Gut-wrenching sobs shook his body. I held him as wave after wave of despair passed through him. I ran my hand through his hair as he cried until he went limp in my arms. I lifted his head up. I tucked his thick hair behind his ears, smoothed the tears from his cheeks, and wiped his snot with the back of my shirt. I’d never seen so much pain in his eyes.
“Listen, we’re going to figure this out. We are. I promise.” I rubbed his back as his sobs trailed off into hiccups. “Your dad is taking Katie to Grandma’s for a while, so the house is quiet. I’m sure you didn’t sleep at all last night, so why don’t you take a nap when we get home, and I’ll make you something to eat after you wake up? Meryl is coming by the house later tonight to meet with us, and you can ask him whatever you need to ask. But for now, we’re going to focus on the next step in front of us, and that’s getting home and getting you some sleep. Okay?”
He nodded. His sobs had subsided, but his face was still lined with grief.
“Okay. We can do this.” I wasn’t sure if I was reassuring him or myself.
*****
Later that evening after Katie was in bed, we sat around the kitchen table with Meryl—the same Formica table where we’d spent hours playing Monopoly, where the kids did their homework, and where countless science projects had been created.
“I’m guilty. I’m not going to lie and say I’m not.” Noah glared at Meryl from across the table before he had a chance to speak. Noah had lain down when he got home but didn’t look any more rested than he had before. I’d tried to get him to shower before Meryl arrived but he refused.
“Whoa, slow down there, kiddo. I’m not out to get you. I’m here to help you,” Meryl said. He was still in the same jeans and flannel shirt that he’d worn to court but I was happy he’d finally shaved. It made him look a little more put together.
“I don’t need your help,” Noah said.
I looked at Lucas for support, communicating with my eyes the way married couples do that I wanted him to step in. He looked right through me as if he wasn’t seeing me. He’d barely spoken since Noah’s arrest and drifted through the house like he was sleepwalking.
Meryl raised his eyebrows. “I beg to differ. I’m thinking about your future. Do you know what would’ve happened if you’d pleaded guilty this morning?”
“Yes, I’d go to jail where I belong.” Noah crossed his arms on his chest.
Meryl shook his head. “Nope. They would’ve released you either way until your sentencing hearing. What you would’ve done today is sealed your fate in the adult correctional system because you were in adult court, and if you enter a plea in adult court, the option to try you in juvenile court disappears. And you, my friend, are a juvenile.” He smiled at Noah, trying to break the ice, but his smile had no effect. He cleared his throat before continuing. “Our first order of business is to get your case handled by juvenile corrections rather than adult corrections.”
“What’s the difference?” I asked.
He breathed over his mug, trying to cool the tea I’d prepared. “There’s a huge difference. If he’s tried as an adult, he has a felony record for the rest of his life, so he’ll always have a criminal record even after he gets off the registry. But if he’s tried as a juvenile and his case is handled in juvenile court, the state of Illinois will still require him to register as a sex offender, but his felony isn’t going to show up on his record for the rest of his life. It’ll be gone because juvenile records are sealed. That doesn’t happen with adult crimes. Second and most importantly, we have a much greater chance at rehabilitation if he’s tried as a juvenile versus an adult. The kid needs treatment, not jail. That’s what we’ll argue. Any of this making sense?”
Noah looked sheepish. I felt relieved. For the first time in days, some of the tension in my neck dissipated.
“There’s other options besides jail?” I asked.
“Absolutely. Lots of them. His life doesn’t have to be over.”
“I want to go to jail,” Noah said with fiery determination in his eyes.
His desire to be punished broke my heart.
“If you go to jail, you’re not going to get the help you need. Do you hear what he’s saying? There’s help out there. You can get help for his,” I said.
“Let him go to jail if he wants to,” Lucas spoke for the first time.
I snapped my head in his direction. “Did you not hear what Meryl said? We can get him help.”
Lucas shrugged his shoulders like he didn’t care. I wanted to slap him. How could he think of sending our son to jail rather than getting him the help he needed? I turned to face Noah. His fight had left him. His slump was back.
“Listen, we can plead guilty if that’s what you want.” Meryl leaned forward across the table to get closer to Noah. “I’m just trying to help you not ruin your life over the whole ordeal. You seem like a good kid.”
Did he really believe he was a good kid or was he just saying that because it was his job to pretend like he did? I hoped it was true. Noah needed someone to fight for him besides just me.
It took more convincing, but Noah finally agreed to do what Meryl suggested. I had expected the next part to be easy but was shocked at how hard it was to get Noah tried in juvenile court. The Williams and Johnsons were adamant that he be tried as an adult. They hired a ruthless lawyer who pointed his finger at Noah and yelled, “He’s committed a heinous crime against innocent children. Look at the depraved nature of what he’s done. We must take his actions seriously and hold him accountable by the strictest court of law.”
He went on to argue that Noah knew right from wrong, intended to harm the girls, and was considered a threat to society. “This is not something he did just once. He touched those girls again. And again. And again.” He inserted a long, dramatic pause after each again. “We aren’t just looking out for these girls’ lives. We have to keep other children safe from him too. It’s in the best interests of the public that we charge him as an adult.”
