Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new)

by Jeanne D'Olivier

  At the start of litigation, I had received a call from my lawyer on my mobile as I was on my way home from picking M up from school. He asked me to come into his office and sign a legal aid form, as he was initially representing me under legal aid. He needed this urgently in order to send a reply letter to R’s lawyer as to why we were denying contact, which at the this time had been on medical grounds and advice of my GP who felt that there was sufficient evidence of impropriety on R’s part, substantiated by a rare urine infection that M had contracted following his first overnight stay with his father and recurrent infections after the three contacts that ensued. All of this had been swept under the carpet by the so-called expert Judge, who had no experience of Family Law, let alone abuse cases.

  I told my advocate, when he called, that M was with me and as he was only five at the time, I could not leave him in the car. Nor could he wait for me alone. My then advocate, a one man band, had no formal waiting room in any event. He saw no harm in M coming into the office with me when purpose was only to sign a form and leave. However, he then made, what one might say was as a very bad error of judgment. He asked M if he would have a game of football in the park with his father, as he wanted to offer something by way of contact to pacify the opposing party.

  M’s reaction to this had been extreme to say the least. He became hysterical and said he was never going to see his father again. To be fair to my lawyer, he forgot his role for a moment and thought as a parent – he had two children himself and could hardly have just evicted us from his office at that moment. He asked M why he was so worried about seeing his father and M then unburdened himself to this man, talking about things that seemed to suggest he had slept in his father’s bed with his then girlfriend, now wife, both naked and apparently engaged in some form of sexual act. It may have been an accident that M had woken in the night to see something he shouldn’t, but he clearly should not have been in their bed when she was then a relative stranger and certainly not with the two of them naked. Naturally what M was saying in very childlike terms to my lawyer, was very disturbing and this coupled with M’s apparent terror at having to engage with R and the medical history, had rung many alarm bells.

  My advocate had known that he was now in a difficult position because he had, in effect, become a witness whilst being my legal representative, but he felt that he must disclose this information and did so by affidavit. His mistake was in not then withdrawing from the case. He was forced to choose whether to leave the affidavit on record and leave the case or continue to represent me. He chose the latter. This meant his evidence was never properly considered by the Court and did not form any part of the Fact Finding when clearly it was key to our case. This said, one wonders how the Judge could have ignored such critical evidence whatever the circumstances.

  Later my advocate also suffered what seemed harsh treatment for trying to protect M. He was reprimanded and publically shamed in the local press. Again it made one wonder to what lengths they would go to cover up abuse in this community. Were they so afraid that their reputation as an Island Utopia would be somehow sullied? Would they let innocent children suffer to protect their right to go on existing in their own haven and encouraging people to bring in their money? Who would come if they knew the horrors of the undercurrent of this so-called paradise?

  Would it have made any difference had my advocate withdrawn from the case at this point and allowed his evidence to stand? Somehow I doubt it because from the very first hearing the Judge appeared to be biased towards M’s father and it remained the million dollar question as to why?

  Charlene had somehow got hold of the fact that I had been treated for depression in my teens and was now using this information to further taunt and bully me. I had no idea how she had found out, but the Island is a small place, so really it would not have been that difficult.

  It was so long ago that it seemed like a very distant memory to me now, but she was determined to re-open this particular wound and picked at the scab daily in the hope it would cause me more pain.

  I spent more and more time in my cell, having now mastered my claustrophobia to the point of voluntarily shutting the door to keep out the bullying comments and jeers. I focused on writing my thoughts and feelings and tried to escape the outer world by retreating into my inner sanctuary of past happy memories with M. I replied to the letters that came in daily offering hope and encouragement and I tried to structure my day, going to the gym, reading, taking the short tour of the exercise yard. Occasionally I watched some television or a film with Annabel who had enhanced privileges and a DVD player, but only when she was well enough to do so, which was infrequent.

  I heard from my father that one of the members of the local parliament who had supported me through my Criminal Trial and whom I had met at the meeting against the proposed Children's Bill, was trying to raise his concerns about our case with the Department. I tried to feel hopeful about this, but how does one person really break through so much wickedness and corruption? It needed many people to take a stand, but so many were broken by the system and lived in fear. Those who had never suffered under this regime did not understand and stayed in their goldfish bowls – secretly relieved that they had not come under scrutiny. Having your child removed is almost like having a contagious disease; people avoiding you, to avoid the plague.

  This particular minister had been supporting me since I had spoken out at the meeting that had taken place a few months earlier and wanted to change a system that was a well-oiled money making machine which far from resolving the problems within families seemed hell-bent on their destruction and ruthlessly watched parents draining their resources funding litigation in an attempt to fight back.

  Later on, the same man was appointed Minister of Social Care. I believe they gave him this post to silence him and bring him onside, for once he got into power his courage seemed to leave him and he appeared to lose interest in our case. For a man who told me he could never be got at, I found this extremely disappointing. It seemed clear he had succumbed to the pressure of public policy and was far less of a maverick than he had pretended to be.

