by Ray Flynt
Through strains of George Benson and Sam Cooke they headed west out of the Philly suburbs. Sharon sat with her head back and eyes closed for the first half-hour, but by the time they headed north on Route 100 to Boyertown she began fidgeting in her seat, and Brad sensed she was eager to talk.
“Who are we meeting with?” Brad asked.
“Carolyn Whiting, the administrator.”
“Do you know her?”
“No. The director I knew retired a few years ago. Whiting moved here from Michigan, where she was second in command at Starr Commonwealth, a similar facility.” After a pause, Sharon added, “They call her the ‘ice queen’.”
“They?”
“The staff at Maple Grove. But the probation officers have latched on to that handle too. Oliver told me that when the staff makes reference to IQ in her presence, they aren’t talking about intelligence.”
Brad grinned. I wonder what my staff calls me behind my back?
Still grinning he glanced over at Sharon.
“What?” she said.
“Never mind.” Changing topics, he asked, “Oliver mentioned cottage parents. Do you know any of them?”
“I used to know them all, but there’s always turnover.” She added, “They like to have a married couple to anchor each cottage, where at least one of the couple is a trained social worker, or has an alternate social service degree. The kids stay in cottages, and the couple makes their home there, but with their own private quarters. They supplement the staffing with shift workers.”
“Oliver said that Jeremy was in Reflection cottage?”
“Yep. They use inspirational names, like perseverance, determination, hope, optimism… I can’t remember them all; it’s harder than remembering the names of the Seven Dwarfs.”
“How many cottages?”
“Nine, each with up to twelve boys.”
Sharon pointed. “You’ll want to turn left about 300 feet ahead, just before that row of trees.”
Brad slowed his Mercedes to make the turn. He tried to conjure a mental picture of a maple grove dotted with cottages. The only cottage he knew was the rustic log cabin his parents rented in the Poconos for summer getaways; the one with a fireplace for warmth on chilly nights, no running water, and a tree-shaded path to the john. Brad grinned as he recalled his brother Andrew complaining, “I was never constipated until we spent those long weekends at the cabin.”
The clock on the dashboard neared their appointment time of 11 a.m., and after two more turn-left-here’s from Sharon, Brad was tempted to mutter, “Are we there yet?”
“That’s it,” she announced, with eagerness in her voice. “On the right.”
Brad saw a stone wall with MAPLE GROVE in shiny bronze lettering, worthy of the entry to a suburban subdivision. No mention that it was a youth center, though the neighbors would hardly complain since all he saw was fields of tall, wilting corn stalks.
“Administration is over there.” Sharon pointed toward what looked like a two-story brick farmhouse, circa 1920. The lawn had been paved over, and a half-dozen vehicles, mostly SUV’s, were parked in the lot as Brad slipped into a spot marked for visitors.
As they walked up the steps to the entry Brad imagined each new charge arriving at the facility for the first time, filled with apprehension. Wouldn’t kids raised on the mean streets find this rural setting strange? He’d once visited the State Correctional Facility at Rockview to witness the execution of one of the men responsible for murdering his mother and sister, and this place was light years away—no barbed wire in sight, or bars on the windows. Brad knew he’d lived a sheltered life. It wasn’t just that he’d come from economic privilege. Until he reached adolescence, he was clueless that most of the world didn’t have it as easy as his family. In spite of mischievousness in his youth—the details of which could await his posthumous memoirs—he’d never knowingly broken the law. Nor did he have any school mates that found themselves on probation. Brad had a lot to learn before he could put himself in the shoes of Jeremy Young, and understand what motivated his behavior.
“Good morning,” the receptionist greeted them. His desk sat in an archway in the entry hall, just in front of the staircase.
“Hi Ross,” Sharon gushed. “Remember me?”
The blank look on his face said that he didn’t.
Brad wanted to whisper, “You can’t go home again.”
She plowed on. “Sharon Porter and Brad Frame to see Ms. Whiting.”
