Gay looked up from the newspaper. “I wonder if we still could get hold of that licensing file or if it has gone missing.”
The reporter had interviewed one of my teachers who said I was “a once-in-a-lifetime kind of student” and “a determined, focused girl.”
Phil beamed as he read aloud. “‘Now, some of that determination and focus are aimed at the Mosses and the system that allowed them to take in children. In addition to serving as a plaintiff in the lawsuit against state officials, she gave a statement to police to support the case against the Mosses.’”
Wayne Washington quoted me in the final paragraph: “‘They used us to get money,’ she said of the Mosses. ‘They used us to look like better people in the community. My whole goal is to make sure they never get children again.’”
“Is there any mention of the class-action suit?” I asked.
“Yes, Erin, there is.” Phil chuckled and pointed to quotes from Karen Gievers.
“Has anyone found Mandy yet?” I asked.
Gay shook her head. “We’re trying. All I know is that all of the Mosses’ adopted kids have the same guardian.”
“So ask him.”
“You know he can’t tell us anything because of confidentiality.”
“I hate that confidentiality crap!” I snapped. “It just protects the workers, not the kids.”
After the incident with Brooke, I felt as though I had broken through a wall—one I had carefully constructed over many years. I still had to navigate the fallen bricks so I would not trip up again. I know the Courters were angry and distrustful of me for much longer than they let me know, but they did not punish me for what I had done. For the first time, I let myself appreciate Gay’s generosity. She was always trying to please me—sometimes too hard—but her intentions were kind, and only someone who loved me would have tolerated how mean I had been to her in both little and large ways. Once Phil recovered from his initial outrage, he was the same as ever—gentle, understanding, and always offering to help me with homework, drive me somewhere, make me a snack, or play a game of pool or basketball. I finally noticed that they were always there: waking me up, tucking me in, ready to listen, checking whether I needed anything.
I was harder on myself than they were, and I resolved to prove their faith was justified. Before, I had held something back so that when they discarded me, I would not be so wounded. But with my parents by my side, who had proven their love for me, I felt safe enough to allow sunlight to sweep the shadows from my life. So many wonderful events were unfolding that I believed that I had been given a second chance.
One of my first opportunities was being asked to give the keynote speech for the National Court Appointed Special Advocates Association, the CEO of which I had met at the White House. Gay helped me write the speech that explained everything Mary Miller had done for me as my Guardian ad Litem, and Phil edited a video clip that illustrated my journey through foster care.
I loved drama and giving speeches at school, but I was worried about speaking before a huge crowd. One of Gay’s friends, Lou Heckler, is a professional motivational speaker. She arranged for him to be my speech coach. When the time came, I stood behind the lectern gazing across more than a thousand pairs of eyes that were intent on me, but I was confident—at least at the beginning—because I had memorized my speech down to the pauses and emphases that Mr. Heckler had suggested.
“I like to think that my story has three parts,” I began. “First is the time when I felt like I was lost in the system. Second is when my CASA, Mary Miller, came into my life. And third is when she helped find a family for me.”
When I started to describe the horrors at the Moss home, my urge was to rush and get the address over with more quickly, but Mr. Heckler’s voice in my head was like a conductor keeping the beat. “But the worst moments were the really cruel punishments” [pause] “like having to run laps in the hot sun” [pause] “crouching in awkward positions” [pause] “being hit with a spoon until my bottom was raw” [pause] “and even food was withheld.” I took a long breath. “Luckily, I was the kind of kid who knew how to stay out of trouble, so I learned to avoid the worst of the punishments. Unfortunately, my brother had much worse things done to him” [pause] “like having his head dunked in the bathtub until he nearly drowned and having hot sauce poured down his throat.”
The audience gasped in unison, then groaned when I told them how Violet Chavez had let me go back for the weekend. They applauded when they heard how Mary Miller rescued Luke after he was sent to the Mosses a second time, and they cheered when I announced that the Mosses had been arrested.
Then I drove home the point about the difference Mary Miller had made in my life, even though I had not appreciated her when I was younger. “I’d like to say that my guardian and I became best friends, but by then I was used to caseworkers who came and went—all sorts of therapists, counselors, and people with different titles who said they would do things but never did.” I held up my hand and counted on my fingers. “By the time I met Mary Miller, I’d already had eight foster mothers, a biological mother, my grandfather’s girlfriend, not to mention shifts of counselors in the shelter, and though Mary was nice enough, I didn’t expect her to make a difference.” I took a long pause. “Why should I? Nobody else ever had.”
“I want to make certain that no other child has to endure one more day with those sadistic people. I now have a lawyer who is helping put together a class-action lawsuit on behalf of all the children who suffered in that home. Maybe you can figure out that I saw the movie Erin Brockovich recently! My mother says it is okay for me to have a lawsuit, but I can’t wear the sort of suits Julia Roberts did!”
The unanimous laughter broke the tension. My confidence soared. These people were actually listening to a teenage girl, and they believed me! Hopefully, it also would help them pay attention to the kids they served.
