I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate (15 page)

“Good. Judge Donovan knows Lydia well and I think he will be sympathetic.”

“Didn’t you know Judge Donovan is having knee surgery next week? Judge Piercy from Williamstown is taking over.”

“Nancy, quick, what do you know about Judge Piercy?” I explained my reasons for needing to know.

“He’s one of the good guys, but since he’s only going to be in your county for one or two weeks, he’s not going to overturn any of Judge Donovan’s orders.”

“May I ask for another hearing date?”

“Not without good cause,” Nancy replied. “Don’t worry, Judge Piercy has a soft spot for women, if you know what I mean. Use it.”

“Phil,” I asked my husband, “would you be upset if I went to jail for contempt of court?” We were watching the news of a local cocaine bust.

“Over clearing the girl’s name?”

“I’m trying to figure out how to get the judge’s attention in her case. If I make a big enough stink, he’ll either grant what we want or put me in jail.”

“I’ll bail you out, darling. I always will.”

The morning of the hearing Jules Gervais asked me to bring Lydia to the public defender’s office so he could brief her. Lydia was wearing a lime green suit with a starched white collar. Her hair was brushed shiny and pulled back with a matching grosgrain ribbon. With her demure white stockings and flat leather shoes, she looked more ready for a church luncheon than for a criminal court appearance. Heeding Nancy’s advice, I had taken pains with my makeup, selecting a bright lipstick. Not politically correct perhaps, but this was for Lydia’s sake.

Mr. Gervais asked Lydia questions regarding her initial plea. Then, while thumbing through the court file, stumbled on something. “Hey, what do you know?” He grinned like he had found the Cracker Jack prize. “Look here! The most honorable Judge Piercy was also the replacement judge the day Miss Ryan was sent to juvenile detention.”

“Oh, no,” Lydia whimpered.

Confused by the contrasting reactions, I turned from Lydia to Jules. “What’s good about that?”

“Visiting judges don’t like to overturn each other’s decisions. Out of respect, they either uphold them or defer the ruling until the original judge returns. But, if Judge Piercy could be moved to realize that he might have erred the first time, there’s a possibility he’ll give Lydia another chance.”

We walked from the public defender’s dingy offices in the basement of the old courthouse across the street to the new courthouse. Already the Florida sun was blazing down, but beside me Lydia was trembling like a palm frond in a gale.

“Whatever happens, Lydia, you are not going back to jail,” I reminded her.

“But I’ll be known as a criminal for the rest of my life,” she said, her face stricken with shame.

When we took our seats on the bench, someone slipped beside us. “I got off from work,” June Fowler said, and squeezed Lydia’s hand.

Lydia sagged with relief. “Thank you for being here with me, both of you. I know whatever happens that you’ve tried your best. And I’ve prayed to Jesus and told him that I shall listen to his will. If the judge doesn’t believe me, I won’t ask for my record to be cleared. I know I have sinned, so if this is how I have to pay, I accept it.”

June nodded approvingly, but my heart froze as I resolved not to leave the courtroom without winning her a victory, if only to prove to Lydia that she was a better person than she believed herself to be.

“Did you bring them?” Lydia asked me suddenly.

“What?”

“The handcuffs.” She had taken me literally! I explained that I hadn’t been serious, at least about the handcuffs.

“That’s all right,” Lydia said solemnly, “it wouldn’t have worked anyway.”

“Why?”

“Look around this place. Everything is real smooth wood. There isn’t a single place to attach handcuffs.”

After more than an hour Lydia Ryan’s case was called. Together Lydia and I walked to the podium in front of the judge. Merv Harmon explained that Lydia Ryan was present for the final disposition on her two counts of aggravated assault with a deadly weapon. He said that she had served time in juvenile detention and was on probation. Something in his flat, condemning tone irritated me. Mr. Harmon knew the whole charge was phony, so why didn’t he lighten up?

When he paused, I jumped in. “But she didn’t do it to begin with.”

Jules stepped in front of me, and said under his breath, “Not yet. I’ll tell you when to speak.”

I flushed with embarrassment. There was some discussion over days served and prior offenses. The delinquency caseworker explained that Lydia’s probation record had been perfect, that she was a model student, and she hadn’t been in any further trouble.

