I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate

by Gay Courter

  Even though it sounds as if I sail through the churning seas of my cases solo, I check every turn of the wheel, every course correction, with the professionals in the Guardian ad Litem office. Every letter that goes out in my name is first sent to the main office for approval and is cosigned by a staff member. Within days of completing the training course and other requirements, I was assigned my first case, which was managed by Lillian Elliott. When she wasn’t there, her superior, Nancy Hastedt, was available to answer questions. I never made a move without their guidance then, and even now, I frequently check with them. Almost always they give me the green light to proceed on the course I think is best, but since there are legal consequences to my actions, it is always prudent to have a second opinion. More essential is the guidance and support they provide in helping to analyze the reactions of the players and deciding how to proceed.

  Lillian, a young and feisty grandmother who has a shelf filled with tennis and golf trophies, is a woman with uncommon sensitivities to what motivates people. Raised to be a southern lady by her mother, a doyenne of Atlanta’s elite society, she is always immaculately dressed. Although I’ve never seen her in white gloves and a straw hat, she wears them in my mental portrait of her. After raising her four children, Lillian expanded on the many volunteer activities she had undertaken as wife of a prominent banker by accepting supervisory positions in charity programs. Her interest in children’s issues led her to become one of the first members of the Guardian ad Litem staff when an office opened in her city.

  On the phone Lillian’s voice has a molasses-rich drawl and her words are always genteel. Yet there is no indirectness, no beating around the bush to her instructions. I have never accustomed myself to her forthright way of piercing the core of a question. “When was the last time you had sexual relations with your daughter?” or “Are you going to get tested today for drug abuse and tell me the results?” or “Do you think she is telling you the truth about the rape?” are the types of inquiries Lillian makes softly, gently, yet with such persistence everyone—including me—feels compelled to answer forthrightly, even adding “ma’am” at the end of the sentence.

  Twenty years younger than Lillian, Nancy Hastedt comes from a family of liberal educators in Detroit. As an idealistic teenager she worked on inner city youth councils and took a degree in education at the University of Michigan. Her distaste for northern winters convinced her to apply to a Florida school for her MBA, where she met her husband and settled down. She thought the best way to make a meaningful contribution was as a foster care caseworker for HRS, so she worked in that department for five years. Frustrated by a bureaucracy that was systems-oriented rather than people-centered, Nancy tried to establish reforms from within. When the circuit director of the local Guardian ad Litem program resigned to move out of state, Nancy applied for and won the job, which placed her on the other side of the table from her previous cohorts. Nancy’s insider’s view of the social service system gives her the perspective she needs to represent the children under her jurisdiction.

  Nancy’s style is flamboyant, especially compared to Lillian’s gentility. With the broad shoulders and narrow hips of a Nolan Miller model, she has a wardrobe more suitable for an appearance on “Dynasty” than in a courtroom, yet she never seems inappropriately dressed. Her hair, a mass of dark short curls that defies the authority of the comb, is the antithesis of Lillian’s sleek silver page boy. Yet there are no clashes between the two women. With varying styles—and great élan—each takes up the battle cry to give every child the chance he deserves.

  In the early months when I looked to them for direction, they’d always first ask me how I perceived the problem and how I thought it best could be handled. Not a team player by nature, I was hesitant to state my nonconformist ideas. Each time, though, I was pushed much further in the direction I had been heading than I ever thought I would be allowed to go. When some of these maneuvers were successful, I concocted bolder plans, and soon I would ask myself: what is the fastest, best, easiest way to accomplish what this child needs? Then I would check with the office, which acted more like the cheering section than the umpire, and proceed to act on my scheme.

  After my initial hostile visit to the Tabernacle Home and discovery that Lydia may have been wrongly accused, I suspected I was going to need more than a modicum of their wisdom and assistance to serve this child’s best interests.

  Anxious to hear the story from Lydia’s parents, I telephoned her home and spoke to her mother, Catherine Ryan. After explaining my role, I asked to set up an appointment.

