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

by Gay Courter

  (Nine years after Red went to prison, I heard that Bernadette Stevenson had died suddenly. A year after that, I was appointed to a guardian case for a Maggie, a 15-year-old girl. She had just been reunited with her mother when she was released from prison. Some names in the case seemed familiar. After checking the Stevenson file, I realized that Maggie’s mother, Janette, was Bernadette’s much younger sister.

  When I met Janette, she admitted to having some “nasty problems” with Red—but her sister had not believed her. “I think he may have messed with Maggie when she was very little,” she seethed. “Thankfully she doesn’t remember anything.”

  From time to time I inquired about Renata and Conrad MacDougal’s rigid and unwelcoming foster home. About a year after Cory moved to Washington State, Nancy called me and said, “I’ve just received a report from the guardian of a girl who is living with the MacDougals now.”

  At Nancy’s behest I agreed to a conference with the head of the HRS district and Cicely, the other guardian, whom I had not yet met. As Cicely read from her report, though, the similarity to my notes was uncanny.

  “Kim’s teacher said she had made some suicidal comments. I told Mrs. MacDougal that Kim needed to be in therapy immediately, but Mrs. MacDougal said she would settle down in a few weeks once she understood their family’s program.” Cicely went on to describe how Mrs. MacDougal had blocked her phone calls to Kim. When she finally drove out to see her, Kim was very tense. She said that Renata MacDougal told her that the judge despised guardians, so that having one was going to work against her getting what she wanted. Renata MacDougal also said that she sued the first Guardian ad Litem that came into her home and won.

  I gasped. “But we sued her!“ I stared at the administrator, who did not blink.

  Cicely continued with a description of the MacDougals’ home, saying it did not look as if any children lived there and that Kim’s room seemed like a “hotel room.” Cicely said that the second time she saw her, Kim told that Mrs. MacDougal screamed, “Your guardian bitch isn’t going to tell me what to do.”

  Cicely read her conclusions. “‘From what I have seen this place is more like a concentration camp than a loving home and in my opinion is not suitable for Kim or any other child. Aside from requiring excessive labor, the family is emotionally abusive. A child like Kim, who is an abuse victim, should never be placed in a foster home of this type.’“

  I was then asked to read the letter I sent Lillian shortly after Cory Stevenson left the MacDougals. “ ‘My notes document an authoritarian approach, threatening attitude, verbal abuse, humiliation, expectations far exceeding a child’s emotional and developmental level, punishments with extreme time limits, work and chores above and beyond normal household patterns, and general lack of knowledge regarding contemporary parenting skills.’“ I emphasized the words that echoed Cicely’s. “She missed more than a month of psychological therapy … more relevant in the management of a prison camp than a foster home.”

  Nancy leaned forward. “Gay’s letter was written more than a year ago.”

  “Perhaps this is merely a clash of personalities and parenting styles,” the administrator said, then promised that he would look into the matter.

  Six weeks later I received the investigative report on the MacDougals’ foster home. Caseworkers complimented the MacDougals’ ability to structure the children and concluded that the home is “a valuable asset to the children in that county.” The head of the foster care division wrote that “As far as children having rights, the problem is in the definition of rights. To Renata MacDougal a right means a privilege, which must be earned.” The official report concluded, “We do not believe that the evidence warrants the closing of this foster home.”

  Three years later, I received a call from Alicia’s foster mother, Ruth Levy, who was again a foster parent. “Guess what I got last month?” she asked, then filled in, “a refugee from Mrs. MacDougal. Renata is up to all her old tricks.” She explained that all the foster children had received personalized quilts from the Foster Parent Association, but Mrs. MacDougal wouldn’t let him take his with him because she was saving it for another child.”

  “And with the kid’s name right on it!” I said in amazement.

  The next day I mentioned it to Nancy. “Who’s the kid? Where’s he now? When did he get the quilt?” she asked rapid-fire. Ten minutes later she had called me back to report that not only was the quilt on its way. “Seven more guardians have expressed concern about those—” she struggled vainly for a politic word.

  Nancy insisted the new administrator open another inquiry. The new investigator found the refrigerator and access to all food were locked in direct violation to foster care regulations. The home was closed based on this technicality.

  Of all my guardian children, I’ve stayed closest to the three teenage girls sisters Simone, Nicole, and Julie Colby. The Slaters did adopt them and I attended the ceremony in the judge’s chambers. This happy event took place around the time of the publication of the first edition of I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate and the Slaters were invited to help promote the role of court-appointed special advocates. Their whole family and I went to New York for an appearance on Good Morning America.

  Raising three teen daughters had joyous moments, but their normal teen angst was magnified by the ghosts of their past

  Simone buried herself in her schoolwork and her tenacity paid off. She applied to a college connected with the family’s church and was accepted with a partial scholarship, which converted to a full ride if she maintained a 3.0 average the first year. At the last minute she found out that she needed three thousand dollars to matriculate.

  “What are you going to do?” I asked.

  “Pray on it.”

  “Okay, you pray and I’ll make a few calls,” I said.