A rush of anger surged through me. How could we apply adult consequences to someone who was so young? Even if he was fifteen, he was still a child. He hadn’t started shaving yet and even though his voice was beginning to change, it still slipped into the high-pitched frequency of a child.
Meryl countered by saying it would be cruel and unusual punishment to send him into the adult correctional facility. He cited case after case of children who were raped in adult prisons or committed suicide while they were incarcerated. “Noah is a good kid. He’s never been in any trouble with the law. He hasn’t spent a day in detention at school. He’s an upstanding member of the community already.”
He went on to read a list of praise he’d received from his teachers over the years. Things like, “he’s one of the best students I’ve had, he’s always willing to help his fellow students, and he’s a delight to have in class.”
The biggest point he drove home again and again was how Noah had confessed on his own and hadn’t hidden anything. He argued it spoke to his true character and showed his remorse, but more importantly, his desire to seek help for what he’d done. “This young boy is the reason juvenile court exists. He is a prime candidate for rehabilitation. Throwing him into an adult jail would be like throwing a kitten into a pack of wolves.”
I held back the urge to clap.
Noah didn’t speak throughout the entire process. He sat still as stone at the defense table never lifting his head. He looked so small in the vast courtroom. Lucas and I sat behind him on cold wooden benches. I clung to Lucas’s hand so tightly my knuckles turned white. Every word reverberated throughout the empty room.
Each of the parents spoke, and they had no mercy. The mothers wept, and the fathers raged. They wanted him tried as an adult and punished in the same manner. Each time they called him a sexual offender, the word cut through my brain like shards of glass.
In the end, the judge conceded, and Noah was adjudicated as a juvenile. The trial was easy in comparison to the pretrial.
Noah got his chance to speak and pleaded guilty to four counts of second-degree sexual assault against minors. I clasped my hands together on my lap while the judge handed down his sentence based on the plea bargain the lawyers had worked out. He had to complete eighteen months in a juvenile sex offender program. He would be on probation until he was eighteen and register as a Type I offender, which carried a mandatory ten years on the register. The conditions of his probation were extensive—no contact with anyone under the age of twelve, no contact with his victims, no Internet use in his home, he couldn’t live within a mile of an elementary school, no drugs or alcohol use, no pornography, and on and on the list of nos went.
I drove him to the Marsh Foundation the following week. The Foundation sat at the end of a winding one-lane road off Interstate 94. It was a beautiful country home tucked between two acres of forest land on each side. Massive limestone edified the sprawling estate. It looked inviting and tranquil, like a country home for respite, but the sign on the door revealed its true mission: A rehabilitation center for juvenile sexual offenders.
We knocked and waited for what seemed like forever before someone answered. Finally, a woman dressed in impeccable business attire opened the door.
“Are you Noah?” Her eyes were friendly as they moved over us.
Noah refused to look up, staring at the pavement underneath our feet. He nodded his head.
“Welcome.” She smiled at him and ushered us inside. “You must be Adrianne. I’m Dr. Park. I’m the chief psychologist on the unit.” She stuck out her hand to me. Her grip was firm and confident. She was tall and lean with calves peeking out from underneath her blue pencil skirt that you only got from spending hours in the gym each week. Her shiny black hair was cut in a neat bob, framing her face, and tucked behind her ears.
I expected Marsh to look like a jail and was surprised at the warm reception area. It was a small room filled with two sets of chairs on each side and a metal door behind them. Throw pillows lined a brown coach at the back of the room. Noah was visibly shaken and his eyes flicked to the artwork on the walls—ocean beaches and inspirational quotes.
“Unfortunately, I won’t be able to provide you with a tour today. Our policy only allows tours on family day, but the good news is our next family day is coming up in two weeks. I hope both you and your husband will be able to attend.” She smiled wide, revealing straight teeth that were too white to be natural. “One of our resident counselors will take him to his room and get him settled. How does that sound, Noah?”
He mumbled a reply neither of us could hear.
She placed her hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay to be nervous.”
He stood frozen to his spot as the metal door opened behind him and a large muscular man walked through. He wore a tight t-shirt outlining every angular cut, and biceps bulged from the sleeves. He nodded at Noah and bent to pick up the duffel bag we’d packed the night before.
My hands were shaking, and I clung to my purse straps to steady them. The longest I’d ever been away from him was for two days when he went on overnight trips with the swim team. How I was going to leave him alone in a building of sex offenders with kids who’d probably committed far worse crimes than him? Would predators devour him at night and steal his last shred of innocence?
“Alan will take him to his room. You’ll have to say your goodbyes here,” Dr. Park said.
I pulled him close, fighting the urge to grab him and run out the door, to keep running until we’d put all of this behind us and could start over. I breathed in his scent, no longer that of a little boy, but one of body odor and strange teenage smells. His body shook against mine, but his eyes remained dry.
“You’re going to get through this. It’s going to be okay,” I said.
“I love you, Mom,” he whispered.
“I love you, too, honey. So much.”