  “I don’t get off from my job as a bookkeeper until after five and then I am taking a college class two nights a week. I also have Scouts one night, my husband is fixing the roof for his aunt, and we have relatives coming.”

  “Isn’t there an hour we can squeeze in somewhere?”

  “I don’t see what good it would do. My husband says Didi made her own bed, so now she can lie in it.”

  My jaw clenched. “Mrs. Ryan,” I began in a purposefully deeper tone of voice, “I may not have explained my role to you sufficiently. The judge has requested a thorough investigation of this situation. The rules require that I speak to Lydia’s parents. So your cooperation is not optional, it is court-ordered.” I knew I had overstretched my authority slightly, but someone had to stand up for Lydia.

  “I see,” Mrs. Ryan said, and made arrangements to meet me on Wednesday.

  I arrived at exactly five-thirty, the appointed time. The one-story house was at the end of a rutted lane. Surrounded by an overgrown lawn and untrimmed bushes, the exterior paint was peeling and one of the shutters on the living room window was hanging askew. A girl with Lydia’s pale coloring, but with a much more robust body, was sitting on the steps twirling the front wheel of her bike.

  “Hi,” I said. “I’m a friend of Lydia’s. Are you Audrey?”

  “How’d ya know?”

  “You look like sisters,” I said while silently musing that there was no way this pudgy kid—the victim of record—could have fit into a microwave oven.

  “Well, Didi doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “I know, but your parents are expecting me.”

  “My dad’s not here.” I looked at my watch. “And he won’t be coming, either. He’s bowling.”

  “Is your mother home?”

  Audrey stood up and opened the door. “Mom! The lady’s here!”

  The Ryans’ living room was furnished with a worn blue sofa, scarred coffee table, console television, and one chair. There were no knick-knacks or decorations on any of the surfaces, and the stained carpeting betrayed the track marks of a recent vacuuming. Catherine Ryan was sitting at the kitchen table. She did not get up but allowed Audrey to show me in. She ground out a cigarette and gave me a resigned look. Now I could see where Lydia got her dainty figure. Catherine’s face was taut, and she had dark rings under her eyes. I took the seat opposite her and placed a stenography notebook on the table. Because I thought it made families nervous, I rarely took notes, preferring to scribble down quotes as fast as possible as soon as I got to my car. In this case, since I wanted the visit to seem “official,” I had decided to be more businesslike. To continue the formalities, I had brought along an interview form which could be used in a home study. I began to ask the questions in order, beginning with the mother’s name, address, educational, family, and marital history.

  Lydia’s brother, Mark, came out of his room to check out the visitor.

  “You are supposed to stay in your room,” Catherine admonished him. He darted back quickly. Audrey peered around another doorway. “And you, young lady, don’t you have homework to do?” Audrey did not move. “You want to have pizza later, don’t you?” Audrey continued to stare at me. Catherine looked at her sternly and began to count, “One, two …” Audrey shot outside again.

  I noticed Catherine was wearing a bowling league shirt. “Is Mr. Ryan coming?”

  “No. It is bad enough that I h
ave to dredge this up again.”

  “I’m sorry about that, but I have an incomplete file. I don’t even know exactly why Lydia was placed in juvenile detention.”

  “We had to do something. Didi’s been in trouble with the police so many times.”

  I realized that the family called her Didi, and I wondered if Lydia would prefer me to use it as well. I made a note to ask her. “When was that?”

  “First, she kept running away. She must have disappeared at least fifteen times in the last few years.”

  “And these were reported to the police?”

  “Not most of them. I usually knew where she was, so I guess you could call it a ‘stay away’ more than a ‘run away.’ If she didn’t like one of our rules, she would stay with friends until she felt like coming home again.”

  “Any other problems with the police?”

  “She was caught shoplifting once, but they didn’t prosecute her, although Stu thought it would have been better if she’d learned her lesson then.”

