I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate (26 page)

vs.

THE FLORIDA DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH AND REHABILITATIVE SERVICES and CONRAD MACDOUGAL
, and his wife,
RENATA MACDOUGAL
, Individually and as agents for
THE FLORIDA DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH AND REHABILITATIVE SERVICES
,

Respondents.

 

I had never before been involved in a lawsuit. I scanned the petition, which listed the property in exhibit A and explained that “the petitioner was entitled on behalf of Cory Stevenson, a minor child, to possession of the property based upon the fact that the property was gifts to the minor child and that the property was wrongfully detained by the MacDougals and HRS, who believed they could retain the property because they had a right to use the same for other children who came into their care.”

I called Nancy and asked what would happen next. “You are not going to believe this, but I just got off the phone with Calvin Reynolds, HRS’s attorney. He states he will fight us through any court because he can’t let this become a precedent.”

“Do you mean we’re going to have a trial for the cowboy boots and the Walkman?”

“Yes, and I’m delighted. If we win, it will warn other foster parents not to do the same.”

When I saw Nancy in court the following week, she pulled me aside. “Want an update on the ‘Scrooge Suit’?”

“The what?”

“Have you forgotten Cory’s cowboy boots?” she said in a mock-stern voice. “We’re calling Mrs. MacDougal ‘the mother who stole Christmas.’ There’s a hearing next Thursday to decide whether the case will be heard in civil or dependency court.”

“Should I attend?”

“No, it’s just a technical matter and will take five minutes.”

Late Thursday, though, Nancy called me from her home. “Kit Thorndike has a decision on Mrs. Scrooge.”

“Already?” I asked, disappointed that I had not been present.

“It was totally unexpected. After Calvin handed Judge Donovan the documents, he looked up and bellowed, ‘Is this about a foster kid’s cowboy boots?’ Calvin started to argue the case right then and there, and Thorn didn’t stop him. Calvin yammered on about not interfering in a foster parent’s decision. Then Thorn explained how Mrs. MacDougal had listed the gifts at an HRS meeting and had shown them to two guardians. ‘How far are you prepared to take this case?’ the judge asked Calvin, who mumbled something about going to the highest court. ‘Oh no you won’t,’ Judge Donovan retorted. ‘I hereby order you to go to that foster home within twenty days and get every single item belonging to that child and to return it to him at once. If some of the articles are missing or broken, you are to get their value in cash from the foster parents. And I do not ever want to hear any mention of this matter in my court, or any other, again.’ “ Nancy paused and chuckled. “So, the Scrooge Suit is over.”

“And Cory will get everything back?”

“Yes, and I’m very pleased,” Nancy said, sighing contentedly for the first time I could recall.

Dr. Newman intercepted my phone call to Rich, who was in a group meeting. “Richard is doing much better. He made it to A-level status—that’s the one with the most privileges—and has maintained it for several weeks. When he slips up, we ask, ‘Is that your best A-level behavior?’ That’s usually enough to get him to comply. His caseworker is arranging something with a psychiatric facility that has an adolescent outpatient program called Garrison House.”

Mitzi Zeller couldn’t wait to tell me about the facility in Sarasota. Connected with Garrison Memorial Hospital’s psychiatric department, Garrison House was a pilot project to prepare adolescent children for independent living. Residents in the program ranged from age sixteen to twenty and lived in two-story duplexes. Placement was difficult to arrange, but they had tentatively agreed to take Rich, pending a report from Dr. Newman.

“Will he continue to receive therapy?”

“Counseling by the live-in staff is ongoing, but not of a formalized nature. If he needs individual sessions, he can make his own appointments at the Garrison Clinic and will get himself there using public transportation. Buses pass right by the complex. He’ll be using them to get to his job and to school.”

“But Rich hasn’t even completed middle school.”

“He’ll be tested and placed appropriately, probably in night education classes. This is a reality-based program. The residents do their own shopping, cook under supervision, have bank accounts that they must balance. Everything is designed to prepare them for living independently while offering them support if they make mistakes.”

“Do you think Rich is ready for this?” I asked skeptically.

