I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate (21 page)

“What’s this?” I asked the clerk.

“They get an FBI number when they’ve been charged with a felony,” she explained. The clerk pointed out an arrest sheet from 1979. Tammy had been charged with defrauding an innkeeper by passing a bad check to pay a bar tab. Her last known address was a rural delivery box five miles from the groves. I looked at the signature of the officer who had arrested her: Glen Cunningham. I blinked and stared again. Glen was the father of one of my children’s friends. No longer on the police force, he had started a landscaping business. All of a sudden I decided that I needed something to control the black spots on my rosebushes.

Not only did Glen Cunningham have the right chemical composition for my horticultural problem, he remembered Tammy Stevenson Hamburg very well.

“Not a bad kid, just immature. We were in middle school together, and even then she could drink the boys under the table. Cute little thing, good dancer, but she got messed up with that fellow who took her to Oklahoma and dumped her, then came back married to Red Stevenson. When he started running around on her, she took up with another guy who ended up in jail. Really knew how to pick ‘em, didn’t she?”

“What happened to Tammy?”

“I heard she moved away with the kid she had with the last guy.”

I explained that I wanted to find Tammy for her daughter’s sake. “Do you know where I would start?”

Glen shuffled his feet. “You have a court order, right?” I nodded. “You have her DOB and Social Security number?” I nodded again. “You give them to me and I’ll see what I can do.”

“But you’re not still on the force?”

“You want me to try or not?”

“Thanks, Glen,” I said, and paid for the bug spray.

On my way back from the nursery I made a slight detour and went by Cory Stevenson’s foster home. I was amazed how both Birdie and Patty seem equally in touch with the mental, emotional, and physical needs of their diverse charges, and Cory was doing splendidly there. Within two weeks Cory had been placed in a special program at his new middle school, had seen Dr. Goldberg, and was on a waiting list for therapy at the county clinic, although he could not get a preliminary appointment for several months. Dr. Goldberg diagnosed Cory as being hyperactive and having a respiratory infection, but too much time had taken place since his bowel problems to diagnose any abuse.

Even though I was at peace about Cory, I still worried about Rudy and Chris languishing at the MacDougals. To clear my conscience, I had written Lillian a letter stating that I had serious concerns about the suitability of that home for any child and asked that she should pass on the letter to anyone she thought should see it.

After your experiences at the two meetings with HRS, including the one with Mrs. MacDougal, as well as the visit to her home, you and Nancy might agree that there are indications that this family’s style of child rearing leaves much to be desired. My notes document an authoritarian approach, threatening attitude, verbal abuse, humiliation, expectations far exceeding a child’s emotional and developmental level, punishments with extreme time limits, work and chores above and beyond normal household patterns, and general lack of knowledge regarding contemporary parenting skills.

Further, in her dealings with me, Renata MacDougal routinely told lies about me and others. She would not permit the siblings to visit and kept this Guardian ad Litem from the home for more than two months until a court and HRS ordered a visit. She never took Cory for medical or therapy appointments, despite frequent requests to do so.

On the surface Renata MacDougal presents well and has complicated reasoning behind most of her actions. However, underneath lies a controlling aspect that might be more relevant in the management of a prison camp than a foster home. Since almost all my contacts with Mrs. MacDougal have been confrontational, I have documented this case carefully. These notes might be of use to some future investigator. Other persons who have been associated with this family have also voiced concerns about the destructive nature of that environment.

I understand that there is a scarcity of foster homes, and that the MacDougal family has been willing to take difficult cases, but my sense is that no child is well served by a placement there. At best, children in foster care need more emotional support than that family provides. At worst, serious psychological harm could come from putting children with fragile self-concepts there for any length of time. Perhaps this home meets all current HRS standards—at least on paper—but I believe a much more in-depth analysis of that home should be undertaken, with particular emphasis on the mental health of the parents.

Please understand that the spirit of this letter is not spiteful or vindictive. My only concern is to protect the children there now or in the future.

 

Lillian told me the letter had been forwarded to Phyllis Cady and that Rudy and Chris had been assigned guardians of their own. Satisfied, I concentrated on the Stevensons.

Cory ran out to meet me as I pulled in the driveway. Birdie Rose followed carrying the baby. “I once drove this car!” he said to Birdie and stroked the Thunderbird’s hood.

Birdie chuckled. “I taught Cory to suction Manuel and he’s great with the baby too. I think he likes being the oldest child and being responsible.” She shifted the baby to her shoulder and went back in the house.

Leaning against my car, I brought Cory up-to-date on some of the issues that concerned him. His father was getting out of jail in two weeks and we set a date for his first supervised meeting.

“So how’s it going here?” I asked.

“I love this place. Birdie and Patty are always fair, not like Mrs. MacDougal. She had a favorite, which was Rudy, and she would bust me for doing stuff, but never Rudy.”

“What do you mean by ‘bust’?”

“You know, get more chores to do. There was no dust allowed in that house, not a single speck, so we cleaned every day.” He changed to a high-pitched voice. “Mrs. MacDougal was Little Miss Perfect. She always found something wrong with whatever you did.”

“I remember that bathroom by the bedroom was really tidy. How did you keep it so clean?”

“Oh, that was the easiest one!” Cory giggled. “We weren’t allowed in it.”

“But it was the one between your bedrooms.”

“The only toilet and shower we could use were the ones in the garage.”

“Even in the middle of the night?”

He nodded. “I should have told you, but Mrs. MacDougal warned me not to trust the Guardian ad Litem.”

“Have I ever lied to you about anything so far?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Was Mrs. MacDougal always truthful with you?”

