The Road Through Wonderland: Surviving John Holmes Read online

  CONTENTS

  Foreword A word from Val Kilmer and Kate Bosworth

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 Fireflies

  Chapter 2 The Man in the Box

  Chapter 3 From Sea to Shining Sea

  Chapter 4 Too Young

  Chapter 5 California

  Chapter 6 Early Morning Dawn

  Chapter 7 The World According to John

  Chapter 8 A Rose of Sharon

  Chapter 9 It Takes Three to Tango

  Chapter 10 The Evolution of a Fall—Cocaine

  Chapter 11 When the Bough Breaks—Snap

  Chapter 12 The Worst Day

  Chapter 13 My Name Is…Dawn

  Chapter 14 The Queen of Spades

  Chapter 15 One Last Wonderland, Baby!

  Chapter 16 Nothing up His Sleeve

  Chapter 17 No!

  Chapter 18 War and Peace

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  A special excerpt

  “Hi there!” a tall, gawky man booms out as he strides into the room. He appears to be in his thirties. He has large, intensely blue eyes and dirty blond, curly hair so long it lies in a floppy Afro. His face is ruggedly handsome, even though it is thin. He is shirtless but wears Levi’s cut off just above his knees and white tennis shoes. The air charges up when he enters the room, and instantly he has everyone’s undivided attention.

  …. Then suddenly, he spins around, looks directly at me, and asks, “How old are you?”

  I’m taken aback by his lightning-quick move and personal question, and I snap as if I’ve been attacked, on the edge, as I was in Carol City. “Fifteen. Why?”

  “Mm, mm, mmp. Too bad!” He grabs his chest dramatically and acts disappointed.

  “What?” I’m thrown off guard, then instantly incensed.

  John smiles wider than I ever thought anyone could and winks a big blue eye at me. “Too young!” Again he turns on his heel and pushes through the screen door, roaring laughter to the night sky and all the way to his cottage.

  “What…a…creep!” I say with disgust, wanting to scream at him. “He has no idea. Young, my ass,” I add, fiercely blushing.

  “Uh-oh, Dawn.” Terry sounds worried.

  “What?” I snap, not sure why I am so upset.

  “He likes you.”

  I blush even harder.

  “Dawn has survived. This book is a testimony to her will to overcome. As we wrote, shot, and cut Wonderland, she allowed us absolute transparency on a darkness few ever experience. She understood hers was a story that had to be told, not just as a cautionary tale against the horrors of violence and abuse, but as a beacon leading others in her predicament out of peril. This book is her triumph, but the narrative weaved within these pages is a true nightmare that will haunt you, as it did me, for years.”

  —James Cox, director and cowriter of Wonderland

  “When I got an advance copy of The Road Through Wonderland, I thought I already knew the story. I picked it up casually, and then I could not put it down. I was up till 3 a.m. reading it. The power of Dawn Schiller’s writing is that within a few pages, you are so drawn into her harrowing, roller-coaster life with her fractured family and then with porn star John Holmes, that you almost become her while reading it. There is not much separation between writer and reader. Schiller draws an unforgettable portrait of a lost, drug-addled corner of late 1970s Los Angeles and what it was like to be a lonely girl targeted by a predator in that world. The most mesmerizing memoir since Jeannette Walls’ The Glass Castle, this whole book is one long, chilling money shot.”

  —Dana Kennedy, correspondent and journalist,

  AOL News, The New York Times, People, Time

  “Dawn Schiller’s chilling account of her youth as the underage mistress of legendary porn star John Holmes is infused with the goodness and humanity that ultimately delivered her from her abusive ordeals. A classic story of an innocent young woman’s descent and self-redemption, The Road Through Wonderland is gritty and starkly honest; it is at once a horror tale and a story of triumph.”

  —Mike Sager, writer at large, Esquire; author of

  Scary Monsters and Super Freaks

  “Dawn Schiller’s harrowing account, The Road Through Wonderland, is a must read for everyone but especially professionals trained to identify and respond to horrible abuses such as those Dawn endured during her years with John Holmes and others around him. As I read, I wondered what we as a community can do to allow kids like Dawn to reach out for help rather than face death at the hands of their abusers on a daily basis. Unfortunately, in Dawn’s case, by the time the abuse came to the attention of the police, she was already eighteen. Though very incapable of caring for herself, she was legally seen as an adult. And though visibly battered by Holmes, she was returned to his ‘care’ by police. I am thankful that our response to intimate partner violence and the exploitation of children and especially our ‘throwaway teens’ has improved over the last thirty years. However, we have a lot more work to do before people understand how predators like Holmes target vulnerable children and that these troubled children are worth saving.”

