Gay’s mouth looked as if a gash had sliced her face. My heart was skipping beats, pounding inside my chest. Even though it was Phil who was restraining me, I was more terrified of what Gay would do to me.
“What are you talking about?” Phil asked. He loosened his grip.
I collapsed to my knees on the floor. “This is the end of my placement!”
“Placement?” Gay sputtered. “We have adopted you.” Her anger seemed to expand as she moved closer to me. “You’re our daughter, so cut the poor-orphan-me crap. We never had anywhere to send our sons, so why should you be different?”
But I was different—or at least I had felt different. I glanced up at Gay. She was fuming, but I was certain that she wasn’t going to hurt me or … I swallowed hard at the next thought: She wasn’t going to ditch me, either.
Gay exhaled. “Now go get dressed, and then we will deal with your idiotic behavior.”
I was so ashamed, I stayed in my room for the entire weekend. I lay in bed feeling feverish as I tried to rewind what I had done and find a way to make it so that it had never happened. Every time I got to the part where I mixed the crushed pills in their drinks, I would run to the toilet and vomit.
Gay held cold washcloths to my forehead while I wretched. I could not believe she was being so kind; meanwhile, Phil had not come near my room.
Sunday evening Gay came to tuck me in. “Did you ever do anything horrid when you were my age?” I asked.
“Oh, there were some stupid pranks,” she admitted. “Once, we had a slumber party, and we were going to make plaster face masks. When we tried to remove one of my friend’s masks, we started to yank her eyelashes out.”
“That’s awful!”
“My mother had to clip her lashes with sewing scissors.” I laughed. “It wasn’t funny then.” Gay’s voice deepened. “That was an unintentional mistake. What you did was far worse. You’ll need to talk to your therapist about it.”
“Okay.” I managed to focus on her expression and saw compassion, not resentment. I would do whatever it would take to regain their trust.
Gay flipped off the light. I turned my face upward for the inevitable kiss. Her lips brushed my tear-chapped cheek. “Love you, sweetie,” she said.
I clutched her arm. She froze. Then I kissed her back. “Love you, too,” I said.
12.
now they will have to listen to me
“Are you serious?” Tess was filling me in on the latest gossip while I gave myself a pedicure. The television news was playing in the background. Suddenly, the anchor-woman said, “Charles and Marjorie Moss.” I looked up, saw their mug shots, and dropped my brush. It missed the bottle and landed on the carpet.
“Gay!” I shouted. “Come see this!”
Just then the other phone line rang. Gay picked it up. “Really? That must be what Ashley just got excited about.” She mouthed Mary Miller to me and jotted down some notes. When she hung up the phone, she braced herself on the counter. “Mary says that Mrs. Moss was arrested on twenty-five counts of felony child abuse and nine counts of felony child neglect for abusing the children she and her husband were allowed to adopt after their foster home was closed. Mr. Moss was also arrested for failure to prevent or report it.”
“See! I tried to tell everyone, but nobody would listen.” I reached for a metal post that supported the ceiling and spun around, lifting my feet off the floor as I thought about the Mosses in their respective jail cells. “They’re gonna get it now!”
Exactly eleven years to the day that my mother was first arrested, the newspapers featured the Moss arrest. I studied the Mosses’ mug shots. To me, they looked like Mr. and Mrs. Potato Head. But I knew how quickly they could morph into something else: a brownie-baking mom, a fascist guard, or self-crowned foster parents of the year. Dress Mr. Potato Head up in plastic droopy eyes and thin-pursed lips, and you could replicate Mr. Moss’s blank stare in front of the television while his wife was torturing a child. I read the caption next to their photos in the Tampa Tribune and shouted, “I knew they would try to blame the kids! It says: ‘The attorney for the couple accused of child abuse says the teenage children are making up the allegations.’” My long-suppressed simmering ire erupted into a full boil.
The story reported that the Mosses were accused of abusing their adopted children over the past four years and that Mrs. Moss was accused of beating the children using her hands, feet, a wooden paddle, and a two-by-four board. Most of their children were in state custody again. “They’re probably glad to be out of that house of horrors, but now they’re back in foster care.” I sighed. “And one of them is Mandy.”
Phil read from the article, “It says here that their attorney said ‘These people were the epitome of good foster parents’ and that ‘their reputation has been totally damaged.’”
“What about my reputation?” I shouted. “They told everyone I had been lying!”
“It mentions that they were investigated three times before, but the charges were never substantiated,” Gay said. “Weren’t you questioned when you were there?”
“Yes, several times.” I turned to the St. Petersburg Times story. It concluded by saying that the Mosses were in the process of adopting a ninth child.
“I need to do something to help those kids. If I tell the police what happened, it will be cooperation.”
“You mean ‘corroboration,’ cutie-pie,” Phil said with an uneasy chuckle.
“And could you call the newspapers, too?” I tossed in.
Phil rubbed his chin. “And tell them what?”
“That there are more of us out there who’ve got a lot to say about the Mosses!”
