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

by Gay Courter

  Then, when Alicia was four and Cory was three, Tammy ran off with another man. They were gone for several weeks. When she returned and said she wanted to take the children away with her, Jeremiah stepped in. He warned Tammy that he didn’t trust her with the children and forcibly would prevent her from removing them. He offered Tammy part of her inheritance immediately if she would sign over the children’s custody to Red.

  A few weeks before Rich was six, Tammy left Stevenson Groves for good. The date was 1977—precisely when the initial entry was made in Rich’s official file. It was clear from Rich’s history that he had never formed a secure attachment during the crucial period when children either learn trust or mistrust. From then on it was a slippery slope toward the wretched place where he was at the moment.

  I reviewed the last eleven years of each of the children’s lives since Tammy left. Starting with Rich, every time it had seemed as though something might work out, another disappointment or tragedy reared up to destroy any progress he had made. The last notation in Rich’s file was perhaps the most pathetic. On the most recent Labor Day weekend, sixteen-year-old Rich and some friends went swimming in the creek. His best friend at the time was Sam, a boy who had been a success story at Rich’s latest rehabilitation program, and someone he admired. There are slightly different versions of what happened that afternoon, but everyone agrees Sam was on a log, reaching to grab a turtle, when both slipped into the water. Everyone laughed. Sam went under. Sam liked to kid around. Then there was a moment when Rich began to wonder. Rich jumped in and swam to the log. He dove once and thought he touched something, but when he pulled, it was only a tree branch. He dove again, this time more frantic. Rich came up sputtering and crying. By the time assistance arrived at that remote spot almost an hour later, Sam had not yet resurfaced. Divers did not find the body for several days.

  No wonder Rich attempted suicide shortly afterward.

  I couldn’t fathom how I could help Rich after so many crushing defeats, but before I faced that challenge, I first had to locate him. I called HRS and began to track him down. A clerk called me back and told me I wouldn’t have to worry about him because he was in a locked psychiatric ward halfway across the state and wasn’t “going anywhere for a long time.”

  Once I knew where Rich was, I quickly determined there was not a pressing need to see him right away. It was clear he was safe. Besides, psychiatric placements were usually very short term. They’d probably move him back to our area in a few weeks. Better to see him in a foster home than in a psycho ward, I decided, and soon convinced myself that there was no rush to see Rich.

  I would concentrate on Cory next.

  If you studied a map of the district served by our courts and social service agency and attempted to triangulate the three farthest points, you could have pinpointed the locations where the three Stevenson children were living. Rich had special needs, but I did not understand why Alicia and Cory were in different counties, area codes, and school districts. Not only was this an inconvenience for the children, who almost never could arrange either to see or speak to each other, but it created more work for their caseworker, Mitzi Zeller.

  I first encountered Mitzi Zeller when I arrived to read and copy the massive files she had accumulated about the Stevenson family. She had a mop of curly auburn hair that she kept trimmed to a sensible cap close to her head. Except when she went to court, she wore jeans or western skirts, plaid blouses with pearl snaps, and always cowboy boots. Her voice had a trace of a western twang and she had an easy, rolling laugh.

  “What do you know about Tammy Stevenson?” was my first question.

  “Not much. She’s been missing for about ten years. I understand she lived in this area for at least five of those, but never visited her children or her father. Eventually she married the guy she ran off with—or was it his brother? Anyway, they had a kid, a boy I think, then he went to jail for six years. Maybe you remember that case? The Jiffy Rapist, they called him.

  “You mean Tammy managed to marry both a child molester and a rapist?”

  “Looks that way to me.”

  “What’s Rich like?”

  “A Looney Tune, always was, always will be,” Mitzi said with a grunt. “I can’t count how many times I had to get up in the middle of the night to remove him from a foster care placement and sit it out with him until morning in this office.” Mitzi lit a cigarette and puffed tense little bursts of smoke. “Then I’d have to beg and plead for hours to find someone—anyone—who’d try him for a few more days. We have shelter homes that pride themselves on being able to handle any kid, yet good ole Rich managed to do them in. One place didn’t last until I drove back to the office.”

