Born to Be a Criminal The $1,535 Easter Sunday Robbery That Sent a Granddaughter to Jail

A grandfather’s granddaughter kicked in his door on Easter Sunday. She stole his jewelry, his coins, and his cash – all to buy methadone to kick her heroin addiction. Then she countersued him for emotional distress because she didn’t want to be scared of her own wife.

The judge had heard it all before. Drug addicts breaking into their own relatives’ homes. Grandparents begging, pleading, praying for change that never comes. And a 28-year-old woman who said she was “born to be a criminal” – then denied ever saying it.

This is the story of Patricia and William Redford vs. Nikki Martin – and the judge who used Rosa Parks to explain why heroin destroys everything it touches.

The Cold Open
Patricia Redford married into a family with problems.

Her husband’s granddaughter, Nikki Martin, was a heroin addict. She had been in jail five or six times. Her mother had been in prison for fraud – in the same facility as Martha Stewart.

“She’s been telling people that she was born to be a criminal,” Patricia told the judge.

Nikki denied it. “No, sir. I’ve never said that.”

But the record spoke for itself.

On Easter Sunday, Nikki and her cousin broke into William Redford’s home. They kicked in the front door – split the wood. Then they went around to the back, used a screwdriver on a glass pane, and kicked in the deadbolt frame.

Inside, they found jewelry. A water jug full of change. Cash.

They took everything.

Then they went to Food Lion to run the coins through the machine. Because heroin dealers don’t take pennies. They wanted bills.

The police caught them at the grocery store.

Nikki went to jail. She went to rehab. She got clean.

Then she countersued her 73-year-old disabled grandfather for emotional distress.

The judge’s response was immediate.

“I’m not going to even entertain that.”

The judgment: $1,535 for the grandparents.

$0 for the granddaughter who kicked in the door.

Part One: The Troublemaker
Patricia didn’t mince words.

“The defendant is my husband’s granddaughter. She’s been in trouble a lot of times on drugs and being arrested.”

The judge asked what kind of drugs.

“Heroin.”

“Wow,” the judge said. “That will get you in trouble.”

Patricia explained that Nikki came from a family with criminal records. She had been in jail many, many times since Patricia married her grandfather.

“How many?” the judge asked.

“Five or six times.”

Then Patricia mentioned Nikki’s mother. She had been in prison too. For fraud.

“Up there with Martha Stewart,” Patricia said. “I even got to hug her.”

The judge perked up. “You got to hug Martha Stewart?”

“Yes, I did.”

The backstory: Nikki’s mother was in the same prison in Alderson, West Virginia as Martha Stewart. Patricia visited her stepdaughter. She met the famous domestic diva.

“Was she a drug addict?” the judge asked about Nikki’s mother.

“No, sir. She was in prison on fraud.”

The judge asked if there were any other thieves or fraudsters in the family.

“Only one,” Patricia said.

“Just Martha Stewart?” the judge joked.

The courtroom laughed.

But the laughter didn’t last. Because Nikki’s story was about to get dark.

This is the hinged sentence of the opening: A grandmother who hugged Martha Stewart in federal prison was about to testify about her granddaughter kicking in her door for drug money.

Part Two: The Granddaughter’s Confession
Nikki took the stand.

She admitted she used to be a heroin addict. She started at 18. Her ex-boyfriend introduced her to it.

But she had a message for the judge: “I’m clean and sober now. I have been ever since the incident that happened between me and my grandfather’s house.”

The incident.

She meant the robbery.

“I went to a drug rehabilitation program,” Nikki said. “I ended up doing that.”

The judge wished her luck. “Good luck.”

Then he asked about her background before the allegations.

Nikki didn’t have much to say. She was clean. She was trying.

But the judge had heard this story before. Dozens of times. Hundreds of times.

Drug addicts break into their relatives’ homes. They steal. They get caught. They go to rehab. They get clean.

Then they do it again.

Or they don’t.

The judge hoped Nikki was one of the ones who didn’t.

Part Three: The Easter Sunday Robbery
Patricia told the story.

It was Easter Sunday. She and William went out to eat. They came back home.

As they pulled into the driveway, they saw jewelry laying on the ground. Patricia picked it up. She knew something was wrong.

Nikki tried to get in the front door. She kicked it. The door split.

So she went around to the back. She used a screwdriver to get through the glass pane. Then she tried to unlock the door – but the deadbolt held.