  The minister had a sister who was a senior social worker and allegedly had been appalled to know of our story, saying it would not have happened in the UK, but from everything that has come out in the press since and from hearing from other mothers and fathers, our situation was not unique and spanned Great Britain and the commonwealth countries.

  Attitudes in the rest of Europe and Southern Ireland at that time were significantly better and more geared towards keeping families together, rather than breaking them up, but the removal of children on minor and often false or no allegations of parental failure was endemic throughout England and the British Isles. It was just more concentrated on the Island and more of a closed shop society with less accountability or external monitoring.

  Managers reviewed managers and so no complaint was ever independently assessed. Even when a so-called external “independent” Complaints Assessor was appointed it was usually someone known to the Department and paid for by them. The same problem existed in the appointment of court “experts” who usually made their recommendations to support the views of whomever was paying their fees. Professor Jill Ireland's report had brought the problem into the public domain and consciousness, but we were still a far cry from the system being revised.

  The minister who had initially supported us was shocked that nothing had changed since two children who had been abused on the Island, had died in care in recent years. There had been recommendations made following a full inquiry, but they had never been implemented. People who had held positions of responsibility had merely been moved sideways or upwards and our own Family Court Judge had been defence lawyer for the Department of Social Care in this case. Was it any wonder then, that he was still protecting them now?

  The recommendations for external monitoring and inspection by a leading Queen’s Council had largely faded into the ether and nothing had altered
at all six years on from when they were made. This Minister, having been formerly and vehemently campaigning for change and having initially spoken out vociferously on the subject on both National and Local news, once he became part of the very system he had lambasted, became silent.

  I thought back to the Social Worker in our case, Miss Whiplash, as I had termed her. I had never in my life met anyone so tight-lipped and hard-faced. One wondered if she ever smiled. The cruelty in her steely black eyes, was Machiavellian. She had so clearly got pleasure out of causing pain to M and I. It seemed her heart was made of granite. Later this same Social Worker was found not to have protected a child on another case and she was moved side-ways temporarily to another department, but within a very short time when things had clearly died down, she was reappointed to Child Protection Officer - this being a common occurrence at this time. Nothing had really changed despite the appointment to Minister of Social Care of someone who had started out with such good intentions - a man who had started out with such integrity and seemed to take an intelligent and measured approach to the problem, changed mercurially after his appointment, to someone who seemed to lose his heart and courage. He stopped replying to my GP, my father and myself and when I did manage to contact him he spoke in whispers and seemed to fear talking to me. What had happened? Who had got to him? It was clear that something or somebody had.

  Now he seemed to be protecting Miss Whiplash - a woman whose hostility had been palpable from the start and who flaunted her power to destroy families, mercilessly- completely uncaring of the damage she was doing to my poor little boy who had learned about the harsh realities of life so young and suffered so much - first at the hands of his father, then the Courts and then the Department - all who had failed to protect him and all who in their turn, had abused him emotionally and psychologically because he had dared to tell his mummy that his daddy was hurting him.

  Having largely conquered my claustrophobia out of necessity, I retreated after breakfast to my cell with my door shut - dividing my time into manageable units, ensuring I had plans for each hour, knitting, writing, answering letters, reading and watching television. This way I learned to survive but nothing could bring relief from the gnawing pain of separation that I felt.

  When I first moved from the induction cell, I had tried to see it as a positive step and one that would help to integrate me. I felt that the girls would see me as less protected and soon afterward when I moved upstairs where there were no wardens keeping a watchful eye I hoped they would leave me alone.

  The noise level on the upper floor was horrific as the girls played music through the night and any request to turn it down, met with further bullying and scorn, not that I slept much, other than to drift in and out of the nightmare, but as the Family Court Final Hearing approached, I needed to have my wits about me and the music that thumped endlessly day and night made concentration and preparation, a virtual impossibility.

  I made the fatal mistake one night of asking, via the night warden, for the music to be turned down. Naturally it was turned up even louder and now that word was out that it bothered me, the other girls jumped on this new method of bullying me.

  All I could hope for now was a successful Appeal so that I could get out and start fighting for my son again in earnest. I knew that my application was almost ready to be lodged and when I eventually saw the draft that Phillip had prepared, appealing against both sentence and conviction on the basis of an unfair trial, it all seemed to make good sense. He had also lodged a bail application, so there was a very slim chance of release in time for the welfare hearing.

  It was knowing that these things were happening outside whilst I was powerless inside, that kept me strong. Unlike the long-term prisoners, at worst my sentence would end in four and a half months – but at that moment, it might as well have been four and a half years.

  We had, at this point, spent close to a million pounds on lawyer’s fees. This seems remarkable but between all the different Courts and the expense of having off-Island lawyers, it had all dissipated very quickly. It was amazing how little difference it had made to our situation.

  It was an abomination of law. It was disorder of the worst kind that had crushed my little boy and myself. I still felt like a deer caught in headlights, unable to believe what had happened to our family. Having never harmed a hair on my son’s head I was being punished endlessly and in now, only two weeks the Family Court judge would decide whether M would go to his abuser forever.