Gay agreed to call the newspapers. A reporter from the St. Petersburg Times, Wayne Washington, was interested in the information we offered. That afternoon he drove out to the Mosses’ trailer, and he spoke to both Mary Miller and Mrs. Merritt. The article that appeared the next morning called the Mosses’ mobile home “a living hell for children.” It quoted Mrs. Merritt: “This isn’t something that fell through the cracks because they didn’t know.” It also included Gay’s comments about my cruel punishments.
“She’s still locked up!” I crowed when I learned that Mrs. Moss remained in jail on $635,000 bail with thirty-four charges of felony child abuse and neglect, but I was disappointed to learn that Mr. Moss was free on bond and that he had been charged with only six counts of felony child neglect. According to Mr. Washington’s article, “He did nothing, an arrest report said, as his wife maliciously punched the children, pulled them into a bathroom and held them under hot water, deprived them of food, threatened them with a gun, denied medical care, and beat them with a wooden paddle.”
“The article said they put one kid—I wonder if I knew him—in juvenile detention, so nobody will believe him.” I paused. “But I’ve never been in any trouble, so they might listen to me.”
“I don’t want you involved in a criminal case,” Phil said.
“I need to do this!”
“Why?” he asked.
“For me, for Luke, for Mandy, for the other kids they hurt. And”—I took a deep breath—“to keep them from getting more children. I don’t want this to blow over like the other investigations. They aren’t fit to take care of gerbils, let alone children.”
Detective Shannon Keene, who was handling the Moss case, arranged for me to be interviewed by our local authorities. The next day Deputy Tina Brooks met me at my parents’ office after school. The deputy’s daughter was in my class, and we had worked on a project together.
“Do you have proof that Ashley lived with these people?” Deputy Brooks asked Gay.
Gay handed her the list of my placements that she had found in my files, which showed the eight months I had lived with the Mosses.
I answered the deputy’s questions—surprising myself with how fresh the memories still were, even though it had all happened seven years earlier. A few days later I had to go to the Citrus County Sheriff’s
Department, where they videotaped my statement. I thought I would be frightened to talk to these law enforcement authorities and looked for a place to concentrate my attention; however, the more I spoke, the easier it was. All I was doing was telling the truth, and nothing I said was going to get me into further trouble.
We received transcripts of my session as well as those of some of the other children interviewed. Just in case Gay or Phil ever thought I had been exaggerating, I pointed out that the other children’s comments were nauseatingly familiar. For instance, I had testified: “I was sleeping on a top bunk and I can recall a couple of occasions when I was taken by my hair and just thrown on the floor.” One of the other victims told the authorities that she had been pulled by her hair into the bathroom. Mrs. Moss used to punish Luke by dunking his head in the bathtub, and one of the adopted kids claimed Mrs. Moss held her head underwater for several minutes until she had trouble breathing.
I gave a detailed description of the squatting punishments, and another child explained how Mrs. Moss forced her to squat for hours at a time. Hitting was a common punishment. I testified that Mrs. Moss beat me with the spaghetti spoon. One of the new victims revealed that Mrs. Moss beat her for putting a movie in the wrong case and struck her in the face for not sweeping the patio correctly. The Mosses kept another child home from school until her bruises disappeared.
After the second article appeared in the St. Petersburg Times, Gay received a call from a woman who said that two of her children, Gordon and Heather, had lived in the Moss home the same time I was there. “Gordon remembers Ashley,” the woman said. “They’ve told me all the same stories, and I complained to the department, yet nobody would listen.”
Gay told her that the reporter wanted to hear from other children who were in the Moss home, and she agreed to contact him.
Wayne Washington called to talk to me about what I remembered. “Will your parents allow me to interview you directly?” he asked in a mellifluous voice.
Gay got on the phone and set an appointment for him to visit our home. When he arrived, I showed him to Gay’s office.
“Wow!” Mr. Washington said when he took in the sweeping views of the Crystal River. “This is where the manatees come in the winter, right?” I nodded. “Not exactly like your foster home, is it?”
Mr. Washington was even more thorough than the deputies had been, and I gave him many details. After he left, I asked Gay, “Do you think he believed me?”
“Of course he did.”
I grinned, then dashed off to do my homework.
A few weeks after Wayne Washington interviewed me, he called Gay to verify some facts and told her that he had copied the Mosses’ foster care licensing file.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” I said to her.
“Apparently, it’s public record, and it substantiates what you described. He told me that we should look at it”—Gay paused meaningfully—“before too long.” She cleared her throat. “He said that it refers to a report that is critical of how they treated Luke. And there’s a mention that the report should be destroyed.”
I gasped. “Is the report there?”
“No, Mr. Washington only found the reference to it. The licensing file also says that Mrs. Moss stated that she no longer allowed the children to taste her home-cooked hot sauce.”
“Remember when we were in Cousin Neil’s office and I wanted to sue the Mosses? Phil said it would be their word against mine. Now here’s the proof!”
“You have a right to be angry,” Gay replied, “but don’t let it eat you up inside.”
Phil already gave me his Dalai Lama lecture. “We’ve been through the whole forgiveness thing and none of that changes the fact that they keep hurting children.”