“We’re under a mandate to select the least restrictive environment for him.”

“Does Garrison House know about his history of violence?”

“They have his file. Dr. Newman thinks he may do well with more autonomy.”

“Mitzi, I’m his advocate, but you don’t hear me begging to have him out on the streets, at least not until I see some evidence of self-control.”

“The case manager for the special assessment team has decided on Garrison House.”

Maybe I had missed something in Rich’s bulging file. I sorted the papers by date, then pulling out a yellow highlighter, tried to find some evidence of preparation for Garrison House.

Rich hated guidelines of any kind. Most of his placements had failed due to his uncontrollable aggressions. One foster mother reported that when he was given a list of their family’s rules, he said, “You want me to circle the ones I will follow?” Later that same day he ran off, taking the foster father’s machete. Another time, when Mitzi tried to calm Rich on the phone, he threw the phone against the wall, cracking the hard plastic shell. Worse, in recent weeks, he had become increasingly delusional, telling everyone his father killed his wife and now had a contract out on his life. His doctor reported that he complained of being dizzy and fuzzy and his excuse for his behavior lapses was that he “couldn’t think straight.”

There were more arrests in his HRS files than I had located in the police records. A joy ride with a friend in a neighbor’s car had led to a charge of grand theft auto. He had at least three breaking and entering notations, had been picked up for bringing a .44 Magnum to the high school and threatening a student. The gun turned out to belong to his father, who, he told Mitzi, “sleeps with a gun.”

Rich’s file contained several references to his interest in firearms. He related an incident shortly after Christmas to a therapist. Rich and his father were quarreling when his father handed him a gun and said, “Why don’t you shoot me if you hate me so much?” The report said that Rich had taken the gun and loaded it, then explained, “I couldn’t do nothin’, not even point it at my dad. Instead I pointed it at myself. But I couldn’t even do that right.”

Another therapist reported that Rich described watching his father have intercourse with his sister, saying he said he had felt “dizzy and sick, like I wanted to throw up.” Rich had readily admitted drug and alcohol abuse, saying he preferred marijuana but that he had “done rock” (crack cocaine) and liked to “huff gasoline.” The therapist suggested that this wasn’t as much a thrill-seeking diversion as Rich’s way of seeking consolation from his misery.

Rich’s suicide attempt by jumping out of the window of one of his shelter homes—and his other discussions about ways to “off” himself—did not surprise me. What did this boy have to live for? There was not a single person in his life who was there unconditionally for him—not a parent, grandparent, teacher, neighbor. His yearning to blot out the terrifying past, ignore the suffocating present, and suspend concerns about the formidable obstacles of the future was utterly comprehensible.

I considered whether to tell Rich about finding Tammy. Did he really believe she was dead? When I mentioned this to Alicia, she explained that one of their stepmothers—Peggy, whom Rich had liked the best—had had an automobile accident when Rich was about fifteen. After she was released from the hospital, she never returned to their home. Perhaps he adjusted to that loss by pretending—or convincing himself—that she had died. I had heard that when a child was separated from an idealized parent, he had to work through the grieving process. Some children “killed off the missing parent in their minds, which may have accounted for why Rich claimed his biological mother as well as Peggy was dead. Wasn’t it far easier to think they had died rather than contemplate the possibility that they had not returned home because they had rejected him?

The truth was, of course, that Peggy and Tammy and the other mothers had forsaken Rich and his siblings emotionally. Otherwise they would not have allowed them to be abused by Red. I also knew that studies indicated that once a child suffered through three major separations, he might be considered unsalvageable. No reason to add another mother with the power to reject him quite yet. I decided to wait until Rich was more settled before I gave him the news about Tammy’s reappearance.