“I never realized what it would take to be found, but I’m certainly glad Mary Miller did,” I said in my conclusion. “Volunteers like you make a huge difference, and I want to thank you on behalf of the thousands of children that court-appointed advocates serve every year.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. “Even though she isn’t here, I’d like to thank Mary Miller. And thank all of you. Please don’t stop until each of your children has a permanent family forever!” The audience rose as one long wave and clapped.
Afterward I received dozens of requests to speak all over the country. When I delivered a similar speech to the Florida Guardian ad Litem Program, Mary Miller was present. At the end I handed her a bouquet. Both of us cried as we hugged each other, each realizing how much we had overcome together.
Back when I was still living at The Children’s Home, Mary Miller had asked me, “If you could do anything you wanted, what would that be?”
I did not mind this question as much as her probing about my feelings. I blurted out, “I want to travel all over the world.” I remember looking around the confines of the campus, thinking I would be lucky to ever get out of Tampa again. During my first few years with the Courters we had been all over the country and on a cruise. After Josh graduated from Hampshire College, he and his girlfriend, Safron, joined us in Cambridge, England, where the Courters had arranged to exchange homes with a British family the summer before I started high school.
Safron bought me the British edition of the latest Harry Potter book the day it was released. On a whim I asked Gay, “Do you know J. K. Rowling?”
“I don’t know everyone!” she said with a laugh.
“I bet you could arrange for us to meet her while we’re here,” I persisted.
“I don’t think so, sweetie.”
From England, we went to France. On our last evening in Paris, we took a bateau-mouche to watch the millennium lights on the Eiffel Tower. I went over to the bench where Phil and Gay sat holding hands and I snuggled between them. “Do you realize that three summers ago the most exciting moment of my life was welcoming gu
ests to The Children’s Home?” I grabbed Gay’s left hand and Phil’s right and held them in my lap. “My parents!” I sighed theatrically. “In Paris!”
One day soon after the trip, Gay came across a contest announcement in USA Today. “You’ve got to see this.” She waved the paper at me. “Look! It’s an essay contest about how the Harry Potter books changed your life. Check out the prize.”
Even though I was intrigued, I pretended not to be. “What is it?” I said without looking in her direction.
“Breakfast in New York with J. K. Rowling!”
“Remember I once told you how similar Hogwarts is to The Children’s Home?” I began. “They have cottages and a house cup, like the one we had for the Murphey Awards. And he’s also an orphan who was abused by relatives.” My excitement mounted. “I’ll write about that.”
The next day I read Gay my first draft. “Hey, kiddo,” Gay said enthusiastically, “you can write!”
“You think so?”
I knew that was the sort of encouragement any parent would give, so when the day to announce the Harry Potter contest prizes passed, I did not mention it to anyone. I had never thought I would win anyway. The next day the publisher called to tell me I was one of the ten winners!
A limo met us at the airport. It was so long, it could barely maneuver in the congested streets of Manhattan. As Gay chattered about the events we would attend, I shut her out and concentrated on absorbing every minute. I expected Ms. Rowling would just shake my hand, but she was down-to-earth and whispered some encouraging words about my life and future, and then she hugged me. “It’s been a privilege to meet you.” I smiled so hard, my cheeks ached for hours. Once again, I experienced that surreal feeling of having a dream come true.
After reading my winning essay, the public relations people for Casey Family Services asked me to be a presenter at their postadoption services conference and also to address a Senate reception.
Hundreds of guests stood around the packed rotunda in the Russell Building on Capitol Hill. While the presenters made the introductory remarks, the room reverberated with chattering and clinking glasses. I figured that nobody would pay attention to me; yet, the minute I began, there was a hush. Since many of the guests had legislative power to make reforms, I suggested that they find a foster child who needed a permanent home and help make it happen in less than six months. Then I concluded with a quote from MoliÈre: “It is not only what we do, but also what we do not do, for which we are accountable.”
The silence made me think I had said something offensive until the echoing applause encouraged me to believe that some of the dignitaries might remember my story and work to protect children from a failing foster care system.
The Harry Potter contest and the Senate reception had made big ripples in my ninth-grade fall. The rest of the time I was busy balancing the workload from several honors classes, drama rehearsals, and varsity basketball practice. I had been thrilled to make the team as a freshman, but the coach demanded rigorous sessions; and after weeks of running several miles a day, doing sprints, and jumping exercises, I had to add physical therapy for my knees to my schedule. Most of all, I liked hanging out with Tess and some new friends from the team. There wasn’t much to do in our small town, but we were content going to the mall, getting our nails done, going to football games, and gossiping about guys.
One day in early December, I came home from basketball practice and Gay said, “Check the answering machine.”
On it was a message from a member of Hillary Rodham Clinton’s staff inviting me to attend a Christmas party at the White House! The day after my essay appeared in USA Today, the First Lady, who has a special interest in foster care and adoption, mentioned my essay on Rosie O’Donnell’s talk show. I had sent her a note, never expecting an acknowledgment—and certainly not an invitation.
