by Gay Courter
Once I decided what had to be done, I phoned Nancy and worked on a strategy.
Iris Quinones, the protective services caseworker, had been polite, but unhelpful. She felt the Slaters were as good as the Baldwins or the Lambs for temporary care, but doubted whether it would ever be enduring. “They’ll never take all three, nobody would.”
When I talked to Iris about placing the girls in foster care so that HRS would partially cover their financial support and health insurance, she said the Colbys didn’t meet the qualifications to become foster children. When I asked about doing the paperwork so they could be adopted, Iris claimed a child couldn’t be moved from protective services directly into adoptions because the procedures for that transition didn’t exist, and besides, it couldn’t be done until parental rights were terminated, and that would never happen because the parents had not done anything so egregious as to have their rights removed by force. When I suggested that the parents might be convinced it would be beneficial for their children, Iris laughed and said that once their attorneys became involved, the Colby parents would hold on to their claim for dear life.
“They always love their ‘rights’ more than their children,” Iris quipped, then became more serious. “Look, the point is that nobody will adopt three teenage girls.”
“Why? They are great kids, no arrests, no drugs, no illness, and the Slaters are willing.”
“That’s this week. They only have Nicole, and she hasn’t shown her true colors yet. Wait till she pitches one of her fits or lunges at them with a pistol.”
“The gun story was a fabrication.”
“That depends on whom you believe. Anyway, she’s unstable and bound to be a troublemaker.”
“She’s been brutally abused. I heard what Jeb Delancy did to her.”
“And you fell for that?”
“Julie confirmed it.”
“Those kids have learned the system.”
“Iris, are you saying that you don’t believe they were abused? What about the police reports and photographs?”
“Those maybe, but not the rest of it. There was also contradictory testimony at Mr. Delancy’s trial. “
“I checked on that. He actually beat Nicole with a two-by-four, but her mother forced her to recant and say it was only a yardstick. So he got off.”
“Maybe it was a yardstick.”
“Not according to medical testimony.” I groaned. “Why are we arguing? These kids need a home. Carol Baldwin is not going to keep Julie for more than a few weeks. What then?”
“She liked it in Miami,” Iris suggested.
I gave up trying to convince the caseworker and called Lillian, who explained that someone at Iris’s level was locked into following the rule book. “If we need exceptions to the rules, Nancy will have to negotiate with the district managers of foster care and adoptions,” she said.
Because Nancy had once worked for HRS, she knew their procedures almost as well as they did. “I’d like to meet the Slaters,” she said, “then I can figure out the best situation for them.”
We met back at the Pasta Place. I had expected that Nancy would discuss how to arrange the most uncomplicated adoption or foster care placement. Instead, she hardly waited until the beverages were served to put the situation “in perspective.”
“Before coming this evening, I had a conference with Mr. Thorndike, our program attorney. He wants you to know the pitfalls of your actions.” Nancy began grilling Vic as though she were accusing him of something. “For instance, do you realize the liability you have already incurred by having Nicole in your home?” Nancy then launched into how, if something happened to Nicole in the Slaters’ custody, either natural parent could sue them. Even worse, if Nicole created a disturbance or hurt anyone, they could also be held responsible.
I shot daggers at Nancy, but she averted my eyes and continued to delineate the cost of raising three additional children. Then she reviewed the steps to adoption, including becoming foster parents. The Slaters would have extensive background checks, their home would be under scrutiny by counselors, and the sisters could be removed at any time prior to the adoption. Parental rights would be difficult to terminate, and even if they were terminated, nobody could promise the parents that they would ever see their children again.
Vic stopped Nancy. “That’s ridiculous. These kids can use the phone and call whomever they want.”
Nancy’s lips almost broke into a tiny smile, but I saw her steel herself back into her most authoritarian role.
“Are you saying that it would be impossible for us ever to adopt these girls?” Jeanne asked, her dark eyes shining with tears.
“No, not impossible, but difficult. Gay’s kicking me under the table, but I am here to give you a harsh dose of reality. This isn’t going to be a picnic, either legally or in terms of raising three abused children. I don’t know why you, or anyone else, would want to do it. Take all the time you need to think this through before we get the children’s hopes up.”
Vic studied Jeanne, then turned back at Nancy. “We needed to hear this,” he said in a voice choked by emotion.
Jeanne reached across the table and took her husband’s hand.
“I’ll get you for this,” I said to Nancy to break the tension.
Nancy didn’t budge. “This is not a romantic dream, Mr. and Mrs. Slater. What we decide tonight affects three children, your grandchildren, your marriage, the Colby parents, and their families. If we’re going to drop a bomb, we need to have a darn good idea what the fallout is going to be. If we’re going to fight this out with HRS, as well as in court, I want to be convinced that you’re going to be there for these girls during the stormy times as well as the sunny ones.”
Jeanne looked at Vic. He squeezed her hand and spoke for them both. “I’ve been through a lot, and so has Jeanne, and I think we can help these girls in a special way. We know it isn’t going to be easy, but already we can’t imagine Nicole leaving.”
Nancy’s shoulders relaxed. She took a sip of iced tea. “Okay,” she said as if she had accepted defeat gracefully, “here are your choices.”
