A Kidnapped Mind

by Pamela Richardson

  “Keep going,” they said. “Let it out.”

  I talked for nearly an hour. By the end I was exhausted, and all the other moms were crying, reaching out to touch my arm, smiling at me through their tears, accepting and supporting me. Despite their own problems, they gave me their time and love. These women were strangers, but they could see I wasn’t a bad mom. They saw I cared about my son and felt my pain at his loss. All these years I had listened to the judges and Dr. Elterman and my own lawyers telling me not to argue, not to fight, not to disturb anyone’s precious peace, because Dash would come around in the end. Well, my peace was disturbed. My son’s life was disturbed. All these women were much worse off than me — one of them lived in a shelter, and they all worked around the clock trying to get by and raise their children. Meanwhile, I had the luxury of a nanny to help with the house while I raised my boys, a supportive husband, and for the first time in my life, the ability to be a full-time mom. Yet these women had to tell me, “You have rights here! You deserve better than this. So does your son. Go back to court because your child needs you.” They all expressed, in the space of an hour, what I utterly lacked, because I had repressed it for so long: rage. Rage at what had happened to my son. Rage at my ruined relationship with the beautiful boy I had carried in my own body for nine months. Rage at the court system for letting him fall out of my life. Those women showed me exactly how angry I should be, and how much I was worth: I deserved to see my child. I didn’t deserve this treatment, this dismissal, this callous obliteration from my son’s life at the hands of a man who hated me, and I deserved the courts’ support. They showed me that I had to put on the armour of war, because this was a war, and I had to wake up and see it for what it was. I had to fight. I was not going to get to see Dash by backing off and being nice and compliant and going back to my lovely home in Kerrisdale and closing the door on my son’s troubles. I had played by the rules and sucked down everything that had been done to me for the sake of Dash, but it hadn’t worked. It was worse. Dad’s funeral had shown us all. In the room with those beaten but endlessly courageous women, I saw that fighting for something I believed in, something I had instinctively done but in too quiet a way, was right. I believed in being able to love my son and I believed in him being able to love me, and I changed after that meeting. My worth had been measured by people who cared about me without even knowing me. They didn’t see me as a second-string parent, so why was I one? I went home cold, in shock, but those six women had restored my faith in myself. Dr. Richard Gardner had given me the underpinnings of a case. I was now prepared for a long and bloody battle for my child.

  I called my lawyer, John Fiddes, and told him that he had done great work, but that I had to find someone new, someone who really understood what Dash had gone through and was prepared to argue PAS and child abuse. I interviewed half a dozen lawyers, asking, “Have you heard of Parental Alienation Syndrome?” and only one had, a family lawyer with a busy practice: Jamie Martin. He was about my age and had five children. He had been a child advocate for years before entering private practice. He had heard about Parental Alienation Syndrome, believed it was real, and listened intently as I talked to him about Dash. I warned him that my second-to-last lawyers’ offices had been fire-bombed and that John Fiddes’s home had been burgled. Jamie didn’t flinch. Jo-Anne Bogue, his assistant, would, in time, become so emotionally connected to my case that she would be with me at every hearing.

  Jamie was willing to go into court with a psychological syndrome that was all but unknown, and I told him about the very base of my conviction.

  “I don’t want to present this as some weird little syndrome, Jamie, because it’s not,” I said. “What happened to Dash is the syndrome, through and through. But at its core this is simply a specific set of tactics used by someone who wants a particular result — the destruction of a child’s relationship with his mother. It doesn’t matter whether Peter consciously intended this to happen or whether his emotional problems made it inevitable. I don’t care. I care about the result and I care about making Dash’s life better. Indoctrination is psychological abuse. The forced separation from me is psychological abuse. And Peter has filled the gap in this child’s life with neglect. That’s not okay. I’ll go in and argue whatever we have to argue — alcohol, Dash’s difficulties in school, whatever — but that’s the base of my conviction here, Jamie. This is abuse.”

  “Dash has no bruises on him and emotional abuse is almost impossible to prove,” Jamie said, “but your case is serious, and I believe you when you say Dash is in trouble.” Jamie said he was prepared to use the words “child abuse” about my case and not let a judge’s uncomprehending stare back us down. I gave Jamie Dr. Richard Gardner’s book, covered in yellow sticky notes, finished the coffee Jo-Anne had brought, wrote out the first cheque, and asked him to start work immediately. I told him to draw up an application to have Dash psychologically assessed and my access time restated. I wanted the 50 percent of Dash’s out-of-school hours I was originally given but had never received. I wanted Peter forced by a court to facilitate my access to Dash. I knew he would never encourage visitation, but I wanted him forced to at least get Dash out the door. If Peter made it happen, if Peter gave his permission, I knew Dash would come. I knew he wanted to.

  Dash was a trained monkey and just as free as one, so I wasn’t surprised when he phoned immediately after my lawyer’s courier had served our notice of motion on Peter.

  “I won’t see you until you stop doing this to my dad,” he said.