“Of course, second door to your left at the top of the stairs. She’s expecting you.”
The wooden treads creaked as they made their way up, and Brad thought that the bannister could use tightening.
The door to the office was open, and a tall, lean, and fortyish woman with short dark brown hair rose to greet them. “I’m Carolyn Whiting. Please come in.” She spoke in a commanding voice, an asset in her profession.
They introduced themselves, and she gestured to a grouping of easy chairs to the left of her desk. “We’ll be more comfortable over here.”
As he’d suggested during their journey to Maple Grove, Sharon took the lead. She began detailing her own history as a juvenile probation officer, familiarity with the youth center, and then explained about the visit they’d had from Oliver Reynolds and the brother of Jeremy Young. The setup provided Brad the opportunity to take in the surroundings and observe Ms. Whiting in action. Brad noticed a few cracks on the plastered walls and found the décor utilitarian, possibly furnished with corporate office hand-me-downs. Two framed diplomas hung on the wall behind her desk: one from Penn State awarding a Bachelor of Science and the other a Master of Social Work from the University of Michigan. The undergrad degree was conferred to Carolyn Louise Whiting. Brad took into account the fact that there was no wedding ring on her hand and guessed that she’d never married. As Brad listened to Whiting talk, language cues suggested she was a native Pennsylvanian, and the Penn State degree reinforced that view. What brought her back to the state?
“I appreciate your concern, and the family must be beside themselves with worry. I spoke briefly with Jeremy’s brother last week,” Whiting said. “I reviewed the file this morning.”
Genuine. Thoughtful. Ideal as administrator of a juvenile correctional facility. Those were Brad’s impressions. He’d dealt with too many people in similar situations who resorted to a bureaucratic response when a human reaction was necessary. Carolyn Whiting managed to share information, much of which they already knew, without revealing confidences. Of course, knowing that the probation office was involved, any detail she didn’t supply could be filled in by Oliver Reynolds. She confirmed that Jeremy had arrived on January 12th, been interviewed by the intake officer and assigned to Reflection Cottage. While at Maple Grove, Jeremy had made progress toward earning a GED, and there had been no history of disciplinary problems. On the morning of July 8th the cottage reported him as missing, and the Chester County Juvenile Court was notified.
“If it’s alright with you,” Sharon said, “we’d like to visit Reflection and talk with the cottage parents?”
“I expected as much and made sure they’d be here this morning.”
“Are Kevin and Jill still there?”
“No. The Bakers left earlier this year,” Whiting explained. “You’ll be seeing Al and Gloria Freeman.”
Brad thought Sharon looked disappointed.
Whiting must have sensed it too, since she added, “You’ll like the Freemans. We pride ourselves on being a family here; when one of us is in trouble, we try to help. We’re all hoping that Jeremy is safe.”
As they’d also discussed in advance, Sharon held back any mention of Jeremy’s porn video. Brad figured it was time to change that.
“We share your concern,” Brad began. “Jeremy’s brother recently found images of Jeremy on an adult video.”
“Oh my.” She brought a hand to her chin. “That sounds serious.”
Carolyn Whiting was a cool customer, as they say, but Bra
d thought he saw a spark of recognition in her eyes, like she was connecting the dots between what Brad had just told her and another bit of information she possessed. He likened it to the premonition he got that Beth would give him a surprise 47th birthday party, when a week before, a buddy he usually saw only once a year at the same charity golf tournament signed off a phone call by saying, “See you soon.” She might not appreciate her revelation on the conscious level until later, and he vowed to follow-up.
“Yes,” Brad said, matching her gaze. “As you know, Jeremy just turned eighteen, but with time required to distribute the film, it likely was made when he was underage.”
Whiting looked like the captain of a cruise ship who’d just been informed that half of its passengers had developed food poisoning. As administrator of a facility with more than one hundred teens, being linked to an underage porn scandal was the last thing she needed.