Surprising me, Jules Gervais then entered a creative argument. “When this incident occurred, Miss Ryan’s parents were upset with her defiant behavior and were so angry that it was thought she might be abused by them. At that time she did not qualify for foster care or any HRS programs, so for her own safely juvenile detention was suggested as an alternative.”

Huh? was my reaction. Since when had Lydia been sent to jail for her own protection?

“I think the person who knows this case best is her guardian, Mrs. Courter. I would like to ask her to speak
now”
he finished by emphasizing the last word.

I didn’t dare contradict the defense’s story about why she had been placed in jail, but this was my only chance to straighten the official record. “Your Honor, the point is that Lydia Ryan never put any baby in any microwave oven. There was no baby. There was no oven. There were no assaults with a deadly weapon.”

“You can’t retry this case now,” said Merv Harmon, rising to his feet.

I pulled out a piece of paper from the top of my file and waved it at Judge Piercy. “This is an expungement from the child abuse registry written by the district administrator of HRS. Based on my petition, they completed a thorough investigation of the matter and have officially wiped their records clean of this incident.” (The fact that they had done it on a technicality did not matter at the moment.)

The judge waited for anyone else to speak. There was no response, so I plunged on. “It’s true that in the past Lydia Ryan has had difficulties with school and other adjustments, but she is not a criminal. Given the support of loving foster parents and concerned teachers, she has blossomed. She is on the honor roll and will graduate next year, even though she had to make up several years of lost time. She has remained free from trouble, has a part-time job, has taken an active role in church activities, and is a responsible baby-sitter for the younger children in her home. A few months ago she reached her eighteenth birthday. The former prosecutor had told her that her record would be clean, but because of a bureaucratic mistake, this turned out not to be true.” I took a breath. “If anyone ever deserved a chance to start a new life as an adult, it is Lydia Ryan.”

I took a quick breath and started to launch into another argument, but the judge interrupted me. “Guardian, what is it that you want?”

“I want the charges to go away. She never did it, so it never happened. I want the case dismissed.”

Merv Harmon shot up. “You can’t do that! She pled guilty. She served her time. You cannot dismiss a case after the fact.”

“She never should have been talked into pleading no contest in the first place,” I retorted. “She was confused and upset and was led to believe the charges would be dropped if she did that.”

“You can’t rewrite the law,” Mr. Harmon retorted defiantly.

Why was he fighting so hard? Was it just a legal reflex or did he really want to see Lydia’s punishment continue?

“Does HRS have any objection to what the guardian is proposing?” the judge inquired.

“No, Your Honor,” the delinquency caseworker answered. “I wish every kid turned out as well as Lydia has.” I stared hard at him. He received my nonverbal message and plowed on. “She’s a terrific kid, one of the best,” he stated with some theatrical verve.

I sighed with relief and turned back to the judge, who was rubbing his chin.

“Guardian, are you a lawyer?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“That’s why you don’t realize what you are asking for is hardly ever done.”

“Does that mean that this is an irrefutable point of procedure or that it is very rarely invoked?”

“It’s hardly ever used.”

“Then, Your Honor,” I said slowly and allowed a smile to fill my face, “please consider it now. Sometimes justice falls through the cracks.” I was warmed up and on a roll. “Sometimes people in a busy court make mistakes. Sometimes anger and confusion camouflage the truth. If there ever was a time to invoke a special provision, that time is today.”

“I don’t like to overturn one of Judge Donovan’s decisions,” the judge muttered.

Jules Gervais lit up. “This may be a coincidence, Your Honor, but on the date Lydia Ryan was sentenced, you heard the case.”

The judge glanced at his file, then peered over his reading glasses at Lydia. “I have never done this before, but I am going to take a chance on you. There are people in this courtroom who care about you and believe in you. Since HRS and your guardian agree, your case is dismissed. It never happened. You can begin again. Remember, this is a very special opportunity. I never want to see you in a courtroom again.” He handed the file to his clerk.

Lydia’s face was frozen in confusion.

“That’s it,” I whispered.

“What?” she mumbled.

“We won.”

“Won?” she echoed.

I kicked her heel and leaned close to her ear. “Say, thank you.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” she said under her breath.

With my hands still on her shoulders I marched her down the aisle. I glanced at Merv Harmon, who was shaking his head in disbelief. The delinquency caseworker grinned. June stood by the double oak doors and held them open. Outside Lillian was waiting. I hadn’t seen her come in. As soon as I looked at her, I burst into tears. My emotional release surprised me and I fumbled for a tissue.

