by Dave Pelzer
Lilian cupped my hands in hers. “Well, all that’s in the past. I know that being here at The Hill isn’t easy, especially for you, but you have to be on your absolute best behavior. I mean that,” she emphasized. “The counselors write behavior reports on you that are turned in to your probation officer. You’ve met Gordon Hutchenson, haven’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied.
“Those reports will have a strong impact against your mother trying to place you in an institution. All she has right now is a pack of lies she’s been feeding everyone. Your mother has made you out to be some crazed child—which you are, of course!” Lilian joked. “So if we can prove to the court that you did not set the fire and that you’ve been a model child, this blows your mother out of the water—once and for all.”
“So what do I do?” I asked.
Lilian smiled. “David, just be yourself. That’s all you have to do. Don’t ever try to be someone you’re not. The staff here will see through that in a heartbeat. Just be the boy who first came into my house—before you landed in all this hot water. But,” she warned, “no mistakes. Don’t you fly off the handle when you get upset. You put a lid on that potty mouth of yours. You got me?”
I nodded again.
“David, you’ve got your head in a noose. Lord knows, one more incident, and you’re hung for sure. You’ve overcome more in 12 years than most folks will ever accomplish in a lifetime. If you can do that . . . you can do this too. But you have to fight a good fight! You do whatever Mr. Hutchenson or the staff here tells you. I don’t care how off-the-wall it sounds. I’ve known Gordon for years, and he’s the best. You just think long and hard before you do something you’re gonna regret. All right?”
As Mrs. Catanze held my hands, I wanted to explain how sorry I was for all the trouble I had caused her and her family. But I knew I had told her that so many times in the past—when I really didn’t care. So, I asked myself, why would she believe me now? I peered into her gentle eyes, knowing that I was the cause of her sleepless nights and hours of frustration.
Lilian did her best to give me a wide smile. “Oh, before I forget, I have something for you,” she said, as her hand disappeared inside her purse. A second later she pulled out a small, chocolate-coated-cherries box. Her face lit up as she pushed the box over to me.
“Candy?” I asked.
“Just open it,” Lilian said, beaming.
I carefully opened the tiny lid and let out a shriek as I gazed at my tiny redear turtle, twisting its neck up at me. Gently I plucked my pet from the box and placed him on my hand. The reptile quickly retreated into his shell. “Is he okay? Is he eating?”
“Yes, yes,” Lilian replied in her motherly voice. “I’m taking care of him. I’m changing his water. . . .”
“Every other day?” I said, with concern for my pet.
“Every other day, yes. I know, I know. Of all things, I never thought I’d ever be taking care of an ol’ turtle.”
“He’s not an old turtle. He’s just a baby . . . see?” I cooed. “I thinks he likes you.” Lilian gave me a stern look as I thrust my turtle toward her face.
“David,” she said lovingly, as she leaned over to stroke my hair, “looking at you with that turtle . . . If only they saw you the way I do.”
I carefully replaced my turtle in the candy box. Then I reached out to Lilian’s hands. “I know I’ve been bad and that I deserved to be punished for what I did, but I promise—cross my heart and hope to die—I’ll be good. Real good. I promise . . . Mom.”
That evening, while I stared out of the window of my cell, a warm feeling from deep inside my soul began to take form. I’m going to do it! I vowed. I’m going to prove to Mrs. C., Mr.Hutchenson and to Mother that I am a good kid! I knew that my court date was only a few weeks away. So, I told myself, I’ll have to work a little harder. I fell asleep, no longer feeling afraid.
Within days, my daily behavior scores nearly doubled. I had thought I was doing rather well before, but when Carl Miguel, the C-Wing superintendent, told me in front of everyone what a great week I was having, I wanted to prove myself even more. By the end of that week, I had achieved the highest status that the wing held: gold. Mr. Hutchenson informed me that it normally took a pretty good kid three to four weeks to make gold. I smiled inside, knowing that I had made it in under two weeks. During that visit, Gordon informed me that my court date had been moved up a few days. “So, when do we go to court?” I asked.
