In their conversations, Betty Robinson continued to manipulate Botelho and his perceptions of me. She had a laundry list of offenses that I was allegedly committing: behaving disrespectfully, not doing chores around the house, stealing food. Of these, only the last one was true.
To his credit, Botelho called New Bedford High School, which gave him a good report about me, telling him that I had consistently earned a place on the honor roll. When he informed Betty of this report, she inquired why he had been asking the high school about me. She was becoming increasingly suspicious. Despite the conflicting accounts between the high school and Betty Robinson, Botelho continued to insist that the Robinsons were my best option.
In March of my sophomore year, I met with Botelho again and once more told him that I wanted to leave the Robinson home. Yet again, he tried to convince me that I should stay, but this time he added a twist: if I was so determined to leave, then it was my responsibility to inform the Robinsons that I wanted to leave. This I could not do. It would reveal without any ambiguity that I had violated Robinson Rule #1, which was to tell no one what went on at the house on Arnold. I said I would tell the Robinsons but only under the guise that I wanted to attend private school. He insisted that I tell them and be clear about my reason. For more than an hour, we negotiated how to approach the Robinsons. Finally, we came to a compromise: the Robinsons would learn the real reason, and Botelho would be the one to tell them. I went to bed that night and tossed and turned until the morning.
The next day Botelho came to the Robinson home. Their conversation took place in the living room, and Betty sent me outside. In a prerehearsed routine, I was to come back inside a few minutes after Botelho arrived and ask if I could play football with my friends. In an effort to appear to be the loving and caring mother, permission would be granted. The truth was, there was neither a football game nor friends with whom I could go play the game.
When Botelho told Betty why I wanted to leave, she went into a tirade and blamed him, accusing him of “putting thoughts in [my] head.” Botelho feebly protested his innocence, going so far as to say that he was encouraging me to stay. But it was too late. He was barely in his car before Betty called the Department of Social Services and asked to speak to his supervisor. She ran off a list of complaints against Botelho, including that he had not seen me in four years, and demanded to be given a black social worker. When Willie got home, Betty replayed her conversation with Mr. Botelho. He immediately grabbed the strap and told me to strip and wait for him in the cellar. I did as I was told, shivering in the cold, waiting.
Fifteen minutes later, he came down into the cellar carrying the strap and a rope. When I saw the rope, I knew this was not going to be an ordinary beating. He intended to use the rope to tie my hands to the beams where I would dangle like a piece of flesh in a meat locker. I swallowed hard. For some time I had been able to steel myself against their punishments, but I questioned whether I would be able to withstand this one.
“You’ve been talking to the social worker, haven’t ya, boy?” he said, tying the rope around my left wrist. I had spent hours thinking this through and playing all the different angles. And my response was ready.
“No, sir; no, sir,” I said. “He and I talked about going to private school because it would help me get to college. That way nobody would have to know your business. I didn’t tell him I wanted to leave.” It was a lie, of course, but I knew Betty would not be able to call Jose Botelho to verify my account. And even if she did, I was going to lie again. It would be my word against his. Still, it was a long shot. Willie eyed me warily, the strap hanging from his right hand, its strips dangling there like an octopus waiting to strike. But he actually stopped tying the rope.
“Betteh!” he yelled, his thick Southern accent bouncing off the cellar walls. The floor creaked above our heads as she shuffled toward the cellar door. “This boy here says the social worker didn’t understand him right, says he only talked about goin’ to some other kinda school.”
“I knew it,” Betty said. “Dem social workers always tryin’ to start somethin’. That’s awright. By the time I got done talkin’ to his supervisor, I’d made sure he won’t be comin’ ’round here anymore.”
Willie eyed me warily, the light bouncing off his glasses. “Boy, put your clothes back on and get back upstairs.”
The verdict was in. Miraculously, the Robinson rule breaker had earned a reprieve. As for my unwitting accomplice, Jose Botelho, three weeks later he was removed from my case.
CHAPTER 15
My efforts to leave the Robinsons had not borne fruit, but the new caseworker’s arrival brought another possibility. In early April of my sophomore year, Heather Pope was assigned to my case. She called Betty to set up an appointment to talk. “I can’t this week,” Betty told her. “My husband’s in the hospital and just had a back operation.” An appointment was set up for two weeks later. In the meantime, Pope contacted New Bedford High School and learned that I was on the honor roll and had made the varsity debate team as a freshman. What Pope didn’t know was that the Robinsons had made me quit that too.
Betty and I met with Pope as scheduled, and under pressure from Betty, I told my new caseworker that I was very happy with my family situation. “We’re so proud that he’s thinking about going into law,” Betty said, gushing. Of course, that was a bald-faced lie too.
Pope glanced down at her file. “Would Steve still be interested in attending boarding school?”
“Oh, no,” Betty said. “He wants to stay in his school.” She smiled at me. “Isn’t that right, Steve?”
“That’s right,” I said evenly. “I’m not interested in that anymore. My parents and I discussed it at length, and we all agree that staying is the right decision.” Saying these things almost made me sick.