  “After Tammy left, did Red marry again?”

  “Don’t know what that guy has, but the women stand in line. There have been three wives since Tammy, and one or two before her. The last one didn’t bail out until Red was jailed. The one before that—Denise—left when she learned that he had been messing with her daughter, Sunny.”

  “Sexually?”

  “Yep. Kid was around nine. Red made Sunny sit on his lap with his bathrobe open and nothing on underneath and used his hand to move her up and down on him. She called her grandmother as soon as she could and said that ‘Daddy hurt my bum.’ Her grandmother brought Sunny into the hospital and the child was examined. There were some vaginal lacerations and bleeding, and they took a semen sample from her thigh, but for some reason Red wasn’t prosecuted. I guess Denise decided to get the hell out of there and took her daughter with her.”

  “Did she leave Alicia and Cory behind?”

  “They were his kids. Alicia was younger than the stepdaughter. From what I can tell that’s about the time he started diddling with her.”

  “And there was no stepmother to walk in on him.”

  “Not for a few months. But then number five—or is it six?—showed up. Her name is Vicky, and the kids seemed pretty attached to her.”

  “Why aren’t Alicia and Cory with her now?”

  “Vicky claimed she didn’t want any more to do with the Stevensons if she could help it, but Cory keeps asking for her.” Mitzi took a long drag on her cigarette. “So far those two are managing okay, but I’m holding my breath because they are still Stevensons. Alicia might stick it out with the Levys. Cory is at the MacDougals on a probationary basis because they once had Rich for two weeks and are worried he’s going to act like his brother.”

  Mitzi’s adversarial attitude toward the Stevensons was beginning to irritate me. Rich was a disturbed child, probably due to years of neglect. Alicia was the alleged victim of an incestuous relationship. While there was no direct evidence that Cory had ever been abused, he had been in trouble with the law twice: for throwing watermelons at a barn and for driving a neighbor’s tractor and leaving it a mile down the road when it ran out of gas. To me both were in the realm of pranks and hardly signified a criminal mind. If anything, his problems sounded like a distress signal.

  “I’ve met Alicia and I think she’s adorable,” I said. “And I’m looking forward to visiting Cory tomorrow.”

  “I wish you luck with the whole tribe,” Mitzi said as she fumbled for the last cigarette in her pack. “Maybe you can make a difference, but after what they’ve been through, I doubt it.”

  I was lost. Both sides of the road were marked as state forest lands. Ahead stretched a baby blue Florida sky unbroken by a single cloud. It was after three and I was late for my first appointment to see Cory at the MacDougals. According to my notes, I should have crossed a bridge by now. On a whim, at a new intersection I took a road, which wound around to a more populated area, and kept working my way to the left. In two more turns I was on the road I wanted.

  The MacDougals lived at the end of a rural lane. Cattle grazed beside the fence. I rang the bell and waited. After several minutes Renata MacDougal came to the door and opened it a crack. “Didn’t think you were going to make it.”

  “I missed t
he bridge.”

  “You don’t cross the bridge if you’re coming from the east.”

  For a second I wondered if she had purposely led me astray, then dismissed the notion. I must have given her the wrong idea of where I lived.

  She opened the door a few inches farther. “In all my years as a foster parent, nobody ever came to check on me before.”

  “I’m only here to talk to Cory about his situation and let him know he won’t be alone when he has to go to court.”

  “He thinks his sister made the whole thing up,” she said as she led the way to a round table in the kitchen. Renata MacDougal was a formidable woman with muscular arms—I suspected she could wield a chain saw with one hand. In the center of the table was a basket lined with a quilted gingham pad where a fluffy gray Persian cat wearing a blue ribbon was surveying the room. As soon as Renata sat down, the cat pounced onto her lap.

  “Cory can’t accept the truth about his father. After a while, he’ll learn the value of the structured life he has here compared with the disorganized one he had before.”