  “I’m not seeing you anyway, and I haven’t for two years,” I replied gently, to no response. “I’m a parent, Dash. I’m your parent, and you should be seeing me like the judge said years ago. I don’t have a choice anymore.” Dash stayed silent. “I’m doing this because I believe it’s the right thing to do. You have a right to your mother. I have a right to you, and you’re going to have to trust me that this will work out, Dash. I love you and I’m doing this for you.”

  I was the direct cause of a new round of pain and pressure for him, a new round of action-stations at home, but this time I was determined I would stay the course.

  “I understand how you feel,” I said gently, “and I understand that you won’t see me. But I will still call you, Dash, and keep trying to see you, because you’re my son and I love you with all my heart.”

  Dash remained true to his word. I didn’t see him for the next six months as our trial date crawled closer. My faith in the system was at rock-bottom, but my faith in myself was solid and strong for the first time since this had begun. What had happened to my family was not right. We all — especially Dash — deserved more than this. Now I needed to protect him, and I was going to do it in the one place in which I had three times already been put at a disadvantage and tainted: Peter’s turf — the courts. Being a pleaser hadn’t fixed a single thing. I was armed and dangerous, and I had been thwarted too long. I was going over the gunwales for Dash.

  Chapter 5

  In the Belly of the Beast

  On December 13, 1995, we sat before Justice Mary Ellen Boyd, the judge who had ordered my removal from Dash’s school in Grade One. Back then, she had described my intentions as “honourable,” but she had decided that, because my being there had so agitated Peter, the custodial parent, I should not be allowed to stay. I wondered if she remembered our case now. I wondered if she reflected on the wisdom of removing a caring and engaged school parent or whether she asked herself why, six years later, we were still in front of judges, still having problems, still “battling” over Dash. We were in front of her now because I wanted a court order that would make sure I saw Dash at Christmas. As we did in each of the half-dozen pretrial hearings, we went with a case based on issues the judge was most likely to understand. I wanted to go in with PAS and child abuse; I had to go in with Peter’s deviations from the court order. Jamie talked about the 50 percent of Dash’s time I was supposed to have and didn’t get, about my 1993 decision to
instruct John Fiddes to stop court proceedings and rely on Dash to set up visits with me regardless of what the court order said, and how that had failed, about my struggle to reach Dash by phone and my lack of basic information about Dash’s education and health. Only then did Jamie tell Justice Boyd that the community around Dash was concerned about him, and that we believed that Dash was a PAS child. I had heard that Justice Boyd had been touched by PAS, too, when she married a man whose child had been alienated from him. I wouldn’t have wished this on anyone, but that day in the courtroom I hoped it was true. I hoped she had seen what I had lived, and had the insight to see what was happening here.

  Mary Ellen Boyd was the first judge who dared to speak directly of Peter’s role in the broken relationship between my son and me. She said, “For the past few years this child, rightly or wrongly, has had the impression that it would be in his best interests to defeat his mother’s attempts to exercise access. The boy appears to have just decided he doesn’t want to do it. He has unfortunately been given the impression that the matter is in his control and he has exercised that control. That is inappropriate.” My heart beat faster. Does she get it? “The custodial parent,” she continued, “has the duty and the obligation to do everything possible to encourage and foster a healthy relationship between the boy and the non-custodial parent.” Yes, keep going. “I think that the possibility of this child, who is literally pre-pubescent, not being encouraged to have a healthy relationship with his mother is inviting disaster. I haven’t heard anything said today that would come even remotely close to suggesting that the mother, exercising access as any other parent would be entitled to, would somehow harm or damage this child.”

  I got a weekend of access starting the next evening, December 15, and a whole week of access close enough to Christmas to count. Peter was to drop Dash to me on December 30 — which indulgently allowed for a Christmas Day departure to Mexico that Peter had booked as soon as he received my notice of motion asking for Christmas access.

  I knew Dash would withdraw from me now that I had a court-ordered access weekend lined up, so I called him right away to nail down the weekend and pump him up about coming. Our routine was well-established by now. I generated a desire in him that was strong enough to withstand his father’s sidelong glances, comments, or obstructions. Dash and I spoke happily for half an hour about the whole range of things we were going to do on our weekend, but the next night, Dash wasn’t delivered. No one phoned, no one explained, and no child came. Our court order was useless. I left a message every day for Dash to please call me, but heard nothing. Oh, well. We still have our week, I told myself. On Christmas Eve I selected two presents, his Christmas card, and a little chocolate Santa, and drove over to give them to him. Though it was nearly lunchtime, all the blinds were still drawn. I knocked, expecting nothing, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Dash lift a blind to see who was there. He broke into a wide grin, disappeared, then flung open the door and hugged me hard. He came outside and closed the door quietly behind him, all smiles. I told him I had brought only two presents, because I wanted us to open the rest together. He looked quizzically at me. “When you come and stay next week,” I said. He still looked confused, and then I got it. He hasn’t been told. I had to be careful. This was Maui all over again. “You know, Dash, the judge has said that you’re going to be with me for a whole week at the end of December? After your trip to Mexico!”