“The day after tomorrow,” he answered. “You gonna be okay?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, trying to sound sure of myself, when inside I was terrified.
“David, I’m not going to confuse you on what can or cannot happen when we get in the courtroom. I’ve seen enough to know that some cases can go either way, and you have one of those cases. I can only tell you to keep your cool, and if you believe in God, I recommend you pray.”
Alone in my cell, I could feel myself become lightheaded. I closed my eyes, turned off my anxiety, and prayed.
Two endless days later, I sat perfectly upright as I strained to remember everything Lilian and Gordon had fed me. I nodded to Lilian, who sat behind me, and I smiled to her. As I turned away from her, I saw Mother sitting to the right of me in one of the front-row seats. I closed my eyes for a moment to make sure they weren’t playing tricks on me. But when I opened them, I could see Mother cradling Kevin in her arms.
My feelings of confidence evaporated. “She’s here!” I whispered to Gordon.
“Yeah, and remember, keep your cool,” he warned.
Moments later my case number was announced. I squirmed in my seat before stealing a glance at Mother. My lawyer, whom I had met only a few minutes earlier in the outer chamber, stood up, rattling off dates and other official-sounding numbers and statements so fast that I wasn’t sure whether everything he stated was about my case or someone else’s.
The judge acknowledged my lawyer after he returned to his seat. From my right, another man in a dark suit cleared his throat before he spoke. Gordon leaned over and tapped me on the knee. “No matter what he says, keep your cool. Don’t smile, don’t move and don’t show any emotion.”
“Your Honor, on or about the week of January 10, the minor, David Pelzer, after extensive premeditation, did knowingly commit arson and attempted to burn a classroom at the Monte Cristo Elementary School. . . .”
A slow panic began to consume my body.
“The minor, Your Honor, has an extensive history of extreme rebellious behavior. You have the brief from the minor’s psychiatrist, as well as statements from the minor’s teacher and staff members of Monte Cristo Elementary. I have statements from the minor’s former social worker, who also claims that ‘while David’s naïveté can be rather enchanting, he does, at times, require close supervision. While residing under the most liberal foster conditions, David has displayed aggressive behavior toward others and has, on occasion, been argumentative and disruptive while in foster care.’”
I sank into my seat. The same building that had granted me freedom would now be my doom. After an eternity the other lawyer thanked the judge before taking his seat, then nodded to Mother.
“Did you see that?” I asked, nudging Gordon.
“Shh,” he warned, “don’t blow it!”
“Rebuttal?” the judge, sounding bored, asked in my direction.
“Your Honor,” my lawyer chuckled as he stood up, “Ms. Gold’s statement is taken totally out of context. I submit that his Honor take the time to read the entire text. As for the charge of arson, the case has been founded on purely circumstantial evidence. While David was initially the suspect for the charge, I have in my possession statements attesting to the fact that David stopped the spread of the fire set by another minor. As for behavior reports while under detention, David has been, and I quote, ‘exceptional.’ As for David’s foster placement, the Catanzes eagerly await David’s return. Thank you, Your Honor.”
The judge scribbled down
some notes before nodding at the other lawyer, who sprang from his seat. “Your Honor, while no direct corroboration has yet been made, the minor has an established pattern of extreme dysfunctional behavior. In addition, I have a signed affidavit, from the minor’s biological mother, Mrs. Pelzer, stating that the minor has set several fires in the basement of his former residence. Mrs. Pelzer regrettably confesses that she could not control the minor under any normal conditions, and that the minor is extremely manipulative and harbors violent tendencies. Please review the order transferring custody, dated last March.
“Your Honor, it has become dramatically apparent, for whatever reason, that the minor cannot be managed in his former home setting or in foster care. The county believes that the minor is an extreme burden to society. The county hereby recommends the minor to be immediately admitted to psychiatric evaluation for possible admission into a facility that can best support his needs.”
“What does all that mean?” I asked Gordon, after the lawyer was through. Before Gordon could even hush me, the judge rubbed his temples and asked, “Juvenile probation?”