So she kicked the frame in.

The whole frame.

Patricia and William went inside. Everything was gone. William’s jewelry. A water jug filled with change – a quarter of the way up with coins. Patricia had no idea how Nikki carried it. The jug was heavy.

They called the police.

Patricia went to ask the neighbors if they had seen anything. One neighbor said yes. They knew what kind of car Nikki was driving. They knew what she looked like.

While Patricia was talking to the police, the neighbor came back. Her boyfriend had found Nikki and her cousin at Food Lion.

The grocery store.

The police set up and waited. When Nikki and her cousin came out of the store, they were arrested.

The judge was confused. “That’s unusual that they would take the money and buy food if you’re a heroin addict.”

Patricia explained: “They were running it through the coin machine to get the bills.”

The judge nodded. “Fiends don’t do that. They go straight to the dope house. They had to get the money first. The dope man doesn’t take that type of change. He doesn’t take pennies.”

Patricia agreed. “I guess they didn’t want to cut it. I guess they wouldn’t take the pennies, so they ran them through there to get dollar bills.”

“Yeah,” the judge said. “Dope man don’t take pennies for the most part.”

This is the second hinged sentence: Heroin addicts don’t go grocery shopping after a robbery. They go to the dope house. Unless they need to turn pennies into dollars first.

Part Four: The Other Granddaughter
There were two granddaughters that day.

Nikki and her cousin.

Patricia knew Nikki was a drug addict. She knew the cousin was a drug addict too. But she was shocked when she found out the cousin was involved.

“We had no idea she would steal from us,” Patricia said.

The judge asked why.

“Because she’s never been to my house but one time in 7 years since we’ve been married.”

Nikki, on the other hand, had lived with them. She knew where everything was.

Patricia had suspected Nikki from the moment she saw the broken door. The cousin was a surprise.

The judge understood. The drug addict you know is dangerous. The drug addict you don’t know is dangerous too – but at least you expect it from the one you know.

Patricia expected Nikki to steal from her.

She didn’t expect the cousin.

But the cousin was just as addicted. Just as desperate. Just as willing to kick in a door on Easter Sunday.

Part Five: Nikki’s Admission
Nikki didn’t deny anything.

She told the judge exactly what happened.

“Me and my cousin robbed their house. Went in there, took the big Diamond Springs glass bottle of change, two jewelry boxes, and I think my cousin took a couple maybe rings and necklaces out of my grandfather’s big jewelry case.”

They left. They went straight to Food Lion. They cashed in the change.

As soon as Nikki walked outside, she was busted. The cops were there.

She didn’t run. She didn’t fight. She didn’t try to hide.

She was caught.

The judge used this moment to address the television audience.

“It is not uncommon that drug addicts break into their relatives’ homes,” the judge said. “Very common.”

He explained his philosophy. If you have a drug addict in your home hooked on heroin, crack, or crystal meth, the only way you can help them is to keep them away from you and your home.

“You can’t bring them in and say, ‘I’m going to help you’ and hope that you change,” the judge said. “You have to let them sink to their lowest level.”

He turned to Nikki. “Am I right?”

Nikki agreed. “Yes.”

“Until they’re ready to change,” the judge continued. “You can’t change anybody who’s on heroin, can you?”

Nikki’s answer was honest. “No. That day I knew it was time to clean up my act.”

The judge asked what she was going to do.

“I was going to find methadone to help me clean up my act.”

“But you said you didn’t have any methadone,” the judge said.

Nikki tried to explain. “I was trying to clean up my act. It was about time.”

The judge didn’t press further. He had made his point.

Part Six: Rosa Parks
The judge told a story.

He wanted the viewers to understand what drugs do to people.

“You know what saddened me the most?” the judge said. “Two men kicked in the door and robbed Rosa Parks. Because they were drug addicts.”

Rosa Parks.

The woman who refused to give up her bus seat. The woman who sparked the Civil Rights Movement. The woman who changed American history.

Drug addicts broke into her house. They robbed her. They hit her.

“If that doesn’t tell our viewers what drugs will do,” the judge said, “if you aren’t an example – going into your own grandparents’ home – how old are you all?”

Nikki said she was 28. Her cousin was 30.

The judge shook his head. Two grown women. Kicking in their grandfather’s door. On Easter Sunday.

“There ain’t nothing else you can tell me about this,” the judge said.