  “Is Stuart Ryan her natural father?”

  “No. Her father was my first husband, Mitch Long, but he was always drunk or high and he abused me and Didi. Once, when he was in the yard with her, she started screaming. I looked outside and saw him shake her arm and it was dangling in a peculiar way. I had to take her to the hospital because it was dislocated. He claimed she fell, but I had seen him do it.”

  “Did you tell the doctor that?”

  “I didn’t dare because Mitch would have laid into me. Then, a few weeks later, Mitch came toward me and hit my butt in a friendly way, but Didi thought he was going to hurt me and she started screaming hysterically. That’s when I realized she was afraid of him, so I moved in with my mother and we divorced a year later.”

  Catherine went on to tell me that she met and married Stuart Ryan when Lydia was six. “He had a child with his first wife, but she left the area and he never saw his son again. More than anything he wanted to have his own family, so I got pregnant right away with Audrey, and when she was born, he legally adopted Didi so we would all have the same name.”

  “Did they get along?”

  “I think she always resented losing my full attention and took it out on him, but he was good to her.”

  Catherine went on to explain that until her third child was born, Lydia did well in school, then suddenly she stopped doing her schoolwork and it caught up with her in the seventh grade, so she had to repeat it.

  “They tried a drop-out prevention program, gave her special tutoring, but nothing worked. Now the high school won’t even take her back.” Catherine swallowed hard. “I don’t know what we did wrong. Stu and I both have high school diplomas and I am working on my college degree by taking night courses—one a semester—at the community college.”

  Catherine held her palms out in a gesture of hopelessness. “I guess I should have listened to Stu more, but by the time I realized I had spoiled Didi, she was already involved with boys.” There was a long pause. “You know about Teddy Kirby?”

  “Yes, Lydia, I mean, Didi, told me he was her boyfriend.”

  “We knew he was up to no good because of the way he never looked you in the eye. We warned Didi about him, but she wouldn’t listen. After she came out of the hospital, we thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t.”

  “Valley View Hospital,” I filled in. “Why did she go there originally?” I was trying to piece together the timing of the love affair, the pregnancy with Teddy’s baby, the abortion, and the murder.

  “ She was into drugs and drinking. We took her to a psychologist who saw her a few times and billed us over three hundred dollars before he said he couldn’t help her. He claimed she was depressed and might commit suicide, and besides our insurance would cover it if we put her in Valley View. Stuart agreed, saying it would be better to get her away from Teddy, but we didn’t do it soon enough. When they did her physical, they found out she was eight weeks along.” Catherine scrutinized my face for some sign of either condemnation or approval.

  “That must have been a rough time for all of you. Where did you go?”

  “To a clinic near the university.”

  “Was that what Didi wanted?”

  “Not at first, but we made her see how it wouldn’t be healthy for her to have the baby.”

  “What happened when she was released?”

  “The whole family went to counseling, and the doctor said she wished other families cooperated and made as much progress as we did. But Didi knew how to act and what to say to make everybody believe she was doing well, then two weeks later she was seeing Teddy behind our backs.” Catherine shook her head. “I’m not sorry he died.”

  Mark came in because the zipper on his jeans was stuck. Catherine took him into the bedroom to fix it. While waiting, I realized that Mrs. Ryan loved Lydia, but for some reason she had been unable to manage her, and her daughter had spiraled out of control. Every fear had come true. She had abused illegal substances and had sexual encounters, become pregnant, and the boy she had chosen had been killed, probably because of his involvement with drugs. Mrs. Ryan had two younger children to raise, obviously not much money, and was trying to better herself at the same time.

  Catherine returned and looked at the clock on the stove. I realized it was getting to be dinnertime and asked whether I should come back another day. “No, I want to get this over with and Stu won’t be home until after you leave and then he’ll bring pizza.”

  It was clear Mr. Ryan was avoiding me. Annoyed, I asked, “What happened next?”

