By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
I cringe inside to think how much worse off I'd be now without all your positive influence, teachings and early groundwork in my being.
A jailer standing at Scott's head dragged him out of Tank 6 by pulling his handcuffed arms toward his head until he slid face forward down to the floor.
What I'm trying, but probably failing to say is this: You still are my point of reference for much of what I expect a man to be. You still are my hero. I look up to you. I seek your pride and approval.
Once in the hallway . . . Gurney pulled off Scott's boots, and positioned his ankle bone to the floor and stomped on his ankle. Other jailers kicked Scott, including Gurney and Douglas, who kicked Scott in the throat.
Many would say that fathers and sons have a love/hate relationship. I'd say it's more like love/angst. We've had our run-ins and estrangements, but always the love. Always the love.
Guards continued stunning Scott with their stun guns. One guard, believed to be Spidell, stood on Scott's head, and pushed it against the floor.
I unknowingly dragged you and mom with me as the cosigners of Consequence. We all have the next 25 years for me to right my wrongs and rebuild our love.
Leg irons were placed on his left ankle.
So many good memories filled my mind when I thought of you and what I might write tonight. . . . Our good times. Ways that you helped me discover life and my possibilities.
A Phoenix police officer who was booking a prisoner at the time of Scott's beating testified that guards yelled such things as "How do you like it?" and "You want some more of this?"
First, you taught me there was a God. You showed me how to believe. You taught me the power of prayer.
Scott, on the other hand, yelled "Oh, God, help me."
I remember hardly being able to wait until you came home from work so you and I could play together.
Jailer Gonder brought a steel restraint chair to the scene.
On referees and umpires [you told me]: "They're doing their best. Good ones even things up, and make up for bad calls. Just play, don't argue with them."
Scott was lifted into the chair. His handcuffed arms were placed over the back of the chair, so that the thin, hard steel of the back of the chair cut into his biceps and armpits. At the same time, Spidell pulled Scott's handcuffs backward and upward, bending Scott over at the waist.
After my concussion at McClintock my Jr. year, you were there for me and gave me a blessing in the ambulance/station wagon.
Walsh called for a towel to wrap around Scott's face.
Listening to you play the piano. Listening to you carry that bass line on hymns at Church.
Walsh held both ends of the towel tightly. Inmate witnesses say Walsh pulled the towel around Scott's neck, and used it to choke him.
Trying to read books from your library. Learning the magic of books. I remember: Leon Uris, Herman Wouk, Chaim Potok, John Steinbeck, Woodward and Bernstein, Fitzgerald, etc., etc.
Jail surveillance tapes show the towel was wrapped around Scott's face or neck for 4 minutes and 18 seconds.
Black Jelly Bean nights at our house. Peanut M&Ms, Risk games, and albums playing on the stereo.
During that time, Musbach and a male jailer pushed their knees into Scott's waist and groin. Guards tried to bend Scott over in the chair until his head was forced to the level of his knees.
Your 35th birthday, candles that wouldn't blow out.
Gurney, Musbach and Spidell pushed Scott's head down into his chest, and kept constant pressure on it.
Pretty good memories.
Musbach continued to intermittently stun Scott in the chest and abdomen with her stun gun. Each application caused Scott's abdomen and chest muscles to seize and contract, which interrupted his breathing and further robbed him of precious oxygen.
There's so much more in my life that reminds me of you and makes me feel good inside. As far as I can tell, we've had a pretty awesome life as father and son.
Walsh warned Spidell, who was pushing down on Scott's head, that she did not think Scott could breathe, and was turning purple. Spidell admits he responded "Who gives a fuck?"
On the surface, my self-portrait may now be muddled and marred. But underneath await the colors of a masterpiece. Beneath crude rock, a "David" is still breathing. Love, Scott.
Scott gave one final, spastic kick, and fell limp.
Scott Norberg had drug problems, and no excuse for them. He was an Eagle Scout and a high school football star. He scored a full athletic scholarship to the University of Nebraska, where he started snorting coke like Scarface. He bailed on Nebraska and became a Mormon missionary in Argentina to get clean. Once back in Arizona, he caved in to coke again, then started doing crystal meth.
The day before he was killed, Norberg's vehicle ran out of gas, and he tried to push his truck to a convenience store. He collapsed in the parking lot and was taken by ambulance to an emergency room, where he was diagnosed with dehydration and abnormally low blood sugar. This could well mean he had been up for days on speed.