  I glanced around the house, which was spotlessly clean. Not a wrinkled cushion or errant sneaker betrayed teenagers in residence. “How’s Cory adjusting?” I asked.

  “He’s been having trouble controlling himself,” Renata said, grimacing. “We’ve had bedwetters before, but never this.” I waited while she stroked the cat. “I find his soiled underwear hidden under his bed. It stinks so bad I have to throw it out.”

  “You mean he can’t control his bowels?” She nodded. “I would think that would be terribly embarrassing to a boy his age.”

  “As it should be.”

  “He might have a physical problem, or maybe it has to do with some abuse he suffered.”

  Renata MacDougal shrugged. “It’s part of his lack of discipline. Conrad—that’s my husband—he says what these boys need is to be humiliated until they stop making mistakes.”

  “I don’t know if I would use that approach …”

  “That’s how we broke Rudy of his bedwetting. Once boys get with our program, everything improves: their behavior, their attitude, even their grades in school. Here at the farm we have plenty of chores to do. It keeps their minds from wandering, keeps their bodies busy. When their heads hit their pillows, they fall asleep.”

  “Tell me about their routine responsibilities.”

  “They have to feed the cattle and the chickens and clean out the stable. There are fences to paint and windows to wash. They keep their rooms tidy and wash the dishes. If they don’t do something right the first time, they have to do it again.” She stood up and went to the window. “School bus is at the corner. Just because you are here, doesn’t mean that Cory won’t have to do his chores.”

  I was about to protest but decided a direct confrontation would only antagonize Mrs. MacDougal, who seemed rather rigid. I asked to use the bathroom. She pointed to one between the children’s bedrooms. The room was immaculate. Towels were folded precisely into thirds and triangles of washcloths draped on an angle. The toilet seat lid was down and fitted with an embroidered terry cloth cover. The sink counter was bare. There were no cosmetics or toothbrushes. Not a single droplet of water or slight residue of soap scum indicated human habitation. Even the most meticulous housekeeper would be challenged to meet this spit-and-polish standard.

  I tried to comprehend how a terrified thirteen-year-old, who had been forcibly removed from a chaotic home and placed here against his will, would react to this hyperfastidious environment. Might Cory’s discomfort and inability to understand the new, fairly harsh rules have something to do with soiling his pants? Or had he been sexually abused by his father to the point where his anal sphincter had been damaged? And was he so ashamed of this molestation that he had to hide his dirty underwear?

  I walked into the living room and saw three gangling boys lined up waiting for me. “This is the lady from HRS who is here for Cory,” Renata MacDougal explained.

  “I’m not from HRS. They call me a Guardian ad Litem. Do any of you other boys have one?”

  “No, ma’am,” said the tallest, bowing his head.

  “Look at the lady when she’s speaking to you, Rudy.” He glanced up shyly. “Rudy’s been with us almost two years and he’s going to go into the coast guard. And, that’s Chris,” she said indicating a chubby boy wearing glasses.

  “And I must be Cory,” Cory responded with an impish smile that contrasted with the shy, defeated expressions of the other two. “What about Alicia? Does she have somebody like you?” he asked.

  “I’m Alicia’s guardian too. In fact, I saw her a few days ago.”

  “Yeah?” He grinned, revealing crooked, stained teeth and a serious overbite.

  “Did you know that today is her birthday?”

  “Sure, but I couldn’t get her anything. I don’t have any money.”

  “What she really wants is a phone call from you.”

  Cory looked soulfully at Mrs. MacDougal, then back at me. “It’s long distance. “

  “You can call her on my credit card.”

  “Could I?” His Prussian blue eyes lit up.

  Mrs. MacDougal was speaking softly to her cat. “Juniper, Juniper …”

  I asked which phone he might use and she pointed to one next to a reclining chair. “Are you on AT&T?” She nodded. I picked up the phone, dialed Alicia’s number, and entered the Guardian ad Litem office’s credit card number, then handed Cory the phone.