In May, Pope arranged to spend time with me alone, away from the Robinsons’ house. After I told her, in an evasive tone, that I really wasn’t happy with the Robinsons, she asked if I’d like to reconsider attending a private boarding school. I said no, uncertain that a boarding school would give me complete separation from the Robinsons. Pope asked if I’d like her to bring up with Betty whatever concerns I had. “No, please don’t,” I said. “If things become much worse, you can talk to Betty then, but not now.” Still, I didn’t want my fear of repercussions to hide the truth completely.
“Don’t let Betty fool you,” I told Pope. “She goes on about how she knows people at the Department of Social Services and could get you in trouble if you don’t do what she wants.” Pope asked again if she should talk to Betty on my behalf, but I begged her not to, the thought of Willie and his hunting rifles imprinted on my mind.
In early September of my junior year, it was time for my case’s annual review. Pope called to schedule a meeting on the fifteenth of the month, but Betty made up an excuse, saying that she and Willie couldn’t make it, as they had to be at a doctor’s appointment in Boston. Pope suggested an alternative date, but Betty said she couldn’t make that one either. “Steve doesn’t want to meet with you anyway,” she said. “He doesn’t want to miss school. Isn’t that right, Steve?” She nodded for me to take the phone. “Here,” she said, “he’ll tell you himself.”
She handed me the phone. “Is this true, Steve,” Pope asked, “that you don’t want to attend our meeting?”
Betty was staring at me. “Um, yes, ma’am. I have some big tests coming up, and I can’t miss them.”
The next day, I called Pope from the Upward Bound office and told her that I did want to attend the review but that Betty had told me to lie and say that I did not. I also told her that Betty was lying about the doctor’s appointment. My case review went forward as scheduled on September 15, without the Robinsons or me in attendance. At that meeting, Heather and her supervisor, Tom Amisson, set a strategy for how to proceed. They would have a case review with the Robinsons, me, and the staff at the department. At that meeting I would have an opportunity to talk about what had been
unfolding at the house on Arnold Street.
Four days later, Heather brought me to the department to meet Mr. Amisson. On the ride there, Heather told me that if I wanted to leave the Robinsons, I would have to tell Mr. Amisson everything. For years I had been trying to have it both ways: on the one hand I was desperate to leave the Robinsons, but on the other, I would never fully reveal the circumstances under which I lived, as I was too afraid that no one would believe me and was even more fearful about what would happen to me after. Deep down I knew Heather was right: if I was going to leave the Robinson home, I was going to have to make a stand, much like my friends in Watership Down.
For more than an hour, Heather and Tom Amisson listened as I told them the Robinson Rules, their deliberate attempts to thwart my academic progress, my constant hunger, and their merciless beatings. Several times during my story, Heather broke into tears, while Tom shook his head in disbelief. I finished by telling them what had been the final straw: the Robinsons were not going to complete the forms I needed to apply to college.
Though they believed me, the agency could not simply remove me from the Robinsons. Several years earlier, the Robinsons had been appointed my legal guardians, and given the rules then in effect, this seemingly meant they had to have some say in the matter. The challenge before the agency was to force the Robinsons to come to a review, something they had skillfully managed to avoid for the last several years.
The agency ultimately decided to hit the Robinsons where it would hurt the most: in the wallet. They would lure the Robinsons to the review, telling them they wanted to discuss the compensation the Robinsons received for my care. Once the Robinsons were in the room, they would announce that the compensation would be cut off. This line of approach emboldened me. I expected that once the Robinsons were no longer being compensated, they would let me go without a fight, and I would not have to endure any repercussions for revealing the truth.
The review meeting was scheduled for 3:30 p.m. on the afternoon of October 12. Right before I left for school, though, Betty told me that I was not supposed to attend the meeting. I was absolutely certain this was not true. In between classes, I ran several times to the tutoring offices of the Upward Bound Program, trying to call Heather to verify whether I should come. I kept missing her, and as the school day neared its end, I became increasingly nervous.
I finally reached her at 3:00 p.m. “Yes,” she said, “you are supposed to attend the meeting. Do you need a ride?”
“No, I’ll get there by myself. But please don’t tell the Robinsons that I called you, okay?”
“Don’t you worry about that at all,” Heather said. She was now clearly on my side.
I was the last to arrive at the meeting. When I walked into the small conference room, Betty and Willie stared icy daggers through me. I knew I would be in real trouble as soon as we got out of there. Heather saw my fear and told the Robinsons that she had called me at school and asked me to attend the review. Willie kicked off the meeting by lying about a doctor’s appointment he supposedly had at 4:15. Tom jumped right in, saying that the department was no longer going to pay the Robinsons for my care. Immediately the energy in the room changed. Betty became very agitated, conveying her disapproval of my previous social workers, who, she suggested, had broken several promises to me. Willie was even more blunt, demanding to know what the department was going to do for me, now that his family would no longer receive financial assistance.
