I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate (64 page)

The last time I had been in the Stevenson home Emily had been visiting with two adorable towheads. I had walked into the living room and seen them sitting on Red’s lap—one on each knee—and he was tickling them. They had been about two and four years old. The sight of his hands all over their sweet arms and legs made my flesh crawl.

As I was leaving, I asked Bernadette to follow me outside. I said, “I will never know what truly happened between Mr. Stevenson and his children, but I don’t believe they were lying. So please, whatever you do, don’t let him alone with little girls because if something were to happen, you would never forgive yourself.”

“Yes, I remember,” I said warily. “Are they okay?”

Emily’s voice cracked. “Red did it again—this time to my daughter, Angel. I even warned her never to be alone with Red because he had been ‘in trouble’ with another girl once.”

She told me that after her divorce, she picked up some night shifts at the hospital to help with the bills. “The girls were asleep and I was only five minutes away,” she said defensively. “Then I came home one morning to find Angel missing. My other daughter admitted that she ran away with Red!” She gasped as if this had just occurred.

“When we caught up with them, Angel admitted that they’d been having sex for more than a year—since she was eleven! And do you know what she said? ‘We love each other.’” Emily took a deep breath. “She even told me she enjoyed it! How could she?”

The story sickened me—this was exactly how Red had groomed his daughter.

“Have you called the police?” I asked.

“Yes, but now I wonder whether I should have. His daughter went through hell and Red got away with it.”

Ten years…how many other girls had Red violated since the first trial? “You’ve got to stop him now,” I said in a strangled voice.

Later that day Red Stevenson was arrested. I called Alicia to tell her the news. “Finally they’ll believe me,” she said, more angry than pleased. “Promise you’ll let me know what happens.”

Red refused a plea bargain that would have allowed his release in ten years. By that time he would be over 60 and Angel would be a young adult. Instead Red chose to roll the dice again. Alicia’s incest case had received a great deal of publicity and every courtroom seat had been filled, but no mention of it could be made because Red had been proven innocent. At this trial there were only four or five observers—one was Bernadette. No members of the press were in attendance.

When Angel testified, I was struck how much she looked like Alicia. In fact, they had the same middle name, the same initials, had been the same age when intercourse began, and many of the other details were eerily familiar down to the words he uttered, his promises to her, even some of the same gifts. How often had he used the same
modus operandi
and never been caught?

The detective, who had taped his first interview with Red, took the stand. A public defender—instead of the highly-paid private attorney who had represented him in the first trial—argued to disallow its use. The judge ruled that the tape could be played. Red sounded contrite. “I’m sorry for what I did,” he said. “I knew she was too young.”

Just as he had done in his daughter’s trial, Red Stevenson testified in his own defense, claiming that the detective had offered to exchange counseling for a confession. After deliberating overnight, the jury declared that Red Stevenson was guilty on four counts of sexual battery on a child younger than 16 and two counts of lewd or lascivious conduct with a child between the ages of 12 and 16.

At the sentencing hearing Angel read her victim’s statement in a calm, compelling voice. “Don’t walk out of this courtroom and think you’ve gotten the best of me. If anything, you made me stronger and wiser.”

Emily, who appeared much more distraught than her daughter, spoke next. “Only you and God know the extent of all the crimes you have committed,” Emily said, trembling. “But Red Stevenson, I hope you die in prison, alone.”

Red remained impassive, his arms folded across his chest, while the judge slapped him with six concurrent life terms, decreeing, “Richard Stevenson, it is the desire of this court that you are never again released into society for the remainder of your natural life.”

(Nine years after Red went to prison, I heard that Bernadette Stevenson had died suddenly. A year after that, I was appointed to a guardian case for a Maggie, a 15-year-old girl. She had just been reunited with her mother when she was released from prison. Some names in the case seemed familiar. After checking the Stevenson file, I realized that Maggie’s mother, Janette, was Bernadette’s much younger sister.

When I met Janette, she admitted to having some “nasty problems” with Red—but her sister had not believed her. “I think he may have messed with Maggie when she was very little,” she seethed. “Thankfully she doesn’t remember anything.”

From time to time I inquired about Renata and Conrad MacDougal’s rigid and unwelcoming foster home. About a year after Cory moved to Washington State, Nancy called me and said, “I’ve just received a report from the guardian of a girl who is living with the MacDougals now.”

At Nancy’s behest I agreed to a conference with the head of the HRS district and Cicely, the other guardian, whom I had not yet met. As Cicely read from her report, though, the similarity to my notes was uncanny.

“Kim’s teacher said she had made some suicidal comments. I told Mrs. MacDougal that Kim needed to be in therapy immediately, but Mrs. MacDougal said she would settle down in a few weeks once she understood their family’s program.” Cicely went on to describe how Mrs. MacDougal had blocked her phone calls to Kim. When she finally drove out to see her, Kim was very tense. She said that Renata MacDougal told her that the judge despised guardians, so that having one was going to work against her getting what she wanted. Renata MacDougal also said that she sued the first Guardian ad Litem that came into her home and won.