  “Happy Birthday, Ally!” he chimed, then babbled in a jumble of private sibling syllables.

  “Has Cory seen a doctor?” I asked Renata softly.

  “Haven’t had time yet.”

  “Considering the difficulty you told me about, I think you should make an appointment with one of the child protection team doctors for a general checkup as well as to learn whether it is the result of any abuse. They may have ideas about how to help him regain control.”

  Mrs. MacDougal was cleaning the edge of the cat’s eye with a tissue. I looked over at Cory, who was nodding and giggling on the phone, and caught his attention. With my hand I signaled to wind up the call. “Love you, Sis,” he said with more sincerity than was typical of a boy his age, then, before he hung up, concluded, “don’t forget, we’re engaged and we’re gonna be married. Just you and me, forever.”

  When Renata heard those odd concluding remarks, she rolled her eyes at me.

  Cory sat quietly in the chair for a short while longer. When he turned toward us, his lower lip quivered.

  “You miss Alicia.” He nodded. “You guys need to see each other more often. Maybe over Christmas vacation?” My query was directed to his foster mother.

  “I don’t think that is a good idea,” she said slowly. “When Rudy came back from visits with his sister, he misbehaved. Eventually I put a stop to them, and he’s been better ever since. Right, Rudy?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Rudy, who was sitting on the sofa with his hands tucked between his knees.

  “I think the three Stevensons need to stay in touch. Maybe I could arrange something over the Christmas holiday.”

  “The last time Cory saw his sister in court he became so upset he couldn’t get any work done the rest of the day.”

  “Maybe he was upset about what happened in court.”

  “I want him home with our family for Christmas,” Renata said, then sniffed the air as though searching for some noxious odor. I stood up. “Guardians usually take their kids out for a treat so they can become better acquainted. Where might be a good place to go around here?”

  “Cory’s not going anywhere today.”

  “I’ll bring him back in half an hour.”

  “I’ll have to talk to Mitzi Keller about this.”

  “No problem. She knows guardians do it all the time. C’mon Cory, let’s find us a cold drink.”

  “Cool car!” Cory said as he buckled himself into my gray Thunderbird and wiggled around in the seat.

  He was a
young thirteen with baby soft skin, apple cheeks, and not a hint of facial hair. His eyes were a startling shade of blue with a thick coil of Stevenson lashes. His head was covered by a mop of straight hair streaked with multiple shades of burnished blond. The back was trimmed to allow for a “tail” to grow, the latest fashion for boys his age. He wore cutoff jeans and a stained T-shirt with a big-wheeled truck and SMASHER emblazoned across it. He was the sort of boy who melted the hearts of grandmothers and had preteen girls gushing: “Oh, he is soooo cute!”

  “Where’s the nearest place to go?” I asked.

  Cory mentioned a tavern and a convenience store across the bridge. I pulled into the Qwik-King and told him to select a drink. He brought over an RC Cola and stared at the candy bars near the cash register. “What’s your favorite?” He pointed to a Snickers bar and I bought it. Before I had paid, he had devoured it. I added a package of peanuts, then handed it to him in the car. Between sips and crunches he responded to my questions.

  “Do you like it at the MacDougals’?”

  “Yeah, they’re okay.”

  “Would you rather be someplace else?”

  “With my dad.”

  “That’s not possible now.”

  “He didn’t ever do nothin’ to me!” Cory finished his soda and began crushing the can between his knees.

  “Do you think the MacDougals are fair?”

  “I guess.”

  “How do they punish you?”

  “They make me do windows. I wouldn’t mind it, if I could do them right, but even when I think they’re perfect, Renata finds a streak and I have to start over with the towels and rags and newspapers in a certain order, then she inspects them again.”

  “Does she do that with the other boys?”

  “Yeah, but they don’t mind cause they are just a bunch of retards.”

  “I thought Rudy was going into the coast guard.”

  “He can’t even read. Renata just says that because he likes boats.”