The staff at the agency expressed their interest in helping me continue my pursuit of higher education and, if I so chose, providing me with a voluntary social worker for as long as I stayed at the Robinson home. I quickly agreed to this, knowing full well that if the agency wasn’t involved, I would be at the Robinsons’ mercy. Any possibilities of my release would be gone forever. I didn’t need to look at Betty and Willie to know that I had committed the greatest of offenses by requesting a social worker. The Robinsons had so far succeeded in avoiding virtually any institutional oversight of my case, something that I had upset with my brazenness. And in addition, they were no longer going to be paid for having me in their home.
I was now afraid of what might happen to me back at home—really afraid. I said very little for the rest of the meeting. After the conference, Heather asked me to stay behind so we could talk about my college plans. “They are really going to hurt me now, Ms. Pope,” I said, as soon as everyone had left.
“No, Steve, they aren’t,” Heather said, putting her hand gently on my forearm. “They know we are watching.”
This was no consolation.
“You don’t know them, Ms. Pope,” I said. “You don’t know what they are capable of.”
Heather offered to give me a ride home, but I declined. Walking would take longer and delay the inevitable.
When I opened the door of the house on Arnold Street, I saw the leather strap, the rope, and a box of salt on the dining room table, right next to the floral centerpiece. What is the salt for? I had barely asked myself the question when Willie’s voice boomed from the living room: “Get down in the cellar, and lemme tell you, boy, you better be naked as a jaybird when I get down there.”
This time, there would be no miracle.
CHAPTER 16
Two days later, I met with Heather Pope and told her what had happened when I got back to the house on Arnold Street. “Can you show me?” she asked. I gently lifted the back of my shirt, wincing as I did. I looked over my shoulder to see her eyes go wide and her hand fly to her mouth.
“There really is only one thing we can do now,” Heather said nervously, sitting across from me in a conference room at the department’s offices. “You will have to file a 51A against the Robinson family.”
“What is a 51A?” I asked.
“Well, it’s a form you have to complete if you want to file a complaint against the Robinsons. You’ll have to describe what has been happening to you in the home.”
I nodded. “Okay. What happens after I fill out the form?”
“An investigation is conducted by the agency to see what the facts are.”
“And then will I be able to leave?”
“Yes, Steve, you will be able to leave,” Heather said. She smiled, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. There was something else. “There’s a little problem, Steve. I think it’s a problem we can fix.”
I said nothing and waited.
“It’s just that when you fill out the form, you have to be very specific about what’s happening, and Steve,” she paused, taking a deep breath, “Steve, they’re going to know it’s you who filed the form.”
“I don’t understand, Ms. Pope. I file the form . . .” My voice trailed off as I finally unpacked what she was really saying. “You mean I have to go back there, after I’ve completed the 51A, after they know it was me?” My voice escalated in anger.
Heather just looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears, her silence all the answer I needed. I bolted upright from the small conference table, knocking my chair over in the process. “No!” I said. I backed up against the wall, put my back to it, put my face in my hands, and slid down to the floor. I could not wrap my mind around what she was telling me. Didn’t they know what the Robinsons were going to do to me? Hadn’t I told them enough? What more did they need from me?
Heather came over and kneeled beside me. “They’re not going to hurt you anymore, Steve. Once you file this form, they will know that if something happens to you, we’re going to come after them.”
It took her a long time to convince me, but finally I relented, and then only under the condition that Heather tell the Robinsons the department would be watching them. As I walked back to Arnold Street, Heather’s words kept ringing in my ears: “We’re going to come after them.” What, I thought, would she do if the Robinsons decided to come after her?
I was going to find out soon enough. The Robinsons did learn that I filed the 51A, and just as Heather predicted, the beatings stopped. But the Robinsons now directed t
heir anger at Heather. She received threatening phone calls, and Willie, who found out where she lived, also stalked her. Some weeks thereafter, Heather requested that my case be assigned to someone else. For the second time in a year, the Robinsons had successfully removed a social worker from my case.
In November of my junior year, Mike Silvia became my new social worker. One afternoon he came to the Robinsons’ house to talk with us. With Betty and Willie present in the room, I told Mike that I didn’t need a social worker. Later, when we left the house to speak privately, I told him that I did, in fact, want a social worker, and that I had been pressured to tell him that I didn’t. “Please,” I said. “Get me out of there. I’m desperate. I want to leave and never come back. I’ll go anywhere.”
By this time the Robinsons had changed their strategy from physical abuse to mental warfare. Still, I would not yield; their cruelty only furthered my defiance. They refused to feed me; I would save half my school lunches, hiding the food in my book bag. They called the Upward Bound Program and tried to convince them that I needed to be removed; I explained to my Upward Bound counselors what was happening and why I needed the program now more than ever.
I came home from school to find several of the books Mrs. Levin had given me shredded and torn, their pages left in a heap on the basement floor; I had already hidden my favorites, including Watership Down. They wouldn’t let me bathe or shower in the house; so I ran as fast as I could to school and showered before classes began. They forced me to sleep outside in the doghouse with Rustina, the red Doberman pinscher; so I stole a blanket from a neighbor’s clothesline and kept both of us warm. Worst of all, Betty would tell me she knew where my mother and father were—that she had always known, that she could call them if she wanted to. You aren’t going to be the one to introduce me to them, I thought.
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