I gasped. “But
we
sued
her!
“ I stared at the administrator, who did not blink.

Cicely continued with a description of the MacDougals’ home, saying it did not look as if any children lived there and that Kim’s room seemed like a “hotel room.” Cicely said that the second time she saw her, Kim told that Mrs. MacDougal screamed, “Your guardian bitch isn’t going to tell me what to do.”

Cicely read her conclusions. “‘From what I have seen this place is more like a concentration camp than a loving home and in my opinion is not suitable for Kim or any other child. Aside from requiring excessive labor, the family is emotionally abusive. A child like Kim, who is an abuse victim, should never be placed in a foster home of this type.’“

I was then asked to read the letter I sent Lillian shortly after Cory Stevenson left the MacDougals. “ ‘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.’“ I emphasized the words that echoed Cicely’s. “She missed more than a month of psychological therapy … more relevant in the management of a prison camp than a foster home.”

Nancy leaned forward. “Gay’s letter was written more than a year ago.”

“Perhaps this is merely a clash of personalities and parenting styles,” the administrator said, then promised that he would look into the matter.

Six weeks later I received the investigative report on the MacDougals’ foster home. Caseworkers complimented the MacDougals’ ability to structure the children and concluded that the home is “a valuable asset to the children in that county.” The head of the foster care division wrote that “As far as children having rights, the problem is in the definition of rights. To Renata MacDougal a right means a privilege, which must be earned.” The official report concluded, “We do not believe that the evidence warrants the closing of this foster home.”

Three years later, I received a call from Alicia’s foster mother, Ruth Levy, who was again a foster parent. “Guess what I got last month?” she asked, then filled in, “a refugee from Mrs. MacDougal. Renata is up to all her old tricks.” She explained that all the foster children had received personalized quilts from the Foster Parent Association, but Mrs. MacDougal wouldn’t let him take his with him because she was saving it for another child.”

“And with the kid’s name right on it!” I said in amazement.

The next day I mentioned it to Nancy. “Who’s the kid? Where’s he now? When did he get the quilt?” she asked rapid-fire. Ten minutes later she had called me back to report that not only was the quilt on its way. “Seven more guardians have expressed concern about those—” she struggled vainly for a politic word.

Nancy insisted the new administrator open another inquiry. The new investigator found the refrigerator and access to all food were locked in direct violation to foster care regulations. The home was closed based on this technicality.

Of all my guardian children, I’ve stayed closest to the three teenage girls sisters
Simone, Nicole, and Julie Colby
. The Slaters did adopt them and I attended the ceremony in the judge’s chambers. This happy event took place around the time of the publication of the first edition of
I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate
and the Slaters were invited to help promote the role of court-appointed special advocates. Their whole family and I went to New York for an appearance on
Good Morning America
.

Raising three teen daughters had joyous moments, but their normal teen angst was magnified by the ghosts of their past

Simone buried herself in her schoolwork and her tenacity paid off. She applied to a college connected with the family’s church and was accepted with a partial scholarship, which converted to a full ride if she maintained a 3.0 average the first year. At the last minute she found out that she needed three thousand dollars to matriculate.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“Pray on it.”

“Okay, you pray and I’ll make a few calls,” I said.

An hour later, a prominent member of the church, who wished to remain anonymous, pledged half the amount. Next I contacted a friend who ran charity events. “Do you know any scholarship organization that can write a check for fifteen hundred dollars in a week?” I explained Simone’s predicament.

“I can!” she said. “College scholarships are exactly what my latest charity is all about and I can write a check for under two thousand without board approval. If you say the kid is worthy, that’s good enough for me.”

Sputtering, I called Simone back. “You have the money.”

“What do you mean?” she asked since less than two hours had passed since her initial phone call.

Simone majored in sociology, graduated with honors, worked for the church for a while, and then got an excellent job with a major corporation. She has had her struggles, including disapproval from her adoptive parents because she leads an unconventional lifestyle. She lives a thousand miles away and has joined a different church, but she remained close to her sisters.

Nicole, who had been the most seriously abused sister, predictably had the most turbulent adolescence.

Sometimes she would call me to announce, “I’m losing it.”

“Be right there,” I’d respond. I’d pull into the driveway and she’d get into the front seat and punch the preset button for her favorite radio station. We wouldn’t go anywhere, just sit in the car. On and on she would rail until the steam subsided and she was ready to go back inside. The calls became more infrequent as she began to trust her new family.

This adoption had been an open one and the children were free to visit with their mother as well as other relatives in the community. They avoided their father because he was often drunk and obnoxious. Their mother had long-standing mental health issues, but she would attend school assemblies and treat them to burgers. The summer after Simone graduated high school she decided her mother needed her. Her adoptive mother said, “The porch light is always on, honey. Come home whenever you want.” After two weeks, Simone saw her mother in a fresh light and decided she could not live with her unpredictable moods. She moved back with the Slaters until it was time to leave for college.