Before I could wipe my tears, Mr. Gervais pumped my hand. “Amazing. Never seen anyone do that before! A landmark decision. Will you argue all my cases for me?”

Lillian hugged me. “You were magnificent.”

“No, Lydia was.”

“What happened?” a perplexed Lydia asked her foster mother.

June shook her head. “I’m not sure, but I think it is terrific.”

“Merv was furious,” Jules commented slyly to Lillian.

“Why shouldn’t he want to give a kid a break?” Lillian asked in her molasses-sweet voice.

“Just his style,” Jules replied with a shrug. “Can’t stand losing. He fights just as hard to put the abusers away.”

“How did you come up with all that truth and justice and the American way stuff?” Jules asked me.

“Too much television, I guess.”

“I didn’t want you to stop,” Lillian said proudly.

“Superb strategy,” complimented Jules.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Not giving up until you won your case.”

“You think the judge gave in just to shut me up?”

“Exactly. I couldn’t have gotten away with it, just like I couldn’t have asked for the dismissal.” Jules shook Lydia’s hand. “You are a lucky young lady today. From what I hear, you deserve it. I wish you good fortune in your life from now on.” He slipped back in the courtroom.

Lillian followed him to the door. “I have another case too. But this has made my day—no, my year!”

“It’s only the last day of January.”

“Nothing will top this,” she said, smiling like the pope blessing the crowd.

I felt so buoyant I could almost float out of the courthouse. “C’mon,” I said to the others. “I’m taking everyone to lunch.”

2
All the Possibilities
The Stevenson Family

Something turns over in the heart, like the black side of a mirror turned to the light. I’m exhausted by the thought of all the possibilities that are lost.

—
WENDELL BERRY

I
HAD BEEN A GUARDIAN OVER A YEAR BY THE TIME I MET
Lydia, and by then I was accustomed to being in the courtroom. Without my prior experience, I would never have the boldness to ask for her case to be dismissed. When I received my very first assignment, however, I was very much the novice, and by the luck of the draw had landed one of the most complex cases in the circuit at the time. As the story unraveled, I realized that while I had been trained to handle most of the circumstances, I had never expected to have so many problems in one family as well as to have to participate in a criminal prosecution. I was a rookie, and yet the first time I ever attended a trial I was there to advocate for Alicia Stevenson, a fifteen-year-old girl who allegedly had been sexually molested by her natural father for almost ten years. I had known Alicia and her two brothers—whom I also represented because one guardian usually handled all the children in a family—for many months, and although I was concerned with their feelings about testifying, I had not considered my own emotional reaction as I took my place in the courtroom on the opening day of the trial. All the events leading to this moment had not prepared me for the realization that a man’s future was at stake, and that my actions had the power to influence what happened to him.

I almost expected to be exposed as an imposter. Everyone else—from the bailiff to the court reporter to the judge—belonged here. I was an outsider. In the weeks leading up to the trial, I had felt that nobody would pay attention to my opinions, but on the contrary, I had been met with respect. During the pretrial meetings, I had discussed one particular concern with Grace Chandler, the assistant state attorney, who was the prosecutor for the case.

“I don’t want the defense questioning Alicia about her sexual experience with the boys she dates because it isn’t relevant.”

To my surprise, Grace Chandler not only agreed but thanked me for reminding her. She even photocopied the appropriate statutes to have them ready to quote.

Once over the hurdle of being rebuffed completely, I asked, “What about clearing the courtroom during the children’s testimony?”

“As the Guardian ad Litem you can request that.”

That sounded simple enough, but how would I do it when the time came? The time had come. The participants were filing into the courtroom. I watched as Alicia’s father, Richard “Red” Stevenson, took his seat at the table with his defense attorney. I knew all about his dysfunctional upbringing and hard luck story, but I represented and supported his children. Everything I felt about him was based on how it affected Alicia and her brothers, Cory and Rich. So no matter what the father had suffered, I did not believe he had a right to inflict his perversities on anyone else, least of all his offspring.