“No, she lied all the time.” He grinned. “Hey, don’t worry, I trust you now.”

Three days later I returned to my office from lunch and found a note on my desk that read: Cunningham Nursery called to say your order is in.

I dialed Glen Cunningham at once. While waiting for him to come to the phone, my pulse resounded in my temples.

Glen didn’t waste any time with a greeting. “Her name now is Tammy Spate. Her address is post office box 9190, Mead, Washington.”

“Where’s that?”

“Outside of Spokane.”

“That’s about as far away from Florida as you can get.”

“You said it. Want her phone number?”

“How’d you do it?”

“I have my sources.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “How are the roses?”

“Haven’t killed them yet.” Then I thanked him and hung up.

It was noon. Nine o’clock in the morning in Washington State. Should I just pick up the phone and say: Hi, your daughter—remember her, the one you abandoned ten years ago?—wants to know if you love her. I felt dizzy and put my head down on my desk. Here was a woman who had left her children, who had a police record, who probably had been—or still was—a substance abuser. She had married Red Stevenson, who not only had sexually abused his daughter, but may very well have done the same to several of her girlfriends and a stepdaughter. Now she had started a life with a new man and had tried to put her past far behind her. What did I think I was doing meddling in her life? On the other hand maybe she was so settled and so happy that she would welcome her other children. Maybe she had loved them all along but had literally been chased off by Red and his rifle.

I went to the office kitchen and made myself a cup of spice tea. After a few sips, I felt calmer. What was the worst thing that could happen? Tammy could hang up on me, reject her children through me. They would never have to know. I could handle the disappointment and move on from there. The tea was bitter in my mouth. I returned to the kitchen and added a large teaspoon of sugar.

After I finished the tea, I wondered what the Stevenson children might gain. Could this be their ticket out of foster care? If Rich Jr. had the love and support of his very own mother, even he might overcome his horrible predicament. Then I conjured up Tammy standing at an airport gate her arms outstretched welcoming her long-lost children into her life. I knew it was a long shot, but it was the only one I had.

I didn’t contact Tammy that day, or the next.

I made guesses as to the best time to call, finally settling on Saturday at nine-thirty in the morning, a time her kids might be watching cartoons and she might not be too busy, yet too early for her to be out running errands. I wrote down a few lines and tried them out on my husband. (Although I kept the names and details of cases confidential and never let him see the files, Phil could not help overhearing some of my phone conversations or wanting to know where I was going and what I was doing, if only for safety reasons. I often discussed the theories of how to approach a case with him, and his advice and viewpoints have been invaluable.)

When I worried about disrupting Tammy’s life, he asked, “Do you represent her or her children?” Then he said, “I think you should record the phone call.”

“That’s illegal!”

“Think of what you have to gain.”

“The click of the phone if she hangs up on me.”

“Exactly! The kid needs to hear it, otherwise she’s going to continue with her fantasy forever.” He came around and massaged my tense shoulder blades. “And what if the mother says something wonderful, like she wants to see her children? Wouldn’t it be great for her daughter to hear those words in her mother’s voice?”

“How would I do it?”

“I’ll set it up for you. Which phone do you want to use?”

With great reluctance I allowed Phil to put the tape in place, figuring I’d deal with the consequences later. What follows is a transcript of that call, with some minor editing for clarity, confidentiality, and deletions of extraneous or overlapping comments.

TAMMY:
Hello.

GAY:
Hi, is this Tammy?

TAMMY:
This is she.

GAY:
Hi, my name is Gay, and I’m calling because your daughter, Alicia, asked me to help her find you.

TAMMY:
Oh?

GAY:
In Florida.

TAMMY.
Yeah?

GAY:
Is this a good time to talk or should I—

TAMMY:
It’s fine, it’s fine.

GAY:
I don’t think you’ve been in touch with the family for many years and you probably don’t know what’s been going on.

TAMMY:
NO, I don’t. The last I heard was more than ten years ago, and I was told they did not want me to have any contact with them.

GAY:
Well, in the last six months—there’s been some legal problems with Mr. Stevenson, their father. He was accused of sexually abusing Alicia, and some of Alicia’s girlfriends, and also Rich—

TAMMY.
Rich was accused of it too?

GAY:
No, Mr. Stevenson, the father, was accused of abusing Rich. And so Alicia and Rich were taken away from Mr. Stevenson and put in foster homes. They left Cory there because there was no indication that he was abused. But Alicia and Rich were real worried about their brother and they went to court and stood up there and very bravely told the judge that they thought their brother was at risk and they got him removed from their father’s home.

TAMMY:
Okay, good.

GAY:
The current situation is that Mr. Stevenson is going to have a criminal trial coming up. That’s the way I got to know Alicia and all the children. I volunteered to be something called a Guardian ad Litem, where I represent the children’s best interests and I make sure they are in good foster homes and they are getting their medical and psychological care and no lawyers are giving them a hard time. I stand there as the adult when they can’t speak for themselves.

TAMMY:
That’s good.

GAY:
And one of my jobs has been to get to know the kids real well, and I’m very fond of Alicia. We were out to eat and she said she always wondered what happened to her mom and could I help her find you. I didn’t know if I was allowed to do that or how difficult it was to find somebody, but I asked the people in the office I work with if I was allowed to do that and they said yes. And so it wasn’t very hard because it was just following the addresses. And I guess HRS—that’s the foster care agency—they never even went looking for you.

TAMMY:
There was a lot going on when Red, their father, and I divorced. He and my father didn’t want me to see the children. However, I tried several times to see them.

GAY:
That’s what Alicia said. She remembers you coming to the house and she wonders if you wanted to see her or wondered what ever happened to her.