  “For a while things seemed to get better. Lydia stopped skipping school and met this other boy, Jason. We thought our mistake with Teddy had been forbidding him to see Didi, so we had Jason over for supper. Stu warned him that he wasn’t permitted in the house when we were out, but if we were home he was welcome to visit, and he could phone anytime. He seemed polite and agreed to abide by Stu’s rules, but he fooled us.”

  “Was Jason the one who threatened Audrey?”

  Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t blame him as much as Didi. She was the one responsible.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “It was Easter vacation, but we had to work, so Didi was in charge. Jason came over for an hour on Monday, then stayed all morning on Tuesday, and when he returned on Wednesday, Audrey mentioned that Jason had been there while we weren’t home, however I didn’t tell Stu, because he would have gone ballistic on me. I did warn Didi that Jason couldn’t come over again. Then, on Thursday, he came by with his friend Doug. Didi wouldn’t let them in the house, but she didn’t tell them to go away. Audrey started to call me at work, but Jason heard her through the open window and ran in and hung up the phone. Concerned, I called back, and Audrey rushed to the phone. Jason caught her by throwing a towel over her head and started choking her so she couldn’t pick it up. Mark became frightened and ran out of the house. Doug caught him and used his bicycle chain and locked him to the fence, then went in to help control Audrey. She was screaming and Doug told her to shut up. He pulled out one of the knives from the dish drainer and said ‘Shut up, or I’ll cut you up in little pieces and put you in the microwave oven.’ Audrey jumped at him. The knife sliced her finger and it started to bleed all over the place. While they were cleaning up the mess, Audrey ran out and got on her bike. She saw a man in his yard and asked to use his phone.” Catherine shuddered. “He could have been any sort of pervert.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Audrey called me from this man’s house and said the boys had knives and Mark was chained to the fence. I couldn’t leave work so I called the police. By the time the police got there, Mark and Audrey were alone and Didi and the boys had hidden in the woods. When they caught them, they took them off to the police station and contacted the boys’ parents. The charges against them were dropped, but Stu told them to press charges against Didi, since she was supposed to be taking care of her sister and brother.”

>   “And they did?” Catherine nodded. “That’s when Didi was sent to JDC for aggravated battery, assault, and false imprisonment.”

  “Yes.”

  “But she wasn’t the one who tied Mark to the fence or cut Audrey with the knife. She didn’t even threaten them, the boys did.”

  “Anyway, it was time she suffered the consequences of her actions.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean everything: the drugs, the drinking, the lying and cheating, for screwing up her life with Teddy and getting pregnant, and costing us a fortune at Valley View, and sneaking out, and breaking all the rules.” Catherine’s nostrils flared. “We had failed, the doctors had failed, so we wanted to give the police their chance.”

  “Did you visit her in jail?”

  “No. Stu said she had crossed the final line.”

  “That’s why you did not pick her up from JDC and HRS put her in a home near the university.” Catherine stared out the window. I continued to clarify. “Then she ran right away and lived on the streets with Jason until he told her about the Tabernacle Home.”

  “It’s our only choice.”

  “Do you think it is the right place for her to be?”

  “We can’t put any more money into her and she requires full-time supervision.”

  “Are you visiting her there?”

  “When they tell me I can come, I will, but her father won’t. His wound is too deep.”

  I realized that it was getting late and asked if I could phone if I had any more questions. Catherine said that would be fine. She stood up to go to the door and said she knew that I was the writer because one of her friends had worked in our office.

  “Did you know that your daughter wants to be a writer?” I asked.

  “Well, Didi wants a lot of things she will never have,” she said with a deep sigh.

  A few days later I called the Tabernacle Home and spoke to Marjorie Hoffman about visiting Lydia later in the day. She said the best time to arrive would be at three-fifteen. A long phone call kept me in the office later than I expected and I arrived at three-thirty. Alice Shaw was waiting for me, making it clear I was late.