As people milled around the courtroom waiting for the proceedings to begin, I felt as hollow as a dried gourd. This was not a dramatization. A man was charged with a heinous crime, and if judged guilty of sexually molesting his daughter before her twelfth birthday, he would be subjected to a minimum mandatory sentence of twenty-five years in prison. His accuser—his daughter—was a troubled child. She would have to take the stand, and with her father’s eyes boring into her, reveal her humiliating story in public. Her younger brother, Cory, whom I also represented, did not believe her and was going to testify against his sister. Her older brother, Rich, sided with Alicia and was scheduled to describe his father’s sexual molestation of him as well. There were other children, including Alicia’s friends and a stepdaughter from a previous marriage, who were willing to testify that they had been raped by Alicia’s father, but it was uncertain whether the judge would allow them to come forward.

In the preceding months I had gotten to know the three Stevenson children and care deeply for them, but now it was out of my hands. The trial had been set in motion. The complaint centered around the few times Alicia could recall dates and circumstances. Since having sex with a child under twelve brought a much stiffer sentence, her father’s guilt hinged on pinpointing the exact dates that incidents took place as well as giving the precise locations of any crime that occurred within the boundaries of our county. This was complicated by the fact that until very recently Alicia had never told anyone of the abuse or tried to run away. Would a jury understand how a child could feel that these experiences were an expression—albeit a distorted one—of her father’s love and not want to be separated from him?

Alicia and her brothers were not permitted in the courtroom because they were testifying. I was there for them, and the magnitude of the responsibility made me tremble as I saw the door from the judge’s chambers open. I consciously had to release my fingers from gripping the edge of the maple bench so I could respond as the bailiff called out, “All rise!”

The afternoon I first met Alicia I was at least as apprehensive as she was. The file—the first I had ever received—revealed that she had confided her father’s sexual molestation to a neighbor, who had contacted the child abuse hotline. Police had been summoned and she had been removed from the home. After a week in a shelter, she was placed in Ruth Levy’s foster home.

“You’ll love Alicia,” Ruth said with conviction when I called to introduce myself and set up an appointment to visit Alicia.

Ruth mentioned that Alicia’s younger brother, Cory, who had not wanted to leave his father, was in a foster home more than forty miles away, and her older brother, Rich, had become uncontrollable in the latest of his many foster homes, and nobody knew where he had been transferred.

“Why are the kids separated?” I asked naively.

“There’s not a foster home in the system that will take three mixed-sex teen siblings,” Ruth explained as if she were patiently teaching a child. “Long before Alicia’s problem was discovered, I had Rich here for two nights. Never again. We must have had a hundred kids at one time or another, but he’s the only one my husband won’t allow back in the house. In fact, when he heard the name ‘Stevenson,’ he almost didn’t give permission for Alicia.”

“The file doesn’t say much about Alicia’s mother. Do you know anything about her?”

“She hasn’t been around for at least ten years. Her father remarried four or five times since. The guy must have something, but when I saw him in court he looked pretty creepy to me.”

“Are there any other relatives?”

“A grandfather, but he is siding with the father against Alicia.”

The trip to Mrs. Levy’s home took forty-five minutes. I didn’t understand why Alicia had been placed so far from her residence, neighbors, friends, and school, not to mention her brothers. Her foster home was a U-shaped ranch house on a suburban cul-de-sac across the street from a pond.

Ruth Levy wore tight black knitted slacks and an oversized T-shirt hand-painted with daisies. Her figure might be described as maternal and her voice had a decided Long Island honk. Ruth explained that she was an experienced foster parent, having cared for foster children in New York before moving to Florida, where her husband had taken a job in the electric power industry. Right now there were four other foster girls under her care, each of whom had a laundry list of serious problems.

Although nobody else was home yet, Ruth’s voice dropped. “I don’t know how to say this, but Alicia displays some inappropriate behaviors.”

“What do you mean?”

“She kisses people full on the mouth, even her brothers. And some of the other girls have seen her showing her breasts off to boys in school.”

Before I could respond, we heard the sound of the front door opening. When Alicia walked in the house her eyes were cast down. Ruth waved her over to meet me and she reluctantly took a seat.

“Hi, I’m Gay, your Guardian ad Litem. Do you know what that means?” Alicia shook her head. I told her that I would be there through the entire court process, including a trial if there was one, and that I would still be involved until she left foster care at eighteen.

“Are you going to tell me what to do?”

“No, in fact I will try to tell everyone what you think is best for you.”

