I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate (57 page)

That evening I could not put Sandra out of my mind. The threesome, the deal, even the outcome seemed familiar. Where had I heard this story before?
Lolita
! I found my copy of the Nabokov’s novel, the seminal tale of a man’s desire for a young girl, and read the opening words: “Lolita, light of my life … my sin … my soul … Lo. Lee. Ta.”

When I had discovered
Lolita
in high school, I had been riveted by the sensuous, sympathetic narrative of Humbert Humbert, his lust so palpable, so urgent, so stunningly elucidated from a physical and emotional point of view that I had rooted for him to triumph over the vapid and bratty Delores Haze. Later, with my perspective as a novelist, I had come to admire the author’s brilliant evocation of a deranged mind and felt envious of page after page of delicious prose. The first time I had read it furtively and had been enthralled by its window into a forbidden world. But after knowing so many real victims, my stomach churned with visceral disgust.

Cruelty and power were the cudgels behind the silky sentences. In the conclusion of his fictional foreword, Nabokov wrote, “ ‘Lolita’ should make all of us—parents, social workers, educators—apply ourselves with still greater vigilance and vision to the task of bringing up a better generation in a safer world.”

The next morning I called the sheriff’s office and spoke to Deputy Moline, who had also handled the Stevenson case. “Did you hear about the arrest?” he asked.

“No! When?”

“Grover turned himself in.”

“I don’t get it—”

“He says he has terminal colon cancer and he wants to make everything right for the family.”

“He’s pleading guilty?”

“For now, but once he gets a defense attorney he’ll change his plea. They always do.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s well-spoken, gentlemanly, even apologetic for making so many people unhappy.” He chuckled. “For a moment I also felt sorry for the guy. No matter how long the sentence, he’ll die in jail.”

I immediately thought about Humbert Humbert dying in jail.

I planned to see Sandra after school, but first I had an appointment to visit Florence at her home. Constance Blivens let me in the ranch house set in the midst of a stand of southern pines. Florence Shepherd was lying on the sofa cosseted by pillows under her legs and a heating pad on her neck. The house was immaculate, with bare countertops and the wooden floors polished to a high sheen.

“I don’t know why Sandra had to stir this up this right now,” her mother said in a little-girl voice, “right before my surgery and all.” She sighed. “She belongs here with me.”

“Sandra doesn’t want to return to this house.”

“None of this would have happened if it weren’t for the Kings meddling in our business.”

“They seem to care about your daughter.”

“Oh, Millie comes off as oh-so-pure, but she didn’t marry Dirk’s father until she had his
third
child, and even then I don’t know why they bothered, unless it was to milk some more money from the government to pay for her booze.”

Florence tried to sit up, but winced from the pain, and lay back again. “I don’t understand why Sandra doesn’t love me any more.”

“I think the problem was with Mr. Grover—and you for not listening to her.”

“All she said was that Rudy had touched her boobs and her butt. Believe me, I’m her mother, and if I had ever seen one gesture that was worse than some kidding around, I would have done something about it.”

As I drove to the Kings’ trailer, I wondered how was it possible for Uncle Rudy to have had sex with a young girl over a period of years without her mother really suspecting anything. I imagined how the enigmatic Uncle Rudy—not a clumsy redneck, but a man with some worldly charm—kept Florence subdued while making Sandra feel like his special little girl. He probably had won her over with many small favors and affections. She may have genuinely liked him—and wanted to please him. Then like Alicia Stevenson, Sandra grew up and resisted. But Uncle Rudy knew how to control her, because like Lolita, Sandra and her mother needed him. However Lolita had been different. Her mother had died in an accident, leaving Humbert her
de facto
father. Sandra still had a mother, if a disabled one. Florence couldn’t allow herself to know. Or she couldn’t go on. Sandra, Florence, and Uncle Rudy played out the triangle Nabokov delineated as “the wayward child, the egotistic mother, the panting maniac.”

