By Chuck Strouse
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By Ciara LaVelle, Kat Bein, Carolina Del Busto, and Liz Tracy
By Pepe Billete
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After being released from Tomoka Prison, Donnie decided to give up hormones. Starting again would be too much emotionally. After the rape, being female made her feel vulnerable. Living as a male, though, was like admitting she was the same species as her attackers. So she exists somewhere in between — in a sort of gender purgatory. "People ask me if I'm a boy or a girl," she says. "And I tell them I'm neither."
During the first days after her release, she quickly realized her family wouldn't return phone calls. "Donnie's mom is very controlled by her husband," Mark explains. "She won't have a relationship with her son until [his stepfather] passes."
Some friends had died of AIDS while she was in prison, and others had labeled her "a murdering fag," Donnie says. Mark had not yet been released. So, alone and broke, she checked into a Christian recovery center in Sanford called Teen Challenge. Soon she landed a job programming computers.
These days, Donnie lives in a two-story khaki-colored house with a red door and a well-groomed front yard in Palm Coast, outside Daytona Beach. She rarely leaves the house and regularly sees a psychologist. The doctor diagnosed her with posttraumatic stress disorder and agoraphobia.
"She's having a hard time trusting people," says neighbor Mary Howard, who alternates between pronouns when describing Donnie. "He comes over and just cries and cries."
Ask Donnie about Mark, and the tears roll. Though he left prison a year and a half ago, the two no longer speak. He fell in love with another man in jail, she says.
Mark is now living in Greenville with his 78-year-old mother. "She's my first priority," he says. "We're trying to avoid drama."
Both Donnie and Mark deny they ever gave a single injection. They claim the silicone was used for Mark's cleaning business, and the notes mentioning body parts referred to foam padding for transgender pageant contestants. Donnie insists Vera was simply seeking advice after leaving a pumping session somewhere else.
Vera Lawrence's family still struggles without her. For years after the crime, her daughter, Tangela Sears, spoke often about her belief that the couple was not punished harshly enough: "This isn't justice. I feel like I've been banged against the wall."
Lately, Donnie can't shake the feeling someone is sneaking up behind her. At restaurants, she catches waitstaff pointing. She tenses up when men touch her. This past January 11, MSNBC aired Lethal Beauty, a series about the crime . When Donnie got home from work, her voicemail was full. Some were from transsexual men who had seen the program. "Who's pumping now?" they wanted to know. "How much is it? Do you still do it?"
Donnie later called one of them back. "No," she answered. "Honey, are you crazy?"