I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate (38 page)

When any person under the age of 16 is testifying concerning any sex offense, the court shall clear the courtroom of all persons except parties to the cause and their immediate families or
guardians
, attorneys and their secretaries, officers of the court, jurors, newspaper reporters or broadcasters, and court reporters.

Alicia was given Grace’s office, and she used the prosecutor’s chair and desk as if they were her own. Rich remained with Mitzi, who promised not to let him out of her sight. Marta Castillo supported Cory in an anteroom.

Lillian sat beside me on the right side of the courtroom. Behind us was a group of HRS workers with an interest in the case, some of Walt Hilliard’s staff and family, and Ruth Levy. Fortunately there were not too many members of the general public. Grace Chandler, wearing a black suit and white satin blouse with a black-and-white striped bow tie, took her place at the table in front of me with another assistant prosecutor beside her.

On the left side of the room, Red Stevenson was flanked by Walt Hilliard and his partner. This was the first time I had seen Red Stevenson in a suit.

Before the formal trial began, the prosecutor had submitted a motion to allow the use of the Williams Rule. This would permit her to offer evidence regarding Red’s past history of sexually assaulting other children in order to demonstrate that his crimes against his daughter were not isolated incidents, but rather one of many example of his propensity to commit the same offense repeatedly. Grace had warned me that employing the Williams Rule was a controversial point of law, but without the judge’s approval nobody could testify that Red Stevenson had committed crimes—for which he had not been charged—against other children.

(Two years after the Stevenson trial, I watched the sensational Florida rape trial in which William Kennedy Smith was the defendant, and heard Smith’s attorney, Roy Black, successfully argue against the application of the Williams Rule. Testimony from other women who had been allegedly attacked by William Kennedy Smith in a similar manner as the victim in the case was not permitted to be given.)

Grace had warned me that if the Williams Rule evidence was not allowed in the Stevenson case, everything would hinge on Alicia’s account of what happened to her, plus Rich’s version of the time he saw his father having sex with his sister. Everyone worried how Rich would do on the stand, and even if he answered the questions adequately, his mental health history could discredit him. Alicia had discrepancies in her story, and she also could revert from being sweet and cooperative to pouty and mouthy, thus coming off as an incorrigible teenager. Then, if Cory testified against his brother and sister, a jury might have sincere doubts about Red’s actions.

While the Williams Rule was debated, the jury was asked to leave the courtroom so they would not be prejudiced by pretrial testimony that might not be admissible in the regular proceedings. Then Grace Chandler told the judge that she would offer evidence of prior acts similar to those alleged in the Stevenson case as circumstantial proof of motive, intent, preparation, and method of operation, as the Williams Rule insisted.

Walt Hilliard objected, saying the rule could not be used merely to prove bad character or even a propensity to commit a particular crime. “Just because someone has done something before does not prove he has done it again.” Also Hilliard called the rule a violation of the defendant’s civil liberties because “he has to defend himself against more crimes when he has only been charged in the indictment with one.”

After listening to sample testimony from two of the children as well as one of Red’s ex-wives, the judge determined there were several similar methods of preparation and intent, and thus agreed to allow Williams Rule evidence. This was a blow to Walt Hilliard, who returned to his seat obviously disgruntled.

There was a brief break to reconvene the jury and gather the witnesses. I wasn’t sure how long it would take, so I didn’t leave the room. Some of the reporters milled around in the aisle. Casually I asked who was representing the paper that was printing the Stevenson name. The reporter introduced himself as Sterling Bailey.

“As Guardian ad Litem for Mr. Stevenson’s daughter, I spoke to your editor,” I said loudly, “but he refuses to change his stance and will continue to use this defendant’s name, even though the victim just started high school in this town.”

Mr. Bailey shrugged.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the disapproval on the face of the woman reporter with the county paper. “Thanks for not mentioning the names,” I said to her. Then, while I had her full attention, I turned back slightly in the other reporter’s direction. “Mr. Bailey, later today you are going to hear shocking testimony from the defendant’s daughter. As her Guardian ad Litem I speak for this child. So one last time, I beg you to ask your editor to reconsider his position and hold the family name confidential.” My next move was unplanned, but I was determined to make my point. I fell to my knees in the aisle of the courtroom. “Please, on my knees, I ask you to change your mind.”

