The Menendez brothers’ cousin Andy Cano testified that when Erik was 12 and Andy was 10, Erik told him that his father was “massaging his dick” (5:00) and was trying to find out if these massages were normal. He also told Andy that “these massages are beginning to hurt.” (10:24) Andy suggested asking his mother but Erik swore him to secrecy.
Andy was 15 when the brothers were arrested. He died in 2003 at 29 yeas old after an overdose on sleeping pills. His mother told reporters that she is convinced her son died because he couldn’t cope with the incarceration of his cousins.
abcnews.go.com/US/deserve-set...
After Andy passed away, his mother found a letter in his belongings that 17 year old Erik had written to him some months before killing his parents. In that letter, Erik mentions the ongoing sexual abuse:
“Mom isn’t doing good. I don’t know why she puts up with dad’s shit. At times, I wish I could talk to her about things, you know? Some day... especially dad and I but the way she worships him and tells him everything, I’m so afraid she’ll tell him whatever I say. I just can’t risk it.”
“So now I’m stuck here alone. I’ve been trying to avoid dad. It’s still happening Andy but it’s worse for me now. I can’t explain it. He’s so overweight that I just can’t stand to see him. I never know when it’s going to happen and it’s driving me crazy. Every night I stay up thinking he might come in. I need to put it out of my mind. I know what you said before but I’m afraid. You just don’t know dad like I do. He’s crazy! He’s warned me a hundred times about telling anyone. Especially Lyle. Am I a serious whimpus? I don’t know I’ll make it through this. I can handle it, Andy. I need to stop thinking about it.”
Excerpt from They Said We’d Never Make It: My Life With Erik Menendez by Tammi Menendez:
He presses his forehead against the glass to get physically closer to me. I press my forehead against his. I wish I could feel his touch. We share a few minutes of silence. Then Erik says, "I got a strange letter from Lyle. When did he find out about my situation?"
"Thursday."
"See, that is strange. In his letter he referred to a dark day that happened last week, the day they put me in isolation. He said it was devastating and that he felt helpless. What was he talking about?"
There is no way past this, I know. There's no way to shield this pain from him.
His eyes meet mine. In that inexplicable way in which two people that have come to know each other so well no longer need words to communicate, Erik senses the pain I don't want to share. My gaze fails. Oh God, I don't want to hurt him like this. I open my mouth to speak but I have no will to form the words from my lips. I look at him and then look away. I see a change come over him. His eyes are very still, watching. But he says nothing.
I close my eyes and say, "Something's happened, Erik." My eyes water. I'd give anything to be able to hold him.
"Mama?" he says softly.
I don't even question how he knows someone has passed. I lift my red eyes and my look tells him that it's not his grandmother. She was the obvious assumption. Everyone else would be too young.
Lyle's strange words come back to him. He'd written of a black day, of being wounded, helpless. Lyle's poem had seemed out of proportion at the time, but now the memory of his words cut through him. His whole body stills. "Andy," he says in a voice no louder than a whisper. It's not a question. Somehow he knows.
My gaze softens. I just stare at him, allowing my compassion to wrap around him and in that moment his mind grasps what his heart and soul already knew. His dear friend is gone.
His pain is electric. The glass can't contain it. He cries out. He pushes off the ledge and backs against the far wall as if to physically repel the truth of it. His face crumbles. He slides to the floor, hands shielding his eyes.
"Erik!"
He does not respond. He does not look up. He does nothing but grieve for his lost friend. I call to him over and over again. Frantic, at first, then gently. His sad eyes turn green when he cries. After several minutes, he slowly recovers and comes back to the phone. His head rests against the glass. I feel so helpless; I can do nothing but watch him. He doesn't sob, but his tears roll freely. He stumbles over the memories of his life with Andy and we recall the obvious sadness Andy was feeling at our wedding. Erik insists on blaming himself. "One more victim," he says, crestfallen. "This is my fault."
By the end of our visit I've soothed him somewhat and gotten him to smile but his deep sorrow is only beginning to sink in-a pain will never be erased, only eased by years. Soon our time is up. He is handcuffed and returned to his cell. I leave even more worried for him than before I arrived. Over the past thirteen years he has lost everything. And what has he gained?
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