane nods his understanding and thanks her quietly. "You may continue. What else did you personally see or experience in these so-called treatment rooms?"

"The, uh, victims were drugged and?—"

"Objection!" One of the older men shouts. "How would he know that the alleged victims were drugged? For all we know, they were being given placebos or something completely safe."

"Because I was drugged when it was my turn."

Hannah sucks in a breath and grips my dad's hand. Even in my periphery, I can see how badly she's shaking. My eyes stay on Lane.

"I don't know what drugs I was given. They made me dizzy and sick to my stomach, and caused hallucinations. I'd seen it done to only one other victim. It was something the church saved for their 'worst cases.' When I saw it done to the other victim, they strapped him to that chair," he says, pointing to the chair in the picture. "Those belts were secured around the face, and there were straps for the arms and legs as well. While the drugs started to kick in they surrounded the victim and shouted things. In this case it was the elders, my grandfather, Pastor Nathanael Warren, along with Pastor Gideon Larsen, Dr. James Andrews, and Pastor Floyd West."

"Can you remember anything specific that they shouted?"

Lane's eyes close for a moment, then flick to mine. I hold his gaze for as long as he'll look at me, which isn't long. "They yelled that he was a sinner and an abomination. That he was sick, and they were going to purge the demons from his body. They used a lot of homophobic slurs."

"What slurs, specifically?"

Lane looks at her like he'd rather pull his own tongue out, but he tells her, looking more uncomfortable by the second.

"Once the drugs kicked in completely, they performed an exorcism."

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