  —Sgt. Joanne Archambault, San Diego Police Department, retired; executive director of End Violence Against Women International;

  coeditor of Sexual Assault Report

  “Courageous. Not only will Schiller’s haunting story stay with you, but her beautifully descriptive writing will as well. This book is for anyone who has ever wondered why and how adults—or, for that matter, society—could turn their back on abused children. Schiller’s painful insights help us begin to understand how these horrible things might happen. A haunting story in beautiful form…. Dawn Schiller manages to write so beautifully about something so shatteringly repulsive. Her picturesque descriptions [demonstrate] her ability to somehow connect with the beauty of the natural world while being neglected, exploited, and abused by the human world. The thing to take away from The Road Through Wonderland is not that it is a bizarre or extreme story, but that it is a girl’s true story and gives us a rare and haunting look into what surviving takes. This important book illustrates the complexity of the victimization of children. For too many youth, victimization is not a single event but a process or even a state of being.”

  —Mitru Ciarlante, Youth Initiative Director,

  National Center for Victims of Crime

  DEDICATION

  To my daughter, Jade,

  my greatest blessing, who deserves the truth.

  To the throwaways who have been battered and

  robbed of their voice.

  Published 2010 by Medallion Press, Inc.

  The MEDALLION PRESS LOGO

  is a registered trademark of Medallion Press, Inc.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment from this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 2010 by Dawn Schiller

  Cover design by Adam Mock

  Edited by Helen A Rosburg and Emily Steele

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  Typeset in Adobe Garamond Pro

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-160542083-7

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  First Edition

  FOREWOR
D

  AWORD FROM VAL KILMER

  When I met Dawn Schiller on the set of Wonderland, I was amazed at her happy, warm smile and her loving attention to her young daughter. Nothing I saw in her even hinted at the terrible torture I knew she had endured with John Holmes. I liked her instantly. It was a very challenging role, playing someone so lost and destructive, and desperate. As I prepared to portray a man who caused her so much pain, she consistently proved that love heals all wounds—ALL. DAWN was and is an inspiration to me, as she will be to you. There is nothing in this world we cannot overcome, if we trust in love. Dawn bravely watched each scene with nods of approval for both Kate Bosworth and myself. Bravo, Dawn, for your courage and grace to share your story with the world. It’s a healing message for all the women and girls in the world who have not yet found their strength. It’s there, and Dawn’s story proves it. Her story is a miracle. She is a miracle. I am proud to know her.

  —Val Kilmer

  AWORD FROM KATE BOSWORTH

  I was nineteen years old when we embarked on the cinematic journey of Wonderland. I didn’t really know what to expect from Dawn Schiller when we first met, but I assumed she would carry an obvious pain about her. She had been four years younger than I was at the time when she first met John Holmes and fell prey to his severe manipulation and abuse. I could not imagine how someone so young could be involved in such a horrifying situation as she had been and remain intact.

  But broken she was not. Wise. Knowing. But certainly not a fragile victim. I was immediately struck by a certain purity about her. Her clear blue eyes shone at me with such clarity, warmth, and openness. We spoke for hours on end and in detail about her experience in Wonderland. Although she admitted how difficult it was, I was awed at the strength it took to confront these horrifying memories. The sort of thoughts one desperately tries to lock away and forget, never looking back.

  The story of the Wonderland murders is remembered by most as a dark, drug-fueled tragedy. A moment in time which marked the screeching halt to an excessive, out-of-control high most thought would never end. In 1981, four people were found murdered, beaten to death with lead pipes in their home late at night on a long, twisting road called Wonderland Avenue. As news began to trickle in, there was immediate mention of drugs. Shots of bloodied sheets over bodies wheeled out on gurneys in the early morning Los Angeles light. Then whispers of the club owner Eddie Nash. And then, stranger still, of the infamous porn star named John Holmes.

  As I immersed myself in the depths of this film, I began to realize we were not only retelling a story filled with incomprehensible evil but one of hope. Of overcoming the darkest of circumstances and surviving. This is her story.

  Dawn, I thank you for sharing your story not only with me, but with the many people who will now take strength from your brutal honesty. And who will be encouraged to not only survive but, like you, to thrive.

  —Kate Bosworth

  We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on

  it. We will comprehend the word serenity and we will know peace.

  “The AA Promises”

  You can’t give it away unless you’ve got it, and

  You can’t keep it unless you give it away.

  —Dawn

  PROLOGUE

  My name is Dawn Schiller. Some of you know me as the girl played by Kate Bosworth in the 2003 film Wonderland. I am not that girl.

  When James Cox, the director, told me he’d cut the scene from the movie in which John beat me after selling me off to Eddie Nash for drugs, I felt as if John were choking the air out of me again.

  Why would James do this? He was honest with me: It was because the audience couldn’t handle seeing John hit me. They wouldn’t “like” John or be sympathetic toward him.

  I went home after the premiere and listened. I waited to hear comments from my family and friends. Mostly, no one said anything, which told me a lot.