The mouth of the female reporter gaped. Another member of the press jabbed Bailey in the back until he offered me a hand to help me to my feet. Without another word I went back to the seat, hearing the buzz of the reporters in my wake.

Grace Chandler crossed to the podium and moved it so that it was centered in front of the jury box. With her back to Judge Donovan and her profile to my side of the room, the prosecutor commenced her opening statements. As soon as she began speaking, I heard a loud ringing in my ears and my stomach heaved. Until that moment I had approached every phase of the case in a logical, and I hoped, compassionate manner. I had listened to intimate depositions from the children, heard Alicia describe having sex with her father, watched deviant interactions between the Stevenson children, as well as Cory and his father. I had read reams of files and had helped uncover information on the death of Mr. Stevenson’s first wife and had accidentally visited the crime scene. But suddenly I was overwhelmed—and shocked—by my emotional response to the import of the moment.

“You okay?” Lillian whispered, squeezing my hand. Later she told me I had turned so white, she thought the blood had drained into my shoes.

I nodded, even though I was unable to control my rapid pulse or racing thoughts. What if … what if Alicia had made it up? What if I had been drawn into her fantasy? I observed Red Stevenson’s hunched back and tried to imagine what it must be like to have your children turn against you. Don’t forget, I reminded myself, this was a man who had six wives, one dead by his hand, a few others abused. There had been other children who claimed to have been hurt by him. Many aspects of his life fit the profile of a pedophile and yet even with everything I knew, it was hard to believe.

Grace Chandler was saying “look at the cold hard facts.” To keep me focused on the unfolding events, I pulled out my steno pad and began to take notes. “Today you will meet a child, for that is what she is, even though she is maturing into a young lady. This is a child, who because of her father’s heinous crimes, has lost her home, her family, and any hope at a normal life.” Grace’s voice choked. “Nobody wants to confront what happens when the person charged with the care of a child abuses that fragile trust in the service of his twisted cravings, but we must do our duty and examine the details of this depraved crime.”

When Walt Hilliard’s turn came, he dispensed with the podium and strolled confidently in front of the jury, asking them to consider “the standard of proof and to follow the road map of the evidence.” He explained that there was but one crime of sexual battery being considered, and while other alleged crimes may be mentioned, Mr. Stevenson had never been charged with them. Then his voice dropped as he described Alicia as a “very troubled girl,” using the tone of someone who regretted the necessity of having to speak ill of the dead.

Turning on his heel as if he were about to leave, Walt Hilliard then spun around to renew their attention. “Why didn’t this young girl, who claims she was the victim of multiple years of abuse, tell anyone? There were stepmothers in her home. She had teachers and close friends. Why, all of a sudden, did she pick Mrs. Smiley, a virtual stranger? Pay attention to that witness and see if you believe what she tells you, then listen carefully to Dr. Leif, the state’s expert witness, and rely on your common sense to decide if this man, Richard Leroy Stevenson, could have done the terrible things that are alleged by his young, confused daughter.”

Grace Chandler told the judge her next witness would be the victim. Looking at me, she said, “Her Guardian ad Litem has requested a closed courtroom.” During the brief break, I went into Grace’s office to locate Alicia. Her head was lying on Grace’s desk blotter, but she was not asleep.

“Ready?” I asked. I went behind her and massaged her neck. “This is the worst part, then it will be over.”

“I’m okay,” she said as she straightened the folds on her new dress.

I walked Alicia into the courtroom and as we passed the reporters on the back benches stared sharply at Sterling Bailey, who looked away.

As soon as the bailiff shut the doors, Alicia took the stand. She was carrying the Bible covered in white leather and stamped with her name that Ruth had given her the previous Christmas. The pink flowers on her calico dress flattered her tawny complexion. A lacy collar framed her face. Her hair was pinned back with a matching bow. Without purple eye shadow, bright lipstick, or trendy clothing, Alicia looked younger than fifteen.