Even though Florence was an inadequate model for a mother, she did profess to love her daughter. If Sandra deserted her mother, she would lose the last vestige of unconditional love. To play it safe, she was juggling two families. The nymphet had matured; fallen in love with a boy her own age, and she wanted to reclaim herself. She had confided in her boyfriend and he had not only given her courage, but also promised that no matter what happened she would have a family—his family—to support her. But just in case that did not work out, Sandra didn’t want to relinquish her mother forever.

Sandra met me at the screen door. She no longer looked the perky student. Her eyes were puffy, her hair was tangled and it was obvious she had been crying.

“What’s wrong?”

“Didn’t they tell you that I have to move back in with my mom?” Her voice accused me of being in on the conspiracy.

“Not to the old house.”

“Yeah, but since he’s in jail they want me to go home tomorrow—so I can help my mother move.” She didn’t invite me inside so I sat down on the top step and she did the same.

“Who said that?”

“That caseworker.”

“Where do you want to live?”

“I want to remain with the Kings until Mother is released from the hospital. By that time she’ll be in the new house.”

“I’ll phone Phoebe Finchley in the morning and let her know that’s the plan.”

Sandra tightened a loose sneaker lace. “You’re sure they can’t force me to go there?”

“They’d have to get a court order and that would take more than a week. By that time it will be a moot point.”

The next week Deputy Moline phoned me and said he needed Sandra for a sworn statement at the assistant prosecutor’s office and asked if would I accompany her. Sandra was relieved when I explained that I would be with her the whole time.

I arrived first and was shown to Will Yost’s office. The assistant prosecutor pushed back a shock of thick blonde hair and asked, “What can you tell me about the victim?”

“Sandra Shepherd is very mature for a sixteen-year-old girl and she doesn’t act like a typical victim.”

Sandra was led into the room followed by Deputy. After a few preliminary pleasantries Mr. Yost turned on a tape recorder and had Sandra swear to tell the truth.

“What happened the last time you were with Mr. Grover?” he began.

Sandra described how Uncle Rudy had come into her room, what she had been wearing, that he had pulled down her panties and put his finger into her vagina. Then he had performed oral sex on her.

“Did he ask you to do the same to him?” She shook her head no. “Please speak out loud for the tape recorder.”

“No, he didn’t have me do anything to him.”

“Did he ever have full sexual intercourse with you?”

“Yes, many times.”

“When did that begin?”

“After we moved to Daytona Beach.”

“How old were you?”

“I was thirteen.”

The deputy frowned. Crimes against children under twelve brought much harsher sentences. Mr. Yost went on to establish where the various acts took place, what dates, and ages. Like many children, Sandra referred to being in the fifth grade or seventh grade, so I scribbled a chart showing how old she would have been at different times of those school years and where she lived. She was able to recall several instances of intercourse that took place in their current home by establishing the dates within a few weeks of a holiday or birthday.

The deputy and the prosecutor consulted Florida’s sentencing guidelines. “I think we have the best shot with four counts: three for sexual activity with a child between eleven and eighteen and one lewd or lascivious act in the presence of a child under sixteen,” Will concluded. “We can go with one count for the finger penetration, one count for the cunnilingus, one count for sexual intercourse, and one for placing her hand on his penis.”

Tears rolled down Sandra’s cheeks. She fumbled for her purse, but had no tissues. I passed her some and kept a hand on her arm for support. “My mother … will never forgive me.”

The next time I saw Lillian, she asked, “Have you met the perp?”

“What am I supposed to do, knock on his cell door, and ask if he’ll let me in?”

“Actually, you can do just that. You want me to go with you?”

“Sure,” I said, grateful for the backup.

Prepared with my court order, official Guardian ad Litem card, and driver’s license, I met Lillian at the county jail the next day. The matron in the reception area looked at our forms, then at us, then back at the papers. “The prisoner doesn’t have to see you if he doesn’t want to.”

We were instructed to leave our handbags inside the office, passed through a metal detector, were frisked with a hand-held device, then patted down. A guard unlocked the thick metal door, had us stand inside the corridor, then the gate closed behind us with electronic finality.

“Wait here,” the guard told us, “I’ll see if he’ll come down to talk with you.” He unlocked a door to what looked like a broom closet.