The bouncer-looking man peeled him off me and led him through the locked doors. Noah threw a frightened look over his shoulder before it clicked shut behind him. Just like that, he was gone. My resolve crumbled and I let go of the sobs I’d been holding inside.
“It’s okay,” Dr. Park said in a soothing voice.
I stood there, becoming unhinged, no longer able to deny what was happening. She led me over to one of the chairs, and I collapsed into it, covering my face with my hands.
“He seems like a lovely boy,” she said, which only made me sob harder. “I know this is difficult. It’s one of the toughest things a parent can go through, but I promise that you’re not alone. He’s in good hands. We’ve got one of the best programs in the country.”
I’d read everything about their program on their website and from what I’d read, it was true. Their program was rigorous and aimed at decreasing the likelihood of reoffending. They focused on developing positive skills and social interactions, family reunification, and integration back into the community through individual and group therapy, psychoeducation, empathy training, and behavior management. It was all so technical and I didn’t understand what half of it meant, but it definitely sounded like they knew what they were doing.
“His life isn’t over even though I know it feels like it is. He can go on to have a happy, productive life.” Her eyes were kind and soft.
She was the first person who talked about Noah like he was still a person. No one looked at him like a person anymore. I wanted to hug her.
“How?” I asked.
She handed me a box of Kleenex, and I blew my nose, stuffing a few extra in my purse just in case. “There are so many misconceptions about juvenile sex offenders. The most common is that they’re like adult sex offenders, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. They aren’t miniature adults. There’s not a lot of evidence showing that they go on to offend as adults. The truth is, relatively few juveniles go on to commit other crimes. The recidivism rate is low.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.” She nodded her head with conviction. “We have an even lower recidivism rate than most. Less than three percent of our patients go on to reoffend.” Her voice was calm and even, steadying the beat of my pounding heart. “Youth are more changeable than adults. The majority are amenable and benefit from treatment. Boys going through puberty have a surge of hormones that can be difficult to control. They’re curious about girls, and sometimes they make bad choices. They don’t understand the long-term consequences of their actions. We help them make better choices in the future.”
It was what I’d been saying all along. I wished Lucas was there with me to hear an expert say our son wasn’t doomed or inherently flawed. He’d made a mistake. A mistake that could be corrected with proper treatment.
“Juveniles and adults aren’t the same, so we can’t treat them like they are. Noah’s brain is still developing. It hasn’t had a chance to develop a deviant sexual response system. One of our primary goals of treatment is to work on creating healthy sexual responses.”
“Was he abused? Is that what made him this way?” It was awful and I would never admit it to anyone else, but I wanted Noah to have been sexually abused. It would’ve provided a reason for him doing what he’d done and made sense of something so senseless.
She shook her head. “That’s another common misconception. Most sexual offenders haven’t been sexually abused. There are a few that have, and of course, we’ll assess whether Noah has, but the likelihood that he’s been sexually abused isn’t great.”
“Then why?”
It was the question that kept me up at night. How could I have lived with him for so many years and never had any idea something was wrong with him? I’d wracked my brain for any clue I might have missed, any sign I might not have seen or might have dismissed, but there was nothing there. He’d never harmed another human being. He didn’t even let us kill bugs when he was a kid. We had to trap spiders in the house and release them outside. I had to smash flies when he wasn’t looking because he cried one time when he saw me do it. He was delicate and gentl
e with Katie. He blew on her scraped knees to take away the sting of her pain before applying antiseptic. He slept on her floor after she’d gotten freaked out by the monkey in Toy Story and was scared of it coming into her room. How could someone who hated suffering hurt other people?
“There’s not a single factor we can point to as being solely responsible for the development of deviant sexual responses. It tends to be a combination of factors that contribute to sexual offenses in juveniles.”
“What are some of the factors?” I held my breath, hoping she had new information to give me.
“They tend to be socially isolated from their peers and have problems forming friendships with their peers. Most suffer from learning disabilities or struggle academically. Many of them have substance abuse problems or live in homes where there’s substance abuse problems.”
My heart sank as she rattled off the list of factors I’d read numerous times. None of the criteria described Noah. Not even a little. Noah had more friends than he knew what to do with. Always had. I used to joke he had more of a social life than I did. He was one of those people with a magnetic personality who drew others to him without trying.
The idea of him having a learning disability or problems with academics couldn’t have been further from the truth. His teachers had suggested moving him up when he was in second grade because of his giftedness, but Lucas and I decided against it. He’d been with the same group of friends since preschool, and we didn’t want him to give them up. Instead, his teachers gave him extra work focused on more advanced thinking skills to keep him excited and engaged in learning. Once he reached high school, he’d been in all honor classes. He’d never gotten anything below an A−.
“Are there problems at home?” she asked.
Her question was inevitable. I wasn’t upset she asked. I wondered what went on at home whenever I heard about a kid getting into trouble too. Everyone did. Last year when kids were starting fires on the athletic field, and they finally found the group of teenagers responsible for it, my first thought had been, what was it like for them at home? We blamed parents for children’s mistakes. It was that simple.
Saving Noah Page 5