By the end of the meal, the Slaters had determined that the most logical course was to take the classes required of both adoptive and foster parents, and at the same time apply to become the pre-adoptive foster parents for the Colby sisters. As soon as possible, they would get Mrs. Hunt’s permission and powers of attorney for Julie and Simone to move from the Baldwins. Jeanne was certain she could talk Mrs. Hunt into this, and then Jeanne would also initiate the idea of Lottie terminating her parental rights voluntarily. As soon as Buddy Colby was released from jail, I would facilitate visits with him and approach him about his termination. In the meantime, I would prepare a case to have the children become foster children. Timing was crucial, for if they were ordered into foster care before the Slaters were licensed as a foster home, HRS would move the sisters to temporary foster homes, probably separating them again. Once the Slaters were foster parents, they would be able to have the girls indefinitely, even if they were never legally freed for adoption. In the best scenario, their parents would terminate parental rights and make it possible for the Slaters to adopt them. Also, because as a group of older siblings they were considered a “special needs case,” they would qualify for a state-subsidized adoption and would receive monthly support payments, Medicaid, and psychological counseling.
When the Slaters left, Nancy walked me to my car. “You understand why I had to do that?”
“Yes, but you had me scared.”
“I know you see this whole process as a straight line, Gay, but it has many twists and turns—and even worse—people just waiting to trip you up.”
“Like the parents?”
Nancy gave a sardonic laugh. “They are the least of your problems. HRS is going to resent this.”
“Why?”
“They are not going to welcome three more kids on their support rolls and they are not going to want to see kids adopted by
a family that a guardian dredged up with one phone call.”
“What about Calvin Reynold’s file drawer?”
“He’s your ally for a change, which is terrific. Keep him on your side. But watch your blind side.”
“Nancy, you know something, you’re paranoid.”
“Nope. I’m realistic.”
Everybody bought the Colby children Easter presents, everybody but their parents that is. Carol Baldwin routinely bought clothing for the three girls, so she made sure they each had new dresses. Jeanne also took them shopping, then sewed matching hairpieces for each sister and had their hair cut and styled. Mrs. Lamb gave them each Bibles with their names stamped on them.
The Slaters and Baldwins had worked out a gradual transition. On Wednesdays, Julie and Simone, who were doing well together at the Baldwins’, spent the evening with the Slaters and then they visited every weekend, unless it interfered with the Baldwins’ plans. Soon Julie, in particular, was joining Zane and Jared at their ball games and the boys were attending Nicole’s concerts. Vic made certain he was at Simone’s first golf tournament. The best part of this, as far as I was concerned, was that almost everything was arranged between the children and the families without consulting me. Jeanne and Vic were determined to make this their family, and so far their choices and decisions had been right on the mark.
Nevertheless, nothing was simple. Nicole was not in the same school district as the Slaters, but she found rides to school with the Lambs and others who were willing to help out. Julie and Simone were in the Baldwins’ zone, but not the Slaters. Finally it was determined that Julie could not survive a fifth change in her sixth grade year. Mrs. Baldwin said she should remain with them until June. Then both Julie and Simone would move in permanently with the Slaters, who would presumably have their foster care license by then.
There was another hitch when Jeanne and Vic signed up for foster parent classes and learned that one series had just ended and another wasn’t beginning for six months. The only possibility was to travel forty-five miles each way for the nearest class, but since they would have to go together, this would mean leaving the children alone, something they felt was unwise.
“Isn’t there somebody who is qualified to teach the course who might do it on an individual basis?” I asked Nancy.
“Actually, I can,” she said with a ringing laugh. “Also, Alicia Stevenson’s foster mother, Ruth Levy, has certification.”
Before the day was out the two of them had “volunteered” to work with the Slaters privately. With everyone pitching in, Vic and Jeanne completed the eight sessions in three weeks.
There were endless stumbling blocks to getting a foster home license.
A fire inspection was going to take three weeks. When I investigated, I discovered that the regional fire marshal had to be contacted, then he had to send someone from seventy-five miles away to tell the family where they needed to place smoke detectors and fire extinguishers.
“We have a county fire marshal whose station is less than a mile from the Slater home. Isn’t he qualified?” I asked Iris.
“Not unless he has the correct form for HRS,” Iris explained.
It was a simple matter to have the paperwork faxed to me, then delivered to the fire marshal, and sent back to HRS within two days, thus shaving a month off the licensing process.
Calvin Reynolds’s paralegal chuckled at my frustration. “If you think that is bad, you should see the paperwork I have to fill out to order a pencil. And did you know that each foster care check passes through fourteen payment steps in five cities?”
This concerned me. I had to cut through the bureaucratic barriers somehow and looked around for a likely ally. Skipping the caseworkers and supervisors I normally dealt with, I went directly to the head of HRS in our county, Lauren Lorenzo, who was one of the few people who had not been “Peter principled” into her position. I had met her briefly at a meeting and a social occasion, but usually she had no direct contact with volunteer guardians. When I called her secretary for an appointment, I said, “Tell her I’m not making a complaint, I’m offering her an opportunity.”