Mr. Hutchenson buttoned his coat as he stood. “Probation recommends continued monitoring and consultation from a different psychiatrist. I have seen nothing to make me believe that David is a threat to himself or to others. I recommend replacement with David’s foster guardians.”
“Gluttons for punishment, are they?” the judge chuckled before continuing. “Prior convictions?” he asked, as he turned to my lawyer.
“None, Your Honor,” the lawyer stated, as he leaned forward.
The judge leaned back into his chair. As his eyes looked down on me, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck begin to rise. I moved my left hand to scratch my right arm. I held my breath, waiting for the judge’s answer. The judge fingered his mustache. With a sudden nod of his head he turned to the court reporter. “Pending no further verification on the charge of arson . . . the court recommends sentencing of . . . 100 days in juvenile detention, honoring time already served.
“And off the record,” the judge stated, “young man, the charge of arson is a most serious one. The only reason I am not sentencing you for that is I have no direct proof. While it appears you may not have committed this crime, you have in fact been skating on thin ice for quite some time. You appear to have some good qualities and ample guidance,” the judge said, nodding to Mrs. Catanze, “but . . . be wise enough to employ them both.”
Immediately after the judge struck his gavel, Gordon whispered, “You’ll be out in 30, 34 days.”
“But I didn’t do it!” I whined.
“Doesn’t matter,” Gordon stated matter-of-factly. “That’s rarely the issue. Believe me, kid,” he said, pointing to the judge, “that guy’s a Santa Claus. If the prosecution had any hard evidence, I’d be fitting you for a straitjacket for the funny farm right about now. Besides, the ol’ man has a soft spot for scrawny little wimps like you. Come on, back to your cell, you animal,” Gordon joked, as we stood up.
Without warning, Mother stepped in front of Gordon and me. “You’re wrong! You’re all wrong! You’ll see! I warned that social worker broad, and now I’m warning you!” Mother screeched, as she thrust her finger at Mr. Hutchenson. “He’s bad! He’s evil! You’ll see! And next time he’ll hurt somebody! The sooner that boy is dealt with, the sooner you’ll see that I was right and I didn’t do a damn thing wrong! You’re fooling yourself if you think this is the end of it! You watch! There’s only one place for that boy. You’ll see!” Then she stormed out of the room, yanking Kevin behind her.
I inched my way to Gordon, whose face was chalk white. “Where does your mother live?”
“At home,” I replied.
“Oh?” Gordon asked, as he raised his eyebrows. “The home you burned? I mean, if you burned the basement . . . you must have gutted the house, too.”
“Yeah!” I laughed, after I realized he was only joking.
Thirty-four days later, I cried as I stuffed my collection of arts-and-crafts projects and the folders of schoolwork I had acquired into a small cardboard box. In an awkward sense, I didn’t want to leave. In “the outs”—the outside world—it was too easy for me to get into trouble. While at Hillcrest, I had grown used to my surroundings. I knew exactly what was expected of me. I felt safe and secure. As Carl Miguel escorted me to the front desk, he explained that the outside world would indeed be the real test of my survival. “Pelz,” Carl said, as he took my hand, “hope I never see you again.”
I returned Carl’s handshake before I gleamed at Mrs. Catanze, who seemed shocked at the sight of my pants, which I had grown out of. “Well?” she asked.
“How’s my turtle?” I inquired.
“Right about now, I’d say he’s soup.”
“Mom!” I whined, knowing Lilian was only teasing me. “Come on,” I said, as I spread my fingers, “let’s go home!”
Lilian’s face lit up like a Christmas tree when she realized that this was the first time I had called her house my home. She took my open hand. “Home it is!”