  “Really?” His eyes were bright.

  “Yep. The thirtieth to the seventh of January. A good long time.”

  He repeated the times and dates so he wouldn’t forget. “The thirtieth to the seventh. The thirtieth to the seventh.” He unwrapped his chocolate Santa and bit into it with a big smile, chocolate smearing across his front teeth. He pushed the mush into his mouth with his finger.

  “Now, Dash, what happened last weekend? Why didn’t you come over? You know, your dad agreed to it, so I really thought I would see you.”

  Dash looked up at me, bewildered. “Mom, I didn’t know I was supposed to be seeing you last weekend. I didn’t.” Agreeing in court to the weekend had simply been a public-relations exercise. Goddamned Peter. But I only had another minute with Dash.

  “Oh, don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted out, Dash. Just give me a hug.” He smiled and I squeezed him hard. “The important thing is you’re seeing me at the end of next week. I miss you so much, you know,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “I’ve been trying so hard to see you, but just hang in there, we’ll work it out.” Dash looked at me, squinted his eyes, murmured quietly, “I know,” and it wasn’t until I was nearly home again that I realized that we had whispered our entire conversation.

  Peter and Dash flew to Cabo San Lucas the next day. Dash ran off to find his school friend, Stephen Frosch, and his family, who were holidaying there too, and spent the day with them. The next morning, Peter took him back to their hotel. Despite the gum Peter was chewing furiously, Stephen’s mother, Melody Frosch, smelled the alcohol. The next day Stephen saw Dash walking down the beach toward their hotel. He was carrying a plastic bag full of clothes. Stephen took him to their condo, and Melody asked Dash where his father was.

  “He’s gone to his property.”

  “Oh?”

  “He said to stay with you.”

  Alarmed, Melody called Peter’s hotel, but he had checked out, leaving no forwarding number. Two days passed before Peter phoned and announced that he would be back later that day. He and his son, Greg, had driven upcountry to view a piece of land Peter had bought. When Peter arrived back at the hotel, he didn’t go to see Dash, who was swimming in the hotel pool. Instead, he dithered around, talking about returning the rental car and doing a variety of other things. Peter was halfway out the door again when Melody said, “What about Dashiell?” Peter shrugged and said, “Oh, I’ll be back later. If Dash wants to he can walk back along the beach to the hotel and meet me there.” Melody was shocked at Peter’s cavalier attitude to the safety of an eleven-year-old, but it confirmed her long-held suspicions that things were not right in the Hart residence. Whenever Dash was over for dinner, he ate huge meals and always asked for more. “He never seems to want to go home,” she told me. “And never has a set time he’s expected.” Melody would often say, “Shouldn’t you be getting home soon, Dash?” Dash would shrug. “No.” Once he said, “I wouldn’t want to go home and be alone anyway. There’s nothing to do.”

  When Melody told me about her experiences in Mexico I urged her to write an affidavit for me. She gave powerful backup to my own concerns: Peter’s drinking, a laissez-faire attitude toward Dash’s welfare, Dash’s lack of supervision. When her affidavit was circulated to Peter’s lawyer, Peter called her in a rage, but she replied coolly. “I’ve only said what’s true.” She added, “And you were in Mexico on days Dash should have been with his mom.” Dash and Peter had flown back from Mexico four days into the week of access I had been given.

  “Well, that’s not really true,” Peter said, and then told Melody, “I’m a great Dad, and I know everyone down there at the courthouse. They won’t do anything.”

  Melody refused to allow Stephen to play at Dash’s house after that Christmas in Mexico — something Dash would blame on me. It had happened before, he said. Or so his memory said. “In preschool I think there was this kid named Brett,” Dash would say later on the witness stand, “and cuz my mom told his mom that my dad was a bad parent, I stopped seeing him. And there’s another kid called Brian, and the same thing happened.” In preschool?

  In early January 1996, we asked another judge for joint guardianship and a restatement of the half-time access order decided by the divorce trial judge, Justice MacDonald, in 1990. “The history of this matter is disturbing,” Justice R. Bruce Harvey said. The order had not been complied with, Dash was “unwilling” to see me and there was “no current or even reasonably current independent expert assessment of the child” available to the court. Justice Harvey wondered
aloud what he could do to bring the access I was getting more in line with the original access order and said he wanted to find some way “to attempt to get this young boy to have the opportunity not only to have a father but a mother, too.” But the judge seemed crushed by the weight of responsibility. He dithered. After assuring us that our case would be rushed to the trial list, he adjourned the joint-guardianship decision. I had asked for a contempt-of-court charge to be brought against Peter, because he had ignored the Christmas access order, but Justice Harvey didn’t rule on that either. He only ruled on the issue of costs which, as usual, went to me — tangible evidence that Peter’s conduct was the reason we were in court, but not what we were after.