  An hour later, a prominent member of the church, who wished to remain anonymous, pledged half the amount. Next I contacted a friend who ran charity events. “Do you know any scholarship organization that can write a check for fifteen hundred dollars in a week?” I explained Simone’s predicament.

  “I can!” she said. “College scholarships are exactly what my latest charity is all about and I can write a check for under two thousand without board approval. If you say the kid is worthy, that’s good enough for me.”

  Sputtering, I called Simone back. “You have the money.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked since less than two hours had passed since her initial phone call.

  Simone majored in sociology, graduated with honors, worked for the church for a while, and then got an excellent job with a major corporation. She has had her struggles, including disapproval from her adoptive parents because she leads an unconventional lifestyle. She lives a thousand miles away and has joined a different church, but she remained close to her sisters.

  Nicole, who had been the most seriously abused sister, predictably had the most turbulent adolescence.

  Sometimes she would call me to announce, “I’m losing it.”

  “Be right there,” I’d respond. I’d pull into the driveway and she’d get into the front seat and punch the preset button for her favorite radio station. We wouldn’t go anywhere, just sit in the car. On and on she would rail until the steam subsided and she was ready to go back inside. The calls became more infrequent as she began to trust her new family.

  This adoption had been an open one and the children were free to visit with their mother as well as other relatives in the community. They avoided their father because he was often drunk and obnoxious. Their mother had long-standing mental health issues, but she would attend school assemblies and treat them to burgers. The summer after Simone graduated high school she decided her mother needed her. Her adoptive mother said, “The porch light is always on, honey. Come home whenever you want.” After two weeks, Simone saw her mother in a fresh light and decided she could not live with her unpredictable moods. She moved back with the Slaters un
til it was time to leave for college.

  Nicole was a natural student and she breezed through high school while working part-time for an outpatient surgical center. Nicole turned eighteen in February of her senior year and on that date she set up housekeeping with Pedro, the coach of the local soccer team. Her grades had won her a partial state scholarship and if she continued with her job she would qualify for a medical scholarship at the end of a year. She still needed about a thousand dollars for fees and books, but the same anonymous source who had sent funds for her sister set aside the same amount for her.

  I was thrilled when she started community college that summer. Every few weeks I called to see how her courses were going. I had high hopes that she would do well enough to transfer to a university nursing program. One afternoon I passed right by her apartment and saw her car in the driveway. She was usually either at school or work at that hour so I wondered whether she was ill.

  Pedro answered and let me in. Nicole stumbled into the room wearing a ratty robe. She had bleached her hair blonde, shaved her eyebrows, and she reeked of tobacco. I noticed some marijuana roaches in an ashtray.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I sleep in the afternoons,” she said.

  “I thought you went to school in the morning and worked at the surgery center afterward.”

  “I couldn’t do both. So I didn’t finish the semester.”

  “What about the scholarship from the church patron?”

  “I spent it,” she said in a challenging voice.

  “On what?”

  “Clothes for my new job,” she admitted.

  “You’re not working at the surgery center anymore?”

  “I’m got sick of killing myself for minimum wage when I can make more than a week’s salary in a night.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re lap dancing?”

  She shrugged and I walked out, slamming her door behind me.

  She called me—who else?—when she was arrested for prostitution, but denied the charge. “They’re harassing me. I never had sex with any of my clients.”

  “What do you expect me to do about it?” I asked in frustration.

  The next call came after Stew, who owned the club where she danced, smacked her around. Nicole refused my advice to contact the shelter for abused women.

  She called me again when she was released from the hospital after a bad reaction to crack cocaine. “My heart went crazy I thought I was going to die!”

  Then one rainy day she came by the house with Julie. Nicole was wearing pants made from a slippery fabric and appeared twenty pounds underweight. Her eyes were sunken and there were bruises on her arms. “Julie’s been suspended from school,” she said. “Can you talk some sense into her?”

  I looked from one to the other and sighed. “You have two sisters as role models.” I said to Julie. “Pick which one you want to emulate.”

  Nicole phoned a few months later to announce her pregnancy. She vowed she was giving up drugs and she would be a good mother.

  The Slaters stepped up to the plate and became exemplary grandparents. They virtually raised baby Delilah while Nicole went back to school and became a medical technician. A few years later she married another man and had a son. Nicole has struggled, but has managed to lead an ordinary, yet fulfilling life. After many years of avoiding me, she reconnected through Facebook and I’ve entertained her charming children at Christmas.

  When Julie turned eighteen, she still had two more years of high school to complete. Just like her sisters, she was unwilling to follow the Slaters’ strict house rules and moved in with a friend. She called in a panic because her friend had tossed her out. The Slaters were bitter at the way she had left and suggested I take her in to see what she was really like. I’d learned my lesson with Lydia but agreed to make some calls on her behalf.

  After hanging up from one discouraging conversation, my housekeeper, Martha, came into the room. “Who needs a home?” she asked. I told her about Julie. “Since my mother died, we’ve always made our spare room available to people in need. We took care of one elderly man after his surgery, and I’ve been praying for the Lord to send us the right person. Maybe it’s Julie.”