Gay and Phil were busy on the day of the party; however, Gay’s sister, Robin Madden, a pediatrician in Maryland, was delighted to be my guest. Grampy bought me the airline ticket for my Hanukkah gift. I was going back to the White House, and this time the president of the United States greeted me—and I have the pictures to prove it!
When I celebrated my fourth Christmas with the Courters, I enjoyed hanging the familiar decorations. My friends and I had many activities planned, and I could not wait for Josh and Blake to come home for the holidays. For the first time, I felt that I fit right in.
The Courters had warned me that lawsuits could drag on for years. They had also told me not to expect victory or financial compensation. I was more concerned about what was happening in the Mosses’ criminal case. When we heard nothing, I asked Gay to contact the assistant state attorney.
“Mr. Sinacore said that he can’t use your testimony—or Luke’s—because the statute of limitations had passed,” she reported.
I was furious. “I spoke out about these people so many times, but they said I was lying! Shouldn’t they be counting from way back when I started to tell?”
Gay sighed. “He did say you and Luke had given the best interviews.”
“They’ll try to discredit the other kids,” I said between gritted teeth. “They’ll claim they had behavior problems or collided to make it up.”
“Colluded.” Gay grinned. “It means to plot or conspire.”
“Yeah, whatever.” I was not in the mood for a vocabulary lesson.
Almost a year after the Mosses were first arrested, a new reporter from the St. Petersburg Times informed me that Mrs. Moss pled guilty to one count of child neglect and gave up parental rights to her adopted children. Her sentence? Probation for only five years! Mr. Moss also relinquished rights to his adopted children but received no further punishment.
I was dumbfounded. “Is that all?”
“The assistant state attorney believed that the children had been mistreated, but he thought that it was going to be tough to prove,” the reporter explained. “Would you like to comment?” he asked.
“The Mosses need a nice, long time-out in jail to think about what they did,” I responded.
I was even more irate when I read the article, which quoted the Mosses’ attorney as saying he thought it was a very fair agreement and that the charges were “pretty outlandish.” He also added that several witnesses had “credibility problems.”
“Credibility problems!” I snorted. “I told you they would say that! That’s why I wanted to testify!” I growled in frustration.
Phil continued reading aloud, “The article goes on to say that the Mosses’ attorney said, ‘Marjorie Moss always got the worst of the worst … We felt that Mrs. Moss probably did the best she could.’” Phil hugged me. “Oh yeah, that really describes my daughter—top student, athlete, White House guest.”
Mrs. Merritt stuck up for us by saying, “That’s all? That’s all she gets? Five years’ probation? That is an insult to those kids.”
The reporter quoted me, too: “Kids are always taught there are going to be consequences for what they do, but this case is completely contradicting to that because they are getting a slap on the wrist.”
“Read the part about the time-out!” Gay said with a chuckle. My quote made it into the article.
Phil complied: “Here it is! ‘I think they deserve a little time to think of what they have done. A little time-out.’”
I made the naughty-naughty gesture with my finger. “At least it also mentions my lawsuits.” I exhaled. “Maybe Mandy will see it this time, and she can sue the Mosses.”
My lawsuit was not as glamorous as the ones I had seen on television. Boxes and boxes started arriving as the Department of Children and Families complied with Karen Gievers’s requests to see all the evidence. As I shuffled through the volumes of papers, I noted the signatures of people who I had never met but who had been in charge of a facet of my care during some moment in time. I remembered only a few of the names and wondered if they knew who I was. There were also the histories of all my foster families, as well as the caseworkers�
� personnel files. Nothing was in order.
“How am I ever going to make sense of this?” I asked Gay. It took hours to sort through what caseworkers in two states were writing to one another while I was at my grandfather’s. The Mosses’ licensing file was filled with reports calling them “model” foster parents and recommending they get more children. The praises of caseworkers who should have known better infuriated me so much that I had to walk away to calm down.
It turned out that the Mosses were not the only villains in my story. I did not recall that other placements had been almost as crowded. Ms. Gievers told me that foster parents are not supposed to have more than five children in a home, including birth children. The O’Connors had crammed one small bedroom with five toddlers, some even sharing the same bed. The Hineses’ file noted they had too many children and needed a waiver for Luke and me, which might have been one reason they sent me to the other home. The Ortizes had at least fourteen children at one point when their official capacity was two. When I returned from South Carolina the first time, I lived in the Pace home, which was packed with at least ten children, mostly preschoolers.
In addition to the legal irregularities, I was also unaware of many other troubling aspects of my care. It was not until Gay had all the documentation in chronological order that she realized that years had gone by without a judge reviewing our case and that we had originally been sent to South Carolina without a court order, which then made it difficult to retrieve us when our safety became a concern. Gay pointed out that I was officially missing for nine months. By piecing together scraps of information—including photographs that showed me spending Christmases and Easters in South Carolina looking quite different in size and having different hair lengths—Gay figured out that I was with Adele during the paperwork gap. It appears that the records had been doctored to conceal the errors.
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