Save Amy Gonzalez Campaign - Her Cry For Help

My name is Amy Gonzalez, and until twelve years ago I had never been in trouble with the law. I had been a Registered Nurse since 1992—a wife, a mother, a sister, and a woman committed to saving lives, not taking them. Today, I am serving life in federal prison without parole for crimes I did not commit—crimes connected to a tragedy caused by my father, whose long-standing brain tumor had profoundly affected his judgment. My federal case number is 1:13-cr-83-GAM-3 in the U.S. District Court of Delaware.

I write now because I am out of options, yet still determined to fight for my freedom. After twelve years of incarceration without a single disciplinary infraction, I am asking not for money, but for political and moral support—for someone willing to look deeper into the facts of my case and recognize the profound injustice that has taken place.

My Life Before the Tragedy

For 26 years, I have been married to my soulmate, Juan. We raised two children—my daughter, Tatiana, now 19, and my son, Christopher, now 33. They have spent more than a decade without their mother. At the time of my arrest, I was the sole financial provider and working full-time as a nurse, even while battling breast cancer and undergoing multiple surgeries.

I am also the sister of David Matusiewicz, an optometrist who once owned a thriving practice. When David went through a painful divorce from his wife, Christine Belford, our family became deeply concerned about the well-being of the three daughters they shared. We believed the children were being physically and sexually abused. Following the advice of a national organization called Unite4Justice, we posted our concerns online in hopes it would prompt intervention and protection for the girls.

It was a desperate attempt to help children we genuinely believed were in danger.

The Decision That Changed Everything

Acting out of fear and desperation, and convinced that the children were unsafe, my brother and my mother fl ed the country with David’s daughters. I truly believe that my brother—an intelligent, education-driven man—felt this was the only way to protect them. Nevertheless, both he and my mother were arrested, returned to the U.S., and convicted of International Parental Kidnapping and Endangering the Welfare of a Child.

Nothing that followed could have been predicted.

The Tragedy at the Courthouse

On February 11, 2013, while suffering from a massive left-frontal-lobe meningioma he had battled since 1990, my father, Thomas Matusiewicz, made a catastrophic, incomprehensible decision. He shot and killed my former sister-in-law, Christine Belford, and her friend, Laura Mulford, and then took his own life in the lobby of the Delaware courthouse.

My father’s impairments—his memory loss, distorted judgment, impaired reasoning, and episodes of aggression—were never fully presented at trial. A medical expert prepared to testify never reached the stand; only a two-sentence stipulation was read to the jury, noting the location and size of his tumor. I have lived every day wishing I could undo what happened, but none of us had the power to foresee or prevent his actions.

Indictment, Trial, and Life Sentences

Still in shock and grief, my mother, brother, and I were indicted for:

● cyberstalking resulting in death,

● conspiracy to commit cyberstalking,

● interstate stalking, and

● aiding and abetting my father.

We exercised our constitutional right to a trial, and we lost. All three of us were sentenced to life in federal prison with no possibility of parole. In federal prison, life is not symbolic—life means death behind bars.

My Mother’s Death in Prison

My mother, Lenore Matusiewicz, was sentenced in a hospital bed only ten days after brain tumor surgery. Officials arranged an “emergency” sentencing in case she died beforehand. The audio of it was posted online for the world to hear—her final words recorded and exposed.

She was given just three months to live. Instead of being granted compassionate release, she was placed on hospice in a prison cell. She died in agony on Mother’s Day weekend in 2016.

My brother and I continue the fight for justice, but the legal resistance is overwhelming. Our case is precedential, meaning that overturning it would impact others facing similar charges. We have become political casualties of a much larger legal battle.

The Domino Effect on My Family

The tragedy didn’t end at the courthouse. It spread through every corner of my family’s life.

When I was arrested, Christopher was only 18. I was in the middle of enrolling him in college. Devastated and alone, he fell into depression and moved back to New Jersey. By God’s grace, he still managed to complete a degree in Computer Analysis.

Juan and our daughter, Tatiana—only seven at the time—remained alone in Texas with no family for support. My entire retirement fund was spent just to keep them in our home, but after four years they were forced to sell it. They moved into my parents’ old double-wide trailer, which was badly in need of repairs.

Juan now survives on $15,000 a year in SSI disability, while battling depression, panic attacks, PTSD, anxiety, and agoraphobia after the collapse of his entire family.

Tatiana has suffered emotionally, spiritually, and financially. Our faith once anchored our family, but this trauma shattered hers. The hardest part of my incarceration has been watching my daughter lose her belief in God.

Fifteen-minute phone calls cannot replace a mother’s presence. I missed every milestone—her first period, her first heartbreak, her first achievements—and relied on the kindness of other mothers to guide her when I couldn’t. Women like Clarissa, who gently explained to my daughter the changes of growing up.

And angels like Mrs. Barrera, her middle-school English teacher, who read Tatiana’s essay titled “Something Traumatic in My Life.” When Tatiana broke down crying, Mrs. Barrera embraced her and later paid $800 out of her own pocket so Tatiana could join her classmates on a school trip to Harvard University. Without her, my daughter would have stayed home, excluded again.

The Weight of Grief

After the courthouse shooting, I was allowed only one week off work to grieve—I had exhausted my PTO on breast-cancer surgeries. Every evening after long shifts at the hospital, I cried on the back porch, my daughter finding me and asking when her Grandma, Uncle Dave, and Pop-Pop would come home.

A month later, I took her to my parents’ ranch and explained for the first time what death meant—that we would not see Pop-Pop again until heaven. Her scream—the kind of scream that comes from a child’s soul—will haunt me forever.

When my father’s belongings were returned, I found Tatiana’s kindergarten graduation photo in his wallet. He had carried it everywhere. Flyers for Disney trips continued to arrive in the mail—vacations he planned to take her on but never would. He worried he had neglected her by not taking her like he had his other grandchildren.

Where I Stand Today

Twelve years have passed. I have worked in clerical and leadership roles in prison, maintained perfect disciplinary conduct, and held on to faith that someone would finally look at this case with courage and clarity.

I cannot change my father’s actions. I am deeply, profoundly sorry for the lives lost. I pray for Christine and Laura’s families. But I did not intend, encourage, or foresee violence of any kind.

I have seen people convicted of murder, rape, and brutal assaults receive far lighter sentences than mine. I mention this not to diminish tragedy, but to illuminate the magnitude of injustice in my own situation.

Please Help Us

My brother and I are running out of options. We have been denied repeatedly in higher courts. Without outside support—without someone brave enough to examine what truly happened—we fear we will die in prison like our mother.

You can review our case documents on PACER. I also share evidence and information on my website: www.yearofjubile.com/amy.

I am a woman, a mother, a wife, a nurse, and a breast-cancer survivor. I am also a human being who is broken, who has endured immeasurable loss, and who still believes in justice.

Please—please—help us. Enough is enough.

Respectfully, Amy Gonzalez Wife, Mother, Registered Nurse (since 1992) Breast Cancer Survivor