“Let’s walk to the cottage,” Sharon said. “I could use the fresh air.”
“What did you think of Whiting?” Brad asked.
Sharon equivocated. “She’s typical of social workers I’ve known.”
Brad decided not to press the point. He could understand the “Ice Queen” handle Whiting had earned, but preferred to think of her as unflappable, an admirable quality for anyone in command.
Gesturing toward the rolling landscape in front of them, Brad said, “Fill me in on the layout.”
“Reflection is the first cottage we’ll come to.” As they walked along a curved asphalt driveway, Sharon pointed to a large split level ranch covered in beige brick that looked like it dated from the early 60’s. “From here you can see four other cottages, each of them on about three acres of land. Beyond that rise are the rest of the cottages and at the back of the property are a school, a maintenance building, and a food preparation facility.”
“Where’s the maple grove?” Brad asked.
Sharon laughed. “I don’t think there is one. The founder just liked the name.”
Brad found that odd.
As they approached Reflection cottage, there were three paved parking spaces and a red Ford 150 pickup in one of them. The front door of the cottage opened as they neared it, and a petite blonde greeted them. “Welcome to Reflection Cottage. We’ve been expecting you. I’m Gloria Freeman.” They crossed the threshold into a large multi-purpose living/dining space, and Gloria pointed toward her husband saying, “And this is Al. Welcome,” she repeated, as Al waved.
Because of the term cottage “parents” and the rural setting, Brad had expected to meet people closer to the image of Grant Wood’s American Gothic—minus the pitchfork—rather than the young couple that stood before him. They were about the same age as Oliver Reynolds and Derek Young. Brad felt old. Gloria might have stood 5’2” in heels, while Al matched Brad’s 6’ height, with a muscular build and a full head of brown hair.
“Would you like a tour first, or just want to talk?” Gloria asked.
“I think Brad would appreciate seeing the arrangement,” Sharon said, explaining her history and familiarity with the facility.
“Great. I’ll let Al handle the tour, and I’ll put on a fresh pot of coffee.”
Gloria marched left toward the kitchen.
“I’ll give you our deluxe twenty-five cent tour,” Al began. As they walked further into the spacious living room, Brad spied a kid sleeping on one of three oversized sofas lined up theatre-style facing a flat screen TV. “Ah, here’s a new addition to our usual tour.” Al snickered. He nudged the boy’s shoulder. “Wake up.” The boy, about fifteen with a cherubic face, groggily came to life and sat up. He blinked at the visitors. “You should be back in your room, Tony.”
The boy stretched and then rubbed his eyes. “Okay, Al,” he said, and yawned.
Brad noted that he referred to Al by his first name, and watched as the boy shuffled toward the stairs leading to the top floor of the split level unit.
“I just had a déjà vu moment,” Sharon said. “Until you said Tony, he reminded me of a kid I worked with five years ago—Tim Shaw.”
“Tony’s last name is Damico. He wasn’t feeling well this morning, so we let him skip school. But he was supposed to stay in his bedroom.”
Al led them past a group of game tables and on the wall next to the stairs was a two-foot tall crucifix carved from redwood. Brad wasn’t aware of any sectarian connection to the facility and wondered about the prominent religious display. They descended the stairs. On both sides of a hallway was a bedroom, each with three twin beds, dressers, chairs, and checkerboard patterned tile floors. Painted block walls had posters of NASCAR racers and the latest Transformers movie. At the end of the hall they peeked into a bathroom that served the six residents living on that floor. Brad saw a bank of three sinks, a tiled gang shower that reminded him of a freshman college dorm, plus a urinal and two toilet stalls. “The upstairs is laid out exactly the same,” Al explained.
They retraced their steps back through the living room. An extra-long dining table with chairs for fourteen sat adjacent to the kitchen, and Gloria carried a tray of coffee mugs to the table along with cream and sugar and urged them to sit. “Coffee’s almost ready.”