Inside was a small table with a hard wooden chair on either side. The space was so narrow the chairs were set on an angle in order to fit. I stood with my back against the wall facing the doorway, while Lillian took the chair nearest the corridor. The room was claustrophobic and the airflow nonexistent. As several other guards walked past, a man in a suit, who looked like a lawyer, and various prisoners, each stopped to gape at the two ladies in the closet.

A slender man wearing the orange prison uniform stuck his head in the doorway. “Yep, they’s the ones,” the guard behind him said, and with a practiced herding technique, blocked the man’s way so he could only move into the closet.

“I’m Gay Courter, the volunteer Guardian ad Litem appointed by the court to represent Sandra’s best interest in both the dependency and criminal proceedings,” I blurted in a rush. “And this is Mrs. Elliott, my case manager.”

Mr. Grover’s deep blue eyes flashed from one of us to the other. He stood ramrod straight. His salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed to an even half inch around his head. His nails were manicured with a thin gloss of clear lacquer. “I don’t believe that I am required to speak to you,” he began in a cultured voice with roots not far from Boston.

“No, sir, you are not,” I replied. “I can understand why you might be advised not to, although we’re only here because we want to understand Sandra better.”

He turned to see if the guard remained behind him. “May I go back upstairs if I want?”

“I guess.” The guard shrugged.

Mr. Grover took a step toward the door. “Just one thing, Mr. Grover,” I sputtered before he could slip away. “Why would Sandra accuse a man like you?”

“Might as well give you some answers, if it will help the kid. God knows I’ve loved her and tried to make a home for her.” I nodded to encourage him. “Her mother is the kindest, most gentle, most soft-hearted woman in the world. She does not deserve any of this.”

“You staying?” the guard asked him.

“What the hell! The truth never hurt anyone.” Mr. Grover took the seat on the opposite side of the table

“I’m sorry you have been ill,” Lillian said sweetly. “What is the matter, if you don’t mind saying?”

“What isn’t the matter?” he replied with a sardonic chuckle. “I have diabetes, high blood pressure, diverticulitis, and now colon cancer. I bleed so much from the rectum the bathroom looks like a crime scene. When I made the deal with Florence’s attorney, he said I’d receive good treatment and might even be placed in a prison hospital. Ha! They have a case of active TB upstairs and they haven’t even put him in an isolation area or gotten his medication. Not that I’m going to be around long enough for it to matter to me.” He shook his head. “The charges against me are absurd. If they looked at my medical records, they would see that it is physically impossible for me to have done what they said I’ve done.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I have severe arteriosclerosis. Do you know what the result of that is?” I shook my head negatively. “You should have looked at my records and come better prepared.” His voice turned challenging, even slightly aggressive. “I have no pulse below the waist.”

The man seated across from me did not look sickly. His skin was smooth and firm, his facial coloring had the burnished veneer of a gentleman who played golf or tennis. His compact, lean body seemed fit for a man in his sixties. The pumpkin jail garb fit him almost as well as a jumpsuit tailored for a trim astronaut. In a suit and tie he would look like a distinguished businessman, if not an American version of Humbert Humbert.

“Does that mean that you are impotent?” Lillian asked in her chirpy country-club voice.

“What do you think it means?” he replied caustically.

I reminded myself that the first two criminal charges were for oral or digital sex. “Then why do you think Sandra made the accusations?” I continued.

“There were no problems until she took up with that King boy. This whole business is a fabrication by that family.”

“Why would they want to do that?”

“Because her mother and I are too restrictive. We have plans for Sandra’s future, but she would rather screw around than do her schoolwork. This is just a smoke screen so we won’t get on her case for not doing her assignments.”

“That seems a rather drastic step,” Lillian said.

“Do you know how this came about?”

“Someone called the abuse hotline,” I replied.

“And who would gain most from making that call? How about Mr. Dirk King? And to think that I stepped in and helped that kid out of a jam last year!”

“In what way?” I asked.

“Didn’t you hear about the incident at Sawgrass Beach around Easter?”