  Even with some of the best lawyers in England, a leading Human Rights QC, a Judge in his own right with a portfolio of difficult and complex cases, we still couldn't crack this. It had seemed say it all when during one lunch with my solicitor and QC they had even talked of possibly having to get me out of the Island and protected, if indeed we might be encroaching on a Paedophile ring. When level- headed lawyers talk of involving MI5, you have to wonder whether this was more than just a Judge getting it wrong. It seemed fantastical. It was as if I had stepped right into the pages of a John Grisham novel - but this was no work of fiction – it was a frightening reality.

  Despite the reporter from the Telegraph saying that my evidence was the most compelling he had ever heard, the jury had found me unanimously guilty - so what was the missing link? It was unthinkable that someone involved in our Court case was part of a ring or maybe more than one of them. Nothing else could solve the unsolvable and yet to prove that when one person would protect the next, had been beyond the best of lawyers.

  A top investigative journalist was probably the answer and yet even one of Panorama’s most tenacious and bold reporters who I had met earlier with my solicitor, would not touch it. He seemed too afraid of what he might find or at the very least, the conservative BBC who preferred at this time, to run documentaries reassuring the public that Social Workers always acted in their best interests, would not agree to explore the unthinkable, unmentionable question of Paedophilia - unless, of course, the case was high profile involving historical abuse by someone in the public eye.

  I asked myself the question over and over, but I could not find any other answer than something sinister and evil beyond evil – that the Island was protecting child abusers in order to keep its squeaky clean image when, in reality, its mantra was “Freedom to abuse children.” I could only hope and pray that Brian and Philip would come up with an answer before the hearing that would bring M home to me and safety. We were running out of time as each day passed.

  The cold of winter grew ever more fierce in a prison that was as exposed to the elements as was possible. The most Northern part of the Island was a playground for turbulent weather and the howling wind raged through every crack of the poorly constructed walls. When I had moved to Amanda’s old cell, the windows wouldn't shut properly and it had been even colder than the induction cell. It is amazing how necessity truly does become the mother of invention because I had taped the vents over with Sellotape which had been accidentally left in my cell – a luxury usually disallowed. This had at least kept me warmer for the one night I spent there, but I had had to sleep in nearly all the clothes I possessed. We were now completely submerged in winter, a blanket of heavy snow lay on the ground but at least upstairs was warm when I eventually moved there.

  I continued to receive my twice weekly ten minute phone call with M. Each time he would quiz me hard about jail and I suspected that someone was filling his head with some of the more unpleasant details. My fears were confirmed when during one call, he started asking me about handcuffs and sniffer dogs. Things that we had never before discussed. I asked him who was talking to him about these things as I suspected his father was showing him pictures in a book and he confirmed his father was showing him pictures of the jail on the internet. I hated that he was scaring him this way but there was nothing I could do about it except reassure M that I was neither surrounded by dogs or kept in chains. I wondered how far M’s father had gone in filling M’s head with these frightening images. Certainly he wou
ld have got pleasure out of making jail seem as colourful as possible so that M would associate what I had done in taking him, with the maximum punishment.

  In reality I had only seen a dog once and it seemed quite docile, just checking that people weren’t bringing illegal substances onto the premises. Handcuffs I had yet to experience. It seemed ludicrous that this man who was enjoying frightening, a now eight year old boy was considered the better parent.

  As the nights got increasingly colder, I began to rely more and more on my empty Buxton water bottle, filled with hot water from the kettle and covered in a long sock - a make shift hot-water bottle in a weak attempt to recreate some of the comforts of home. I had also completed knitting an under- blanket for the cold hard concrete slab that served as my bed. I seemed to feel the cold even more because I rarely slept and I had always been of a slight build.

  I still hadn’t been allowed the radio that my father had brought in for me when I had first come in, but at least I had the television for company.

  It seemed crazy that the only heating was provided by pipes in the ceiling. Everyone knows that heat rises, so naturally only the upper floor would be warm, but whoever designed the jail certainly didn’t have comfort in mind when they did so.

  It was during my third week of incarceration, that I had received the surprise letter from the girl in the UK who had read of our story in the Times. She called me a pioneer for bringing the case into a Criminal Court where reporting was allowed, albeit without revealing identity. This was how I first became known as Miss A, but ironically I was soon to find out that their attempt to anonymise me, gave me a very strong and public identity.

  Chapter 17

  Brian began sending a junior solicitor to the jail rather than come himself or with Philip. I realised why very quickly. It had been my consistent instruction to them to appeal the Fact Finding judgement out of time, before it was too late. The lawyers disagreed and wanted to take a conciliatory stance, but I felt it was our only hope of beating the system, encouraged by the fact that during my criminal trial, the Judge had clearly stated that my belief that M had been abused was genuine. It was genuine because it had happened. No one, to date, despite the many assertions, had made a legal finding that I had coached my son.