‘It’s turned my life around’

David W. Casey resembles the shy, eager-to-please guy at work whom you know only enough to say “hello” to when you meet in the halls.

He’s 42, married, a supervisor at a company in the region, a father, a churchgoer — and he’s a Level III sex offender currently undergoing treatment and supervision by the Washington State Department of Corrections. In a few months, his supervision will end.

A friendly man with close-cropped hair and a low brow, he wears a summer shirt with a restrained black Hawaiian print. On his wedding finger, he wears a silver and gold ring marked with the initials CTR.

It stands for “Choose the Right.”

“My wife likes it there,” he says.

Casey agreed to talk about his life as a registered sex offender in Spokane a week ago as long as he wouldn’t be photographed.

Casey grew up in Spokane Valley, attended high school in Kodiak, Alaska, and returned to join the U.S. Air Force. He served as a member of Fairchild’s security police force for seven years, he says, guarding the base entrance.

He’s a Level III sex offender who bought gifts and paid bills for a 15-year-old girl, grooming her before he began raping her. He was arrested in June 2001, served three years in prison, underwent treatment at Twin Rivers Correction Unit, and has continued his treatment in Spokane for the last 9 ½ months. He remains under supervision for another 10 months.

The Twin Rivers program can serve up to 200 prison inmates and 185 community offenders. It costs Washington taxpayers $1.5 million annually, the price of one life sentence for a healthy prisoner, says Gerald Hover, clinical supervisor at Twin Rivers.

Casey lives with his wife in Spokane. Members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, they met at a church dance in 1983. They’ve undergone counseling to repair their marriage.

Today Casey is prohibited from entering Spokane parks, schools and malls. He especially avoids places like the pinball machines or Bumpers at the mall, movie theaters and concerts.

“It’s not good for me to be around teenage girls,” he says.

The fantasies about sex with his teen victim have largely subsided, he says. Certain locations around town can trigger them.

“Say I drive by a place I took advantage of my victim,” he says. “I say my wife’s name five times and, all of a sudden, (the fantasy’s) gone.”

Casey is required to report the extent of these fantasies to his corrections officer, and every three months he undergoes a polygraph test to make sure he’s telling the truth.

He’s learned to stop “isolating” himself. He talks to his family and friends and now tries to work out conflicts with his wife rather than pretending they’ve magically disappeared.

He also writes his thoughts and feelings in his journal. He’s learned to distract himself by reading a book or watching TV.

When he was in prison, he took Zoloft and Trazodone for depression and anxiety, but he no longer takes them. A Mormon for 18 years, he says he doesn’t drink, use illegal drugs or view pornography.

He describes a shift in his perspective about his crime.

“At that time I thought I was in love,” he says. “But it was an obsession that I had. It’s not something I was proud of — and didn’t understand at the time either.”

He hasn’t spoken to his victim. “I can’t imagine the impact on her, but I bet it’s terrible,” he says.

He says sexual assault can impact the victim’s family and his own for generations. “It could affect a hundred people, thousands of people, for one person’s mistake,” he says.

How does he feel about that? “Terrible,” he says. “Terrible.

“That’s the main thing it’s hard to get over — the guilt process,” he says. “I know I can never make up (for what happened.) I just wish sometimes I could go back.”

When he was in prison, he wrote a list of all the good parts of his life and posted it next to his bed. It included his beautiful wife, his daughters, his extended family, his church and his friends. Since he got out, he added his job to the list. He works for a metallurgical plant and supervises a crew of five.

He calls his treatment “a blessing.”

“It’s turned my life around,” he says.

Todd Wiggs, community corrections supervisor for the Washington Department of Corrections, says, “He’s done exceptionally well. We haven’t had any problems with him at all.”

Casey says treatment has provided him with tools to help him avoid victimizing anyone else. It hasn’t cured him.

“By no means,” he says. “This is something that I’ll have to use the rest of my life. … My life will never be like it was — and that’s a good thing.”