At first Lauren Lorenzo was a bit tense. Guardians rarely saw her, and when she was in touch with our office, it was usually to speak to Nancy about a disastrous situation.
“I’ve come to you for help,” I said candidly when I took a seat in her office. “We have a group of children who need special handling to make an adoption work.” After giving her a précis of the situation, I said, “Iris Quinones is confused, as is everyone from the fire marshal to the adoptions worker. I need a team leader for this project to move the kids into a permanent home, someone who knows the system from the inside who can deal with something that does not follow standard procedures. Also, the timing has to be coordinated. We can’t allow these children to be placed into foster care before the Slaters are licensed or they will be moved, which would be cruel and destructive, especially since there are no current foster homes that will accept three teenage siblings.”
“I think I can be of use,” Lauren said enthusiastically. “Who else is on the team, coach?”
“The Slaters, of course, plus the Baldwins, and if I can enlist them, the Colby parents.”
“Isn’t that asking for the impossible?”
“Not if they are approached the right way.”
“I’ve heard the father is a real bear and the mother isn’t mentally stable.”
“That’s true, but I think we have a hidden weapon: the children themselves. They know how to handle their parents.”
“Isn’t that asking a lot of them?”
“Yes, but they are the stars of this team. They are in charge. Everything will be checked with them. They will not go into foster care or be adopted by anyone without the permission of each one. As their Guardian ad Litem, I will not recommend anything with which they do not agree.”
I watched Lauren for her reaction. For a moment she was thoughtful, then she smiled. “I’ll do whatever needs to be done. Count on that.”
There were rumblings of typical adjustment problems with each of the sisters. As terrific as they were, the Slaters represented one more in a long line of caregivers, most of whom had made promises to them that turned out to be hollow. The Slaters had to prove themselves. The honeymoon period had to end. Testing about bedtimes and petty rules had been recent issues, so I knew it was a matter of time before there would be something that would cause Vic and Jeanne to question what they were doing.
The call came sooner than I had expected.
“You won’t believe what happened,” Vic said, so distraught his voice cracked like an eighth grader’s. “This weekend, when Simone and Julie were here, Simone and Nicole went for a walk after dinner and didn’t return.”
He explained that they had passed the home of a boy Nicole knew from school and he invited them in to watch a video. They stayed for two hours, never once thinking to call Vic or Jeanne, who had been occupied with visiting relatives. At first they assumed the girls had returned and were watching television in the den. When Julie came out looking for her sisters, it dawned on Vic that the girls had been missing for over an hour.
He jumped in the car and began cruising the neighborhood. Then he started to panic. His worst fears had come true: the girls had been kidnapped by a pervert. He was liable for them and he saw everything he and Jeanne had worked for go down the tubes. On the way back to the house he met a boy, whom he recognized as one of the girls’ friends, and stopped him. The boy had come from the house where the girls were watching the video and directed Vic there. Vic burst in screaming. The boy’s father, who had thought Nicole and Simone had permission to be there, was furious at the boy as well as at Vic for carrying on. A row ensued, with Simone and Nicole being packed in Vic’s car and brought home in disgrace.
“The worst part,” Vic explained, “is that they didn’t see what they had done wrong. They thought they were in a safe place and it didn’t matter. When I tried to
talk some sense into them, Nicole shouted at me saying I had no right to tell her what to do.” He was silent for a while, then he decided to tell me more. “Nicole changed right in front of me. One minute she was this adorable child, the next her face contorted like a monster and nothing we could do or say would calm her down.”
“I realize how upset you must have been, and of course I can’t condone what the girls did, but maybe it would help to understand that they are going through a typical stage of adjustment called active resistance, in which they become defiant and try to set up power struggles as a way of discovering your level of commitment to them.”
“But we’ve told them we love them and want them with us.”
“Those are words. What they want is a demonstration that you not only care, but that you’ll also be there for them no matter what they do … good or bad.”
“What if something had happened to them?”
“Vic, these girls need counseling, and maybe a family therapist would help you and Jeanne understand more about the dynamics of these actions.”
“How could we pay for one when we haven’t had the first dollar from HRS, their parents, or anyone?”
“Their mother was court-ordered to put them in therapy, but she didn’t follow through, as usual. Frankly, I wanted her to fail at that task as proof that she can’t care for them. But enough time has passed. I’ll see if I can find some private money for therapy.”
Since the girls did not qualify yet for Medicaid, there were no funds for counseling. The best children’s therapist in our area was Jayne Abernathy, a private clinical psychologist. I phoned her, and after explaining the situation, asked her for a reduced rate. Then I talked to Nancy about getting some emergency funds from the Guardian ad Litem Foundation, a new nonprofit group that raised money for the special needs of guardian children. For instance, the foundation had bought shoes for a child in shelter care who could not wait weeks until an HRS check provided sneakers for his bare feet, and paid the funeral expenses for a child who committed suicide while in foster care, because there were no HRS funds to bury a foster child. If the foundation had been in place when Alicia’s mother needed a plane ticket, I could have applied for those funds. A few days later the foundation director agreed to send Dr. Abernathy funds to cover the initial therapy sessions.