Ruth Levy cared deeply for Alicia, of this I was certain, but Ruth ran a busy group home for as few as three or as many as seven adolescent girls. None of Alicia’s foster sisters was the model of decorum or psychological health. They arrived physically battered, sexually abused, emotionally neglected. They had been pawns in custody cases, raised by mentally ill parents, or were victims of tragedies. A few came from inpatient psychiatric beds, some were on antipsychotic or antidepressive medications. Some were at high risk for suicide. By comparison, Alicia was remarkably stable. As Alicia’s advocate, I beheld the parade of other children from her viewpoint and came to resent the drain on Ruth Levy’s energy, emotions, health, and stamina. Whenever I visited Alicia, her major complaints centered around the latest in a long line of roommates. Invariably they stole her clothes, messed with her possessions, created problems for her at school. The longer she stayed with the Levys, the greater her resentment. And while Ruth juggled the needs of the girls skillfully, Alicia’s requests were often set aside because of a more dramatic problem instigated by a newer, sicker child. More than anything else Alicia wanted a consistent family she could truly call her own.

Because Alicia lived in a world of negatives, I always tried to say “yes” to her. If she called me, I would be available if possible. If she needed something, I would attempt to procure it. When she inquired about her mother, I tried to locate her, surprising myself as much as anyone when Tammy was found. Even before that, Alicia had been searching for a way to be with her brothers and create a family among the three of them. She had asked me if I would allow her to move in with Rich when he was eighteen.

My knee-jerk reaction would have been to respond: “Are you crazy?” But I waited a few beats and instead said, “Sure, as long as I could justify it to the judge.”

“What does that mean?” Alicia asked challengingly.

“You and Rich would have to prove you could behave in a responsible manner. You’d both need to have jobs, some savings in the bank—even if it was only a few hundred dollars, it would be a cushion for emergencies.

You’d require transportation, a plan for your education, a safe place to live.”

Alicia contemplated this and talked about how she might achieve these goals, but the idea was so unrealistic it faded away. If I had reacted adversely, however, the daydream might have persisted, and she might have begun to resent me for opposing her.

“I’m your voice, Alicia,” I reminded her over and over. “When you can’t be heard, I will speak for you. But I can’t look foolish in what I say. We’ll work together to come up with sensible, logical plans, but always ones that you want, because it is your life, not mine.”

Guardians are always conscious that there is a fuzzy edge between the expressed wishes of a child and the mature perception of her best interests. My mandate was clear. I could listen to Alicia’s feelings and wishes, but then I had to consider the whole picture and make recommendations based on my adult, unbiased opinion of what was best for her in the short as well as the long run. If Alicia had come to me saying she didn’t like the food at the foster home because she wanted ice cream instead of salad, I could sympathize with her cravings, but I would have to explain that salad was better for her and I could not support her on the ice cream issue. In fact, in her brother Cory’s case, this was not such a stretch because he wanted to smoke. I understood that he liked smoking, but there was no way I would defend in court his right to smoke.

As children’s rights cases are debated in courtrooms around the United States, how children should be represented is a heated issue. When an adult hires an attorney, he enters into a fiduciary relationship. A fee is paid for the service of representing what a client wants. If he desires custody of a child, his lawyer will argue for him even if the attorney privately thinks the child’s best interests might be better served by living with another family member. The Guardian ad Litem does not have a client-attorney relationship with the child, which means that she does not have to represent the child’s wishes if she feels they are harmful. Also the Guardian ad Litem does not have the same professional immunity from having to testify. And because a Guardian ad Litem can be called as a witness, she may have to relinquish a child’s secrets. As I explained to all my charges, the advocate is also legally bound to report any abuse the child might confide. Even so, there have been very few times when I ever found myself in a position of having to go against a child’s wishes. Sure, they have had preposterous ideas sometimes, but by joining with them to arrive at a solution—instead of responding with an automatic “no”—we usually were able to form a united front, giving me the confidence that I was not only doing the right thing, but also speaking accurately for the child.

While Alicia had her dreams of being reunited with her mother and/or brothers, I had to deal with a more concrete problem: Rich’s move to Garrison House. Within two days of his arrival in Sarasota I had made contact with his new counselor, T.J. Costa. Their duplex had two girls and three boys, all sixteen and seventeen. “Rich is a fast worker,” T.J. reported. “He already has a girlfriend.” She went on to explain that while they could not control sexual behavior twenty-four hours a day, a pregnancy was cause for both partners to be dismissed from the program.