  And my family? Well, in general, they just nodded and said, “That’s not what I remember.” Buried in their memory was the fear of losing me—their daughter, sister, aunt, and niece. Of never seeing me again. Of finding out I had been beaten and raped, devastated by drugs, or sliced up on the streets because John had control of me.

  They remember a very different John.

  Where was the story of how I had escaped with my life from a man who was so self-seeking and ravaged?

  I never wanted to tell this story…about my past with John…about my “secrets.” It took a private investigator who found me some sixteen years after the murders to convince me to tell my tale. This was the catalyst for me to dredge up so much pain.

  Ultimately, it was my voice—my essence—that John stole from me, and I wanted it back. These many long years after John, I have my voice again.

  John did a lot of things to me—broke my bones, my heart, my innocence, my skin—but in the end, from where I stand today, he did a lot more. Through his name, the king unknowingly gave me the power to use my voice—to speak out and raise hope for many other thrown away and abused young women and girls.

  If you thought you knew the story of Wonderland—if you thought you knew who John Holmes was—think again. I am here to tell you the story of those dark years in Hollywood behind the legends that others have tried to tell. This is the story of someone real who was there. This is my story, written for my daughter, Jade, and revealed to give a voice to those who were silenced and will never have the chance to be heard.

  I pray for the angels who have gone before me,

  For the broken ones still waiting to sing.

  I honor their names, their places on earth.

  May they soar in heaven on golden wings.

  —Dawn

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fireflies

  Before you met me, I was a fairy princess

  I caught frogs and called them prince

  And made myself a queen

  Before you knew me, I traveled

  ‘round the world

  I slept in castles and fell in love

  Because I was taught to dream…

  I found mayonnaise bottles and

  Poked holes on top

  To capture Tinkerbell

  And they were just fireflies to the

  Untrained eye

  But I could always tell…

  I believe in fairy tales and dreamers’ dreams

  Like bedsheet sails

  And I believe in Peter Pan and miracles

  Anything I can to get by

  And fireflies

  Lori McKenna, “Fireflies”

  Times are tough in Carol City. Our neighborhood is going to shit. Blacks and Cubans are in a constant battle for superiority. Everything is a reason to fight. It sucks being white in this neighborhood. We are the minority and the excuse for any black or Cuban to start a war. Here, only one thing is certain: the constant feeling of no hope.

  We rebel, us whites. We are actually a mix of everything other than black or Cuban. Smoking pot helps take us out of the reality of this place, and ditching school seems the only way to avoid a daily ass-kicking. On a lucky night, we might score an illegal downer or two from a girlfriend’s older brother. At least we think this makes us lucky. Neighborhood rivals lie in wait for our lunch money and anything else we have in our pockets, so for protection, we pick a different street corner where we can hang out together each night.

  The dark notes and doomed lyrics of bands like Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, and Deep Purple become our leaders. We understand each other.

  Dad probably never thought he was leaving us in one of the worst neighborhoods in Florida, but Mom is bitter. “Et seems like et’s happening overnight,” she keeps saying in her sharp German accent. “Efferyone just starts moving out in vun year. Et’s going from a nice neighborhood to dis,” she daily repeats with disbelief.

  Mom is losing her children to the cruel streets of this impoverished inland Miami City, and she feels helpless. Maybe if I knew this, I would be
more compassionate.

  But I doubt it.

  At fifteen, I’m trying to survive, and I blame Mom for everything.

  Mom works three waitress jobs just to keep up the payments on our house, because Dad isn’t keeping his promise to send money. When she comes home at night, Mom is tired, angry, and sometimes, on scary nights, vicious and ready to snap.

  After Vietnam, Dad took off in 1969 for a job with AT&T in Iran. “Laying cable in the desert will bring us quick riches,” he pledged. But his luck has changed, and the only thing he sends in seven years is one sad, lonely letter. The words on the rough-textured and stained paper taped crudely together tell us he is in a Thai jail, his passport has been stolen, and he needs us to send him some money.

  Mom scrapes together what little she can from her hidden tip jar and sends Dad a MoneyGram, hoping this will be enough to help him come home. But there is no response from that far side of the world, and the one spark of hope she has kindled is silenced for another endless stretch of time.

  In the evenings, before I can fall asleep, I ritually listen to Mom’s muffled weeping seep out from beneath her bedroom door. I listen because it is my way of making sure all is in order and she hasn’t left us too. But it’s on those random nights, when Mom’s pain is so great, that I hear her cry out to God, “Why?” It is on those nights that my heart breaks with hers, and our voices and tears blend into one long, pitiful wail, rising up into the splintered, hollow walls of our house. She can’t believe her dream for a better life in America has deteriorated to this—working so brutally hard and watching her children be consumed by the streets. Mom fears that we are damned, and this terrifies me.