  Julie lived with Martha until she graduated high school then joined a youth missionary program where she met the man she married. They did well for a while. She held a good job; they bought a house, and were expecting a baby. After Julie had a miscarriage, she became suicidal and pushed her husband away. Eventually they divorced. Julie and I stay in touch through e-mail and I monitor her Facebook postings for signs of worsening depression. Sometimes we talk. She claims it helps.

  Sharonda James is the African-American young woman who was told by her caseworker to get pregnant if she wanted medical care and economic services—and followed her advice. She gave birth to her first son Za’quelle before her seventeenth birthday and was pregnant again by her eighteenth. Za’quelle’s father went to prison for attempted murder.

  Sharonda is the unluckiest person I’ve ever met. Her mother was killed in front of her when she was a young child, her father has been in prison most of her life, and she lived with her blind great-grandmother who needed the child as her eyes. Even though Sharonda had been placed in foster care since the age of ten, she had never spent more than a few weeks in a foster home. She had been allowed to “scrounge” (the caseworker’s term) between the homes of relatives in a crime-ridden neighborhood of welfare mothers and cocaine dealers. She often missed school and never completed high school.

  One day, while standing on a street corner, the new girlfriend of her expected baby’s father drove past and shouted, “He’s mine now!”

  Furious, Sharonda tossed a beer bottle at the car. The bottle bounced off the side view mirror into the open window and split the girl’s forehead leaving a large, bloody gash. Sharonda was convicted for assault with a deadly weapon and resisting an officer with violence. A cousin took custody of Za’quelle when his mother went to prison.

  I offered to meet Sharonda at the hospital when she went into labor with her second child. However the prison matron didn’t call me until after the baby was born. I arrived when Sharonda’s second son, Benny, was a few hours old. Sharonda had one arm shackled to the bed rail, making it difficult for her to hold him during the twenty-four-hour period that she could be with him. I stayed with her until she was wheeled away screaming and crying for her baby and Benny was turned over to his father’s mother.

  When Sharonda turned eighteen in prison, I made my last court appearance on her behalf. I had been her Guardian ad Litem for almost four years and nothing I had ever tried for her had made a difference. I felt like an utter failure and said so in my report to the judge.

  “What should we have done differently?” he asked.

  “No effort was made to find her a permanent, loving home. Her caseworker said she had known Sharonda’s family since she was a small child and could have predicted the outcome. If that was so, then why didn’t she try to prevent it?”

  “Why do you think?” he said, putting me on the spot.

  “Because this community did not take the legal steps to free her for adoption since they believed nobody would giver her a permanent home due to her age and race.”

  The judge asked the clerk to call the jail. With Sharonda on speakerphone, he said, “I have been your judge for three years and I am here to apologize to you. I’ve asked for various services for you, but my orders have never been carried out. I don’t know what else I could have done, but obviously I have failed you or you would not be where you are. You came to us a neglected child and we did not meet your needs. You have reason to be angry, but you still can get your life together. When you come out, my door is open to you and I’ll help you if I can.” Overcome with feelings of sadness, he recessed the court.

  After Sharonda served her sentence, she returned to her old neighborhood and lived with a cousin who was also raising two children. She called me when she was in labor
with her third child and I made it in time to cut her daughter Ra’quelle’s cord. Shortly after this baby turned two, Sharonda called me crying hysterically. “They took my baby!” Sharonda admitted to light spankings, but I learned that the child had many old scars. Sharonda had many excuses and explanations; but I didn’t buy them, and she knew it.

  Sharonda had never been parented adequately thus she could not nurture another life. Just like Lydia, who had vowed not to treat her child the way she had been treated and Alicia who lost her children to the foster care system, Sharonda was locked into the abusive cycle. A few months after her daughter was removed from her custody, I had a series of collect calls from Sharonda in yet another jail—and she was expecting her fourth child.

  I still hear from Sharonda. The older boys live with the cousin and grandmother who raised them; the girls are sometimes with their mother and sometimes with their great-grandmother. They all live a few blocks apart in a small southern town in a neighborhood segregated by tradition rather than law.

  Sandra Shepherd King joined Dirk in military service. She was trained in search and rescue and gave birth to a daughter after two years of marriage. Rudolph Grover served less than three years in a state prison, where his health—unlike that of Humbert Humbert—dramatically improved. I was notified of his release by the Department of Corrections, as was Sandra. He moved back in with Florence and resided in our community, where he was listed as a sexual perpetrator on all databases and websites. His name is now missing so he has either moved or is deceased.

  Perhaps the greatest social service that can be rendered by anybody to the country and to mankind is to bring up a family.

  —George Bernard Shaw

  Abuse. Neglect. Abandonment. Foster care. Aging out of the system without a family to call your own. Few of the children in this book escaped lifelong handicaps from the injuries their parents inflicted and the system did little more than patch them up and send them out as walking wounded. Even worse, they sadly fulfilled the expectation that they would do the same to their own children. I knew the answer: either get the children back with their family of origin quickly and offer supports to that family or find the children a loving permanent home.