He was glad Nikki was in recovery. He was glad she was letting viewers know that there’s nothing family members can do to get a loved one off drugs.

“They can beg, they can plead, they can do whatever it is,” the judge said. “Prayer might help them if it’s a miracle.”

But prayer isn’t rehab. And miracles aren’t methadone.

Part Seven: The Damages
Patricia asked for $1,535.

Half of that was for the damage to the doors. The stolen jewelry boxes. The pins. The $300 in cash.

The other half – $700 – was for emotional distress.

The judge asked Nikki why she didn’t think she owed the money.

Nikki had an answer.

 

 

“Because we’ve already taken care of this,” she said. “They’ve got everything back. Everything was returned to them when I was arrested. I’ve paid my restitution. I’ve done my jail time.”

The judge noted the contradiction. “If they got everything back, there’s no reason to pay restitution.”

Nikki explained. “It was for everything that we had damaged.”

“How much restitution did you pay?” the judge asked.

“$490.”

The judge turned to Patricia. “Did you all receive $490?”

“We’ve received $300 so far,” Patricia said. “$140 is supposed to be coming in the mail.”

The judge did the math. Nikki had paid most of what she owed. But not all of it.

And the restitution was for the damaged items. The doors. The frames. The things that couldn’t be returned.

The jewelry came back. The coins came back. The cash?

The cash was gone.

Part Eight: The Counterclaim
Then Nikki did something unbelievable.

She countersued.

For emotional distress.

She wanted $750 from her 73-year-old disabled grandfather and his wife.

The judge couldn’t believe it. “You want them to pay you some money? Your 73-year-old grandfather who is clearly disabled. Your grandmother. You had the heroin addiction. You kicked in their door, stole their items, and you believe you’re due some money?”

Nikki didn’t flinch. “Yes, I do.”

“For emotional distress?”

“Yes. I shouldn’t be scared of my wife.”

The courtroom erupted in laughter.

The judge smiled. “I’m going to let you prove that to Doyle.”

More laughter.

Doyle – whoever that was – wasn’t in the courtroom. And neither was Nikki’s wife.

The judge waved his hand. “I’m not going to even entertain that.”

The counterclaim was dismissed.

Nikki’s audacity was stunning. She had broken into her grandparents’ home. She had stolen from them. She had caused thousands of dollars in damage. And she wanted them to pay her because she was scared of her own wife?

The judge had seen a lot of nerve in his career.

This was near the top.

Part Nine: The Judge’s Ruling
Judge Mathis made his decision.

“$1,535 is your judgment,” he said to Patricia and William.

He explained. “Whatever she’s contesting regarding property and damage, I’ll give it to you. Any emotional distress to cover it. Even if I do believe her, I’ll give you some more emotional distress.”

The judge was giving the grandparents everything they asked for.

The damage. The stolen items. The emotional distress.

All of it.

Then he turned to Nikki’s counterclaim.

“You can have that $750,” he said sarcastically. “You’ll go ahead and have it.”

Then his voice changed.

“But for me, it’s dismissed.”

The courtroom applauded.

Nikki walked out with nothing.

Patricia and William walked out with a judgment for $1,535 – plus the $300 they had already received, plus the $140 coming in the mail.

Nikki had been clean for a while. She had done her jail time. She had paid most of her restitution.

But she still owed her grandparents.

And she still had the nerve to countersue them.

The Restitution Appears Again
The restitution appeared three times in this story.

First, as a promise. Nikki paid $490 to the court. Some of that money was supposed to go to her grandparents for the damage she caused. It was part of her sentence. Part of her punishment. Part of her path to being clean.

Second, as a problem. Patricia had only received $300 of the $490. The remaining $140 was “supposed to be coming in the mail.” The judge didn’t question this. He just noted it. The restitution system wasn’t perfect. Money got lost. Checks got delayed.

Third, as a defense. Nikki argued that she shouldn’t have to pay more because she had already paid restitution. But the restitution was for the criminal case. The lawsuit was civil. The two weren’t the same. Paying the court didn’t mean her grandparents couldn’t sue her.

The restitution became a symbol of the gap between the criminal justice system and civil justice. Nikki had paid her debt to society. But she hadn’t paid her debt to her grandparents.

The judge made sure she did.

The Food Lion Coin Machine
Let’s talk about the coin machine.