I often went to the movies with my friends on Saturday nights, but nobody was available one weekend. “Why don’t you come with us?” Gay suggested. “We’re going to see Erin Brockovich.” I wrinkled my nose at the title. Gay played the guilt card. “We haven’t seen a movie as a family in a long time, and I’d like to take Grampy. He hasn’t been out of the house in a while.”
“I wanted to buy some shoes.”
“You can shop first and meet us at the movie at seven,” Gay added, putting on the pressure.
Later that afternoon she dropped me off at the mall. I saw some kids I knew in the food court and hung out with them. When I checked my watch, it was six thirty and I still had not bought the shoes. By the time I got to the theater, it was ten past seven.
Phil was waiting out front holding my ticket and scowling. “Where were you?”
I held up my shoe bag. “Took longer than I thought.”
“You had more than two hours to buy shoes!” Phil rarely got upset—and ten minutes should not have been a big deal—but he had been embarrassed in front of Gay’s father.
Gay passed me the popcorn bucket and shot me a disappointed look. When the movie started, I focused on the story. Julia Roberts played Erin Brockovich, a woman who was running out of money after a car accident. When her attorney could not get her a settlement, she convinced him to hire her as an assistant. She stumbled on some medical records mixed in with his real estate files and discovered that a corporation was hiding contaminated water that was making people sick. Eventually, she helped file a class-action lawsuit that won a lot of money for the victims.
“That was better than I expected!” I announced when we exited the theater.
Phil clicked the car door opener, but I was too charged up to sit down just yet.
“Why can’t we have one of those class-action suits for all of the kids who lived with the Mosses?” I pumped the air with my fist in excitement. “There must be dozens of them, plus Luke and me, as well as the adopted ones who are back in foster care.”
“In the movie they sued a huge corporation that could afford to pay millions. The Mosses live in a trailer,” Phil said. “Where would the money come from?” He came around and opened the van door on my side, ushering me inside.
“Has any kid ever sued the Department of Children and Families?” I asked as I reluctantly climbed in.
Gay turned around from the front seat. “One of my former guardian kids was in a class-action suit, but it was unsuccessful,” she said somberly.
“I want to talk to a lawyer and see what he thinks!” I insisted.
“Most of the time nobody wins.” Phil’s voice sounded tired. “Anyway, you don’t have to worry about the future, kiddo.” He turned on the ignition. “You’ll always have us.”
That did not satisfy me. “Who will Mandy and those other kids have?”
At my insistence, Gay called Karen Gievers, the attorney who had handled the class-action suit involving one of Gay’s guardian children.
“She told me that she’s working with some other lawyers on a class-action suit against the state of Florida on behalf of all the state’s foster children. They’re hoping to change some of DCF’s practices, but there would be no individual financial benefit for you,” Gay explained. “She wanted to know if you would like to participate.”
“Of course!” I could not believe it was actually happening. “Will she include everyone who was in the Moss home?”
“The problem is that someone would have to locate all those children; next, someone would have to act on their behalf since they don’t have parents.”
“What about Luke? We know where he is.”
“I’ve called Mary Miller to see whether she wants to represent Luke. I’ll also call Heather and Gordon’s parents.”
“What about the Mosses? Can’t we sue them separately?”
“I told the lawyer that Phil and I didn’t want you to dredge it all up again only to be called a liar.” Gay’s voice lifted a little. “You know what Ms. Gievers said?”
“That you should have trusted me the first time!”
“We’ve always believed you—we were just worried about proof. However, Ms. Gievers said that I am a better mother than a lawyer. O
nce she studies the files, she will know if there is a case against the Mosses or not.”
The summer before my freshman year, a group of lawyers filed a class-action lawsuit in the U.S. District Court in West Palm Beach on behalf of thirty-one Florida children, referring to most of the plaintiffs by their initials, although they used my whole name. A few weeks later the attorneys decided that anyone who had been adopted or had returned to their biological parents should be excluded from the class. I was disappointed, but Luke was still in it. Ms. Gievers suggested that we file individual lawsuits on my behalf soon because of statute of limitations laws.
“That’s not what I had in mind, and it won’t help Mandy or the others.”
“No,” Gay said, “but if they hear about your case, they can still come forward and have their own.”
That same week—almost six weeks after the arrest of Charles and Marjorie Moss—Wayne Washington’s most extensive article about their home appeared in the St. Petersburg Times. It began:
It was half a lifetime ago, but that’s not so long when you’re only 14. Ashley Rhodes-Courter says she remembers clearly her time in the foster home of Charles and Marjorie Moss. She remembers the day she learned what living in that home would be like. Nauseated, Ashley was hurrying to the bathroom when she threw up on the floor. Marjorie Moss didn’t clean up the vomit. Instead, Ashley said, she held her face in it. “You know, like you would do with a dog you were training.”
There were two photos of me, one of Heather, the Mosses’ mug shots, and a view of their seedy trailer. The article said that the department had known about the hot sauce and the other inappropriate punishments seven years earlier but had merely offered the Mosses “counseling and reminders of its policy against the use of corporal punishment.” In addition, the department allowed the Mosses to adopt eight of the children.
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