Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new)

by Jeanne D'Olivier

  I knew we were already over a year out of time, but in certain cases they will allow Judgments to be appealed especially where the outcome affects the life of a child. This was certainly the case in our situation and I repeatedly begged them, to at the very least, try. I felt we had nothing to lose by doing so and a great deal to gain. For some reason Brian and Philip refused to take this instruction, taking the view that it would prejudice the Family Court Judge against me and make him more likely to grant a Residency Order in R’s favour. I remained adamant that it was the only way we could prevent this outcome and both my father and I already regretted that we had not pushed our first Advocate to do this when he had the chance. There were clearly strong grounds for appeal and when Philip had first come on the case, he had been resolved to do this. For some reason he then changed his mind and I suspect the reason was Brian.

  I had always been concerned about Brian’s prior relationship with the advocate who represented the Guardian Ad Litem in our case. This same man was a personal friend of the Judge, was seen drinking with him regularly and had come out of the same solicitor's office. He had also been the one to make the first recommendation in Court, that M be removed from me and an Interim Care Order be made. This he made, before the second day of the Fact Finding Hearing had even taken place, firmly nailing his flag to R's mast in doing so.

  Despite the fact that he and Kirk had some history and had worked in the same region in the UK, Brian always swore blind that this had no affect on his thinking or his desire to win the case - but it had seemed suspicious that as soon as Kirk had discovered that Brian was representing me, he immediately rang him up for a chat and I often wondered about the behind-closed-doors meetings at the Court, to which I had not been party. I had a hunch that Brian was got at, early on, though I could never prove it. At the very least, I believe he agreed to conform with the party line and then persuaded Philip to do the same. Sadly this happens in a lot of family cases. It is rare to find barristers or solicitors who will really fight the system. They see their duty as to the Court first and the client second - probably because their future income relies so heavily on the favour of Judges.

  That day, Jeremy, the junior solicitor, had no words of comfort to offer. I gave him my usual instruction “appeal the Fact Finding” but it fell on deaf ears. He had no sway with Brian or Philip and whilst he diligently wrote down my instruction, I knew it was an aimless exercise. Two weeks from the Welfare Hearing that would decide M’s future – who was going to have the courage to throw a very heavy spanner in the works? But along with my obvious need to ensure M's future safety, there was another reason I had wanted to take this tack - a live appeal would hold up the ultimate decision. One might say that would keep my son in foster care longer and whilst that certainly wasn't ideal for him, at least he was safe from a childhood of sexual abuse and he would still get contact with me and my father.

  I suspected and would later discover from Social Worker notes, that M was heavily persuaded that his only way out of Foster Care was to agree to live with his father. I couldn't put M's chilling words to the psychologist out of my mind - "I hope Daddy won't do it again." They knew the truth and yet they were determined to sweep it under the carpet, cover their own failings and wrong decisions and comply with whatever corruption lay behind this travesty and tragedy called Justice.

  Jeremy was a Job’s comforter. He felt, as I did, that without taking my proposed step, it was inevitable now that R would gain residency and that nothing could be done without rocking the boat, which the senior lawyers refused to do. I could not bear to hear this, brutally unjust at best and at worst sentencing M to a childhood of long-term sexual abuse..

  I wondered if Brian and Kirk, the Guardian’s advocate, made some kind of pact early on? Was this just desperation setting in and a deep distrust of all involved? I would never be able to answer that. But one thing was for sure, Kirk made me think of the infamous line from Julius Caesar, “Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look...such men are dangerous.” I was certain of one thing at least - Kirk was extremely dangerous in his connection to the Judge, his apparent misogynistic attitude towards women – (three ex-wives and counting) and his blatant bias in favour of R gaining residence. He had supported him all the way and levied all manner of criticisms on me – from the sublime to the ridiculous – including my being a writer – insisting this demonstrated that I made things up, suggesting too that having been to Drama School in my late teens, I was a good actress in Court and duplicitous. He even suggested that M could have read my books which had some adult humour in them.

  M was five when he first made allegations and could barely read at all at that time. It was difficult to interest him in books with pictures of animals and Bob the Builder back then. There was no way that M could have read even one sentence of any grown up novel and they might as well have accused me of letting him read the Times or the Guardian. But anything and everything was conjured up by this terrible man to defame, denigrate and blacken my name. That was the real fiction that was perpetrated in this madness. My harmless fictional novels, an attempt to earn a living around the needs of M, were no better or worse than having a Jilly Cooper on your bookshelf or any other currently popular writer. There was worse in the Daily paper and on the news than had ever graced any of my pages of my fiction.

  I had got the measure of Kirk from the start. He was a tall, wiry man with a goatie beard who always closed his eyes when spoke. He had the look of a character out of a Victorian novel and might easily have passed as a latter-day Lytton Strachey but I do not wish to romanticise someone who was so inherently evil and vitriolic. There was nothing appealing about this man whatsoever and the Guardian himself was no better - a small, bearded, gnome who sported a cape and Panama hat. Had the situation not been so tragic, they could easily have been the type of characters who I would have enjoyed satirising but in this situation there was nothing that could be amusing on any level. It was deep, dark, piercing evil of the worst and cruellest kind being packaged and labelled, “best interests of the child.”

  Jeremy handed me the final report of the Guardian Ad Litem. He suggested I go through it and make notes for Brian and Philip. He also had files of both my and R’s evidence including some witness statements. I took them away with a heavy heart, already knowing that the Guardian’s recommendation would be for a Residency Order in R’s favour and a report based on a fabric of lies concocted to paint me in the worst possible light.