Alicia looked up for the first time and stared at me with her cobalt blue eyes. “What if you don’t agree with what I want?” As she blinked her naturally thick lashes, her lower lip protruded with a Bardot-like pout. I was taken aback by her beguiling expression, first because it was so winsome, but also because it had such a smoky, sensual quality.

“We’d talk about it and I would try to understand your point of view.”

Her lower lip receded slightly and her eyes widened. She gave Ruth a sidelong glance. “Let’s say I didn’t want to live here anymore.” She sat back and crossed her arms.

Did Alicia want to leave Ruth’s, or was this a test? “If you really don’t want to live here, then you and I would talk about why you are unhappy, look at the possibilities, and ask HRS to move you to a situation you would prefer.”

“And what if they refused?” asked Alicia, who already knew the system far better than I did.

“Then we would go to the judge and tell him what you wanted. Don’t forget, though, he makes the final decision.”

Alicia reached over and hugged Ruth. “You know I was kidding, don’t you?”

Ruth made a playful fist and pummeled her cheek affectionately. “You had better have been, Ally-Oop, or I would have lost my best girl.”

I decided to take Alicia out for a snack so we could talk privately. Alicia pranced down the walk, swinging her pocketbook and her rear in time to a song in her head. Her foster sisters looked on jealously.

“I’m the only one who has a guardian,” she said, tossing her head in their direction as she slipped into my car. When I turned on the motor, the preselected classical music station blared a violin solo. Alicia made a sour face and pulled out a tape. “Mind if I put this in?”

Without waiting for a reply, she did. The beat was insistent, the vocalist screeching, but I made out the words: “Youth gone wild.” I glanced over at Alicia, who said, “Sometimes that’s how I feel.” The next time we were together, Alicia brought another tape, already reeled down to a new song called “Here I Am,” with another message for me. Soon I learned to expect the tapes, for they were Alicia’s way of telegraphing what was happening with her. That first time, however, before I could follow the lyrics further, Alicia stopped singing and said, “I guess I should tell you that I have been doing something illegal.”

We had turned onto the main highway from the Levys’ subdivision. I kept my eyes on the road and steadied my voice. “What’s that?”

“My boyfriend, Lou, and me, we’re … you know … doing it.”

“What’s illegal about that?”

“He’s nineteen.”

“Then he’s the one who is illegal, not you. And if you want it to happen, nobody’s going to prosecute him.”

“Oh, I want it all right. I love Lou.”

“Tell me about him …,” I began, while my mind was spinning with concerns about birth control and AIDS as well as the implications for the court case. When we pulled into Hardee’s parking lot, Alicia was gossiping about where they had gone, what they had done, when and how. Suddenly any preconceived notions of what I would do as Alicia’s guardian dissolved and I was swept along in her chattering tide.

What had I expected? Someone more withdrawn, someone who seemed like a victim? Someone less overtly sexy? If I was struck by her blatant sensuality, how would a jury feel? Was she receiving counseling that would help her understand why she had affected this persona? I realized I didn’t know very much about her at all. Even though she was the center of the abuse complaint, I did not have much about her history. The Stevenson file was mostly filled with papers relating to her older brother.

The case of Richard Leroy Stevenson, born September 2, 1972, had been opened officially in 1977 when he had been placed in a residential treatment facility for severely disturbed children. From that time he had undergone an exponentially multiplying series of examinations, programs, placements, and interventions.

There were hints that Rich was a troubled child from the moment he entered kindergarten at the Sawgrass Primary School. After a few months, he was taken out of the regular classroom and placed in a group for emotionally handicapped children. Notes in the file indicated that he arrived at school with multiple bruises. His parents had said he was an active, uncontrollable child. Soon he became so disruptive in school, the family agreed to allow the state to place him in the family cottage section of a psychiatric hospital, then he was switched to their high-risk treatment center. After two psychiatric evaluations, seven-year-old Rich was returned to his home and attended the Treetops School, a county facility for chronically emotionally and physically challenged children. When Rich became unmanageable there, it was decided that his home life was too unstable and he was placed into foster care. A year later, Rich’s foster parents rejected him, so he was admitted to Wilson Hospital’s inpatient psychiatric unit. When he improved after only a month, he was transferred to the state’s most expensive residential psychiatric program: Panther Ridge.