Grace Chandler adjusted the podium so that it was close enough to be personal, but not “in her face.” Then she began with gentle questions about Alicia’s age, where she was living, and attending school. Next, she took Alicia back to when her father first molested her.

In a quiet voice, but without hesitation, Alicia described the tool shed. “It was kind of spooky, with lots of cobwebs. Dad knew I didn’t like to be in there alone.”

Just as she had during the deposition, Alicia told how she climbed on her father’s lap and how he had touched her genitals.

I watched the jury. There were two retired men in their early seventies, one portly, one thin. One had been in accounting, one in sales. The mustached man was a recent navy veteran with a personable face. The fourth man, who was a local supermarket butcher, wore a brown suit, and had a bulldog’s chin. The lone woman was over fifty and had cotton white hair and wore purple-framed glasses. I liked the alternate best. She was a schoolteacher in her forties who seemed the most alert and most likely to empathize with Alicia. The others behaved as if they had taken a pretrial course in blinking as infrequently as possible.

“When did your father change the way he touched you sexually?” Grace asked.

“When I was nine.”

After clarifying how she knew how old she had been, Alicia explained that she used to help her father at his marine shop.

“What do you remember happened there the summer when you were nine?”

“One time I had to use the bathroom and my father came in while I was sitting on the toilet. He reached above my head and took down some magazines and showed me pictures of people having sex in different ways. My father pointed to the pictures of men’s things, and then he unzipped his pants and showed me his, and made me touch it.”

“Touch what?” Grace asked gently.

“His penis,” Alicia said, then looked away.

“What happened next?”

“He jerked me off the seat and pulled my shorts down around my ankles. He turned me around so my butt was facing him and placed my hands on the tank of the toilet. He held onto my elbows and he jammed his thing inside of me.”

“How did it feel?”

“It hurt,” she replied flatly.

“Did this ever happen again?” Alicia nodded. Grace prompted Alicia to tell of a typical situation.

“If nobody was around the house my father would take off his clothes, put on his bathrobe, and walk around with it partially open so I could see he was interested. Then he’d have me lie down on the couch and he’d do it to me.”

As soon as the particulars of the crime were patently stated, Grace turned the floor over to the defense attorney.

Walt Hilliard moved the podium into position for the cross-examination. Grace had warned Alicia that Mr. Hilliard would try to intimidate her, not only with his words, but also with his body language. As predicted, he loomed close to the witness stand and tried to cut off Alicia’s eye contact with Grace.

I had stationed myself at a different angle from the prosecutor, and Alicia had been told that whichever direction she would look she would see someone who cared about her. Instead of taking notes, I lifted my chin and set my mouth into what I hoped was a supportive expression.

Walt Hilliard was smart enough not to badger Alicia, for no jury would want to see this former college linebacker bullying a tender teen. “Why didn’t you tell anyone sooner?” he asked, as if he genuinely did not understand how someone could have suffered so long in silence.

Following instructions, Alicia did not respond at once. Grace had warned her to leave a few seconds in case she needed to object to an improper question. “There was nobody to tell.”

“Wasn’t there a stepmother in the house at the time?”

“I didn’t think she would believe me.”

“Why didn’t you tell a teacher or a friend?”

“I was afraid to.”

“Were you afraid your father would hurt you if you told?”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Then why?”

She waited the requisite beat. “I was scared.”

“You just said you didn’t think your father would hurt you, so what were you scared of?”

Beat. “Ah …” Beat. “… being moved. Like my older brother. When my father didn’t want him around anymore, he sent him away.”

I couldn’t control my involuntary grin.

“Did it ever happen again?” Alicia nodded. “Where?”

“Usually somewhere in the house.”

“Anywhere else?”

“He took me on trips with him when he had to deliver a boat or some parts. Last summer we drove all the way to Mobile, Alabama, where we shared the same bed and did it every night.”