“Our unit is behind the kitchen,” Al said. “It’s fairly modest with a bedroom, bath and sitting area. We only include those rooms on the fifty cent tour.” Gloria gave him a don’t-embarrass-us stare. “Room and board is included, along with our salaries,” he continued. “It’s pretty easy to save money on this job.”
Gloria shuddered. “But we rent an apartment in Boyertown so that we can get away on our days off. A lot of staff stays here all the time; that’s too confining for me. I’d start to feel like one of the residents.”
Brad could appreciate her concern. The place looked “homey” enough if you could get past the concrete block walls, tiled floors, and sprinkler heads poking from the ceiling. There were so many hard surfaces that an institutional echo rang through the space as they talked.
“As you know, we’d like to chat with you about Jeremy Young,” Brad said. “He’s missing, and his family has asked for our help in locating him. In particular, did you observe any changes in his behavior before he ran away in July?”
The coffee pot buzzed.
“I’ll get that,” Al said. “You can fill them in on what we talked about.”
Gloria tapped the table with her index finger as Al got up. “We think something happened when Jeremy went home for the Fourth of July weekend. He’s a good kid. Never caused us a bit of trouble. He was part of the original group we met when we started working here in March. Others had to test us, but Jeremy’s attitude was positive. It was like he’d already decided that he was going to turn his life around. Right now we have ten residents, and room for two more. Five of those were here when we arrived.”
“You’ve had that much turnover?” Brad asked, as Al circulated pouring coffee in their mugs.
“It may sound like a lot,” Gloria said, “but most of these kids don’t spend more than a year. We’ve been here almost six months, so a fifty percent turnover is about average.”
“I’m curious,” Sharon said. “How did you find out about this job?”
“Socialservice.com. I finished my Masters of Social Work last December at the University of Maryland, so I was looking for a full-time job. Al had a job at a Lutheran church in Towson, Maryland, but they wanted a person with a degree, so we knew that we had to make a change.”
“I’m forty credits shy of having my Bachelor’s Degree in Divinity,” Al explained.
“Back to the Fourth of July,” Brad said to refocus the discussion. “You said Jeremy went home. Was there a specific reason?”
“The residents can earn weekend visits home after they’ve spent at least two months here, with court approval, of course,” Gloria added. “Some of the residents have issues,” Gloria made air quotes as she said the word, “with their parents. The home visits give them an opportunity to use the skills we try to te
ach them here, to work on, and hopefully improve, those relationships.”
“Did Jeremy have issues with his mother?” Sharon asked.
“I think that she let him do pretty much what he wanted, and her lack of discipline gave an opening for him to drift into drugs and other delinquent behavior.”
Her description reinforced the way Oliver had outlined the situation.
Brad sipped his coffee. “So what happened after Jeremy returned from that home visit?”
Gloria and Al exchanged silent glances.
Finally, Al offered, “He seemed antsy. That’s the best way I can describe it. Pacing more, like one of us might act when we’re waiting for an important phone call.”
“Did he get any phone calls?” Sharon asked.
“No,” Gloria said. “We have a phone in our suite for our use, or emergency situations. The kids aren’t allowed to have cell phones.”
“Though they’ve been known to smuggle them in as contraband,” Al said. “I specifically remember seeing Jeremy staring out the window for minutes at a time, which he’d never done before.”
“Al and I talked about this after he ran away,” Gloria explained. “You know, trying to grasp at straws and make sense of why he ran away.”
Brad would have to follow up with Jeremy and Derek’s mother, a prospect that had seemed to make Derek uncomfortable.
“We appreciate your time.” Brad stood, and handed each of them his business card. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
“We will,” Gloria said, and Al nodded.
When they reached the parking area in front of the cottage, Sharon sighed. “That was a complete waste of time. We didn’t learn anything.”
Brad was about to argue with her assessment, when they heard a sound above them. They turned to see Tony, the sick kid who’d been on the sofa, leaning out of his bedroom window, tapping on the glass to get their attention.