CHAPTER
8
Estranged
Things were never the same after I was released from juvenile hall and returned to the Catanzes. The other foster kids seemed to eye me with suspicion. Whenever I walked into a room, they would suddenly quit talking and flash me fake smiles. Whenever I’d try to join in on a conversation, I’d find myself standing in front of everyone with my hands buried in my pant pockets. Then after an eternity of silence I’d leave the living room, feeling stares on the back of my neck. Even Big Larry, whom I once considered my “big brother,” brushed me off before he moved out. After a few days of the cold shoulder, I found myself spending all of my time fiddling in my room. I didn’t even care that my Murray bike began to rust.
One Friday afternoon, in July 1974, Gordon Hutchenson dropped by. I felt a surge of excitement as he marched up the stairs and to my room. I couldn’t wait for someone to talk to. But I knew by his grim look that something was horribly wrong. “What is it?” I asked in a low voice.
Gordon placed a hand on my shoulder. “You need to pack a bag,” he said with pity.
I brushed his hand away. Visions of Hillcrest filled my head. “Why?” I exclaimed. “What’d I do?”
Gordon gently explained that I was not in any trouble and that he knew about the struggle I was having at the Catanzes’ home since I had moved back. He also stated that he had been trying to move me into another foster home with fewer kids. “Besides,” he confessed, “I’m in a jam. I got a bigger kid being released next Monday from The Hill and, well, he’s been assigned to live here. So come on now, move it.”
I wanted to cry, but instead I ran to my room. My heart raced from a combination of excitement and fear of not knowing what was going to happen to me next. With the speed of lightning I flung drawers open, yanked clothes from hangers and stuffed everything I could into a large brown grocery bag. Minutes later, I stole a moment of time to take a final look at the room I had slept, cried, played and spent so much time thinking in for just over a year. Even when I had thought that my world was crumbling around me, I always felt safe and secure in my room. As I gently closed the door, I closed my eyes and yelled at myself for again being so stupid. The first two ultimate rules of being a foster child that I had learned while at Aunt Mary’s were never to become too attached to anyone and never to take someone’s home for granted. And I had foolishly broken both rules. I had been so naïve as to convince myself that I would live with Rudy and Lilian for the rest of my life. I closed my eyes as I fought back the tears.
After Gordon placed a phone call to another foster home, he had to separate Lilian and me as we sobbed in each other’s arms. I looked into Lilian’s eyes, promising her that I would be a good boy and that I’d stay in touch. Outside, Gordon swung open the door to his brown Chevy Nova, then hurled my belongings in the backseat before allowing me to slide into his car. As he backed out of the driveway, I could cle
arly see the streaks of black mascara run down Lilian’s face. She stood in front of the same living room window where I had spent so many endless hours—waiting for the remote possibility of a visit from my father. As I waved good-bye to Lilian for the last time, I suddenly realized that she and Rudy had cared for me and treated me better than my own parents.
Neither Gordon nor I spoke a single word for several minutes. He finally cleared his throat. “Hey, Dave, I know this is all coming at you pretty fast, but, ah . . .”
“But why?” I whined.
Gordon’s face tightened with frustration. “Listen!” he barked. “It’s rare, damn rare, that a kid stays in a home for as long as you did. You know that, don’t you? And you were there for how long? Over a year? Hell, that’s a record.”
I sank in the seat, knowing that everything he was saying was true. I had taken so much for granted for so long. I turned my head to the window, watching familiar parts of the city zoom past.
Gordon broke my concentration. “Hey, David, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dumped on you like that. It’s just that sometimes I forget what it’s like to be a kid in your position. You see, I had assigned you to another home yesterday, but I got stuck in court before I could pick you up. And, well, now that home has another kid and . . . hell, I don’t know what to do with you.”
“You could take me back to the Catanzes,” I suggested in a soft voice.
“Can’t do that. Like I already said, I had signed you out of the Catanzes’ yesterday, which means they are no longer your legal guardians. It’s, well, very complicated to explain. The bottom line is, I’ve got to find you a home.”
As Gordon stumbled for words, my heart seized with fear. I suddenly realized that I had forgotten my bike and, more important, my pet turtle. Gordon laughed when I told him, so I playfully tugged his arm. He knew how much my things meant to me, but we both knew finding me a place to stay was far more important.