Nikki and her cousin stole a water jug full of change. Pennies, nickels, dimes, quarters. Thousands of coins. Heavy enough that Patricia didn’t know how Nikki carried it.

They went to Food Lion. They ran the coins through the machine. The machine gave them bills.

Then they went to buy drugs.

But the dope man didn’t take pennies. He didn’t take nickels. He didn’t take dimes. He took bills. He took cash.

So the coin machine was a necessary stop. Without it, Nikki couldn’t buy her methadone. Without it, she couldn’t get clean.

The irony is brutal.

Nikki robbed her grandparents to get money to buy methadone to get off heroin. But she had to turn the coins into bills first. So she went to a grocery store. Where she got caught.

If she had just taken cash, she might have gotten away with it.

But she took coins.

And coins led to Food Lion.

And Food Lion led to the police.

And the police led to jail.

And jail led to rehab.

And rehab led to this courtroom.

All because she didn’t have bills.

Martha Stewart in Prison
The Martha Stewart reference was a moment of levity in an otherwise dark story.

Patricia hugged Martha Stewart. In federal prison. While visiting her stepdaughter.

The judge couldn’t resist. “Just Martha Stewart?” he asked about the family’s criminal connections.

The courtroom laughed.

But the laughter covered something serious. Nikki’s mother was in prison for fraud. Nikki was in and out of jail for drugs. The family had a pattern.

Patricia called Nikki a “troublemaker” who was “born to be a criminal.”

Nikki denied saying that about herself.

But the evidence suggested otherwise.

When you’ve been arrested five or six times by your mid-twenties, when your mother is in federal prison, when you kick in your grandfather’s door on Easter Sunday – you don’t have to say you were born to be a criminal.

Your actions say it for you.

What This Case Teaches Us
First: Drug addiction makes people steal from the people who love them most.

Nikki broke into her grandfather’s house. On Easter Sunday. While he was at dinner. She stole his jewelry, his coins, his cash. Not because she hated him. Because she needed heroin.

Second: Restitution and civil judgments are not the same thing.

Nikki paid $490 in restitution through the criminal court. But her grandparents still sued her for damages. She owed both. The criminal system doesn’t wipe out civil liability.

Third: You cannot countersue someone you robbed.

Nikki asked for $750 in emotional distress from her grandparents. The judge didn’t even entertain it. You don’t get to break into someone’s home and then claim they caused you emotional distress. That’s not how the law works.

Fourth: Heroin addicts don’t take pennies to the dope house.

The judge explained this clearly. Drug dealers want bills. They don’t want change. That’s why Nikki went to Food Lion. The coin machine was a necessary step between the robbery and the fix.

Fifth: Sometimes the only way to help an addict is to let them hit bottom.

The judge’s philosophy was stark. You can’t change someone on heroin. You can’t beg them, plead with them, or pray them into sobriety. You have to let them sink to their lowest level. For Nikki, that level was kicking in her grandfather’s door.

The 73-Year-Old Grandfather
William Redford was 73 years old.

He was disabled.

His granddaughter kicked in his door.

She stole from him.

Then she countersued him for emotional distress.

Think about that.

A 73-year-old disabled man. On Easter Sunday. Coming home to find his door splintered, his deadbolt frame destroyed, his jewelry gone, his coins gone, his cash gone.

And the person who did it was his own granddaughter.

Someone he had probably helped. Probably loved. Probably hoped would get clean.

The judge didn’t mention William’s age or disability in his ruling. He didn’t need to. The facts spoke for themselves.

A 73-year-old disabled man should not have to defend himself in court against the granddaughter who robbed him.

But he did.

And he won.

The Final Word
Judge Mathis ended the case with a number and a dismissal.

“$1,535 is your judgment.”

“Your counterclaim? Dismissed.”

“Have a good day.”

The courtroom applauded.

Nikki walked out with nothing. She had her sobriety. She had her recovery. She had done her jail time and paid most of her restitution.

But she still owed her grandparents.

Not just money. An apology. An explanation. A lifetime of making amends.

The judge had given her a chance to show she had changed. She had admitted the robbery. She had admitted the addiction. She had done the rehab.

Then she countersued.

And all that progress meant nothing.

Because you can’t be in recovery and still think you’re owed money by the people you victimized.

Recovery means taking responsibility.

Nikki wasn’t there yet.

The judge hoped she would get there someday.

But he wasn’t holding his breath.