  This same man, who had sat across from me at my home only weeks earlier saying he supported shared care, was now, contradicting this view entirely and recommending contact between M and I, supervised for one hour every six weeks. As I read his report with a heavy heart, I suspected he hoped that if the Judge ruled so little, I would not bother to fly from the Island to the UK to take it up and they could sever the bond between M and myself. They should have known that I would have flown to the ends of the earth to see him for five minutes. Nothing would keep me from my son, but I hoped that even the Judge would not be so cruel as to award me such paltry contact with my son.

  I was not considered any danger to M and there was nothing to warrant keeping me from him, except, of course, my temporary incarceration but I was still hopeful that Philip could get me out sooner and astonishing as it may seem, I felt I had more hope of release than of keeping my son at that point. To say the Criminal Courts were fairer was an understatement. For whilst my sentence and conviction was anything but fair, at least things had been judged on the burden of proof and not the balance of probabilities and that did give one a better chance of getting something close to justice.

  I knew we had strong grounds of appeal because the Judge had led the jury and not allowed us to put evidence before them that would have supported my defence of necessity. He had told them to accept the Fact Finding Judgment without question when we should have been allowed to call those who appeared at the hearing, in order that we could show it as flawed. What is more he had acted mor
e like a Prosecutor, than a Judge, many times during my trial and I knew that Philip intended to play excerpts of him cross-examining me to demonstrate this. If I could get bailed, at least I could properly prepare my case for the Family Court, but with so little time to spare, it seemed unlikely to happen before we began the Welfare Hearing.

  Kirk had done the job of R’s advocate at the Fact Finding in protecting R from being found guilty of child abuse. He had been far more brutal in his questioning of me than R’s lawyer had been, something, I found rather remarkable given that he was supposed to represent M’s wishes and M would certainly not have wished his mummy to go to jail.

  It was also telling that at the Fact Finding R had only been questioned for two hours, even though he was the one, in effect, on trial and yet I, an innocent loving mum who had taken the responsible action of going to the authorities when my son disclosed to me, was on the stand for eight and a half weary hours. I had a chest infection at the time and had to ask for a break to use my asthma inhaler. The Judge had reluctantly allowed me a meagre, five minutes.

  Kirk was certainly a slippery customer. I believed he had tried to capitalize on knowing my solicitor right from the start and had given him a false sense of what could be achieved if I agreed to let R off the hook and say I had coached my son and was thus guilty of emotional abuse.

  I was not prepared to perjure myself whatever carrots they dangled before me. I knew that I had never coached or emotionally abused M in any way and I also knew that Kirk with his close connection to the Judge, could not be trusted to stand by anything he said. It would merely be a trap to ensure I never saw M again. I was not prepared to betray M or myself by selling my soul to the devil and collaborating with the abundance of lies and corruption.

  I was repeatedly impressed upon by Brian to say that I had influenced my son and wouldn't do it again, as he tried to convince me that that would give me the best chance of keeping custody. Had I taken the bait, not only would this have been a lie, but the Guardian would have said, I'd made an admission. This would have strengthened their case against me and the consequences would be catastrophic. One thing I adamantly refused to do was barter with my own integrity or that of my son.

  I believed firmly that our only hope of success was in appealing the Fact Finding Judgment and it frustrated me constantly that none of my legal team would listen to my one clear instruction but it was far too late to change horses now and replace them with new lawyers who might do the one thing I felt had any chance of stopping a runaway train in its tracks.

  Phillip believed that it was already too late and any Application would not be allowed. However, I have since learned that there is no estoppel issue in family cases and in lay man terms that means that a Judgment can be appealed out of time when it is in the best interests of a child. Surely there could be no stronger reason than protecting R from child abuse. I thought we had to try, even if we were rejected on the grounds of lateness - as the only way of protecting M from the horrors that lay ahead of him otherwise.

  With only one report in our favour, that of the most recent Clinical Psychologist, and that one only partially so, we were in the middle of an army all closing ranks around us. From my current position of incarceration, there was so little that I could do.

  All my legal team had to do was to send their junior as a way of avoiding being given direct instruction and I began to feel more and more helpless. Nonetheless, that night in my cell, I went through every line of the Guardian’s report making notes - every criticism and every word, a knife through my heart, nonetheless, I steeled myself to sit up all night and attempt to point out its flaws. Without access to files, my laptop or any of my evidence, all I could do was make comments from what I knew to be true and try to remember where the evidence was amongst the growing number of files that had accumulated on our case in Bleak House fashion. We could have given Jarndyce and Jarndyce a run for their money.

  In reading his words, the Guardian’s pretence at wanting shared care, was now so clearly revealed as a rouse to try to get me to withdraw any allegations against R's father and let the Court off the hook. Having refused to take the bait, I was suffering from the full force of his wrath.

  The Judge, the Department’s lawyer and the Guardian’s lawyer had all come out of the same law firm and knew each other intimately. R’s lawyer had worked in the Attorney General’s office, the brother of the Family Court Judge. The incestuous nature of all of this was not helping our cause. One big closed shop unit controlled everything - if one added Freemasonry into the mix, this made for a completely impenetrable wall..

  I at last saw M, two weeks after I was incarcerated. Despite the obvious conflict that she had given evidence against me in the criminal trial, he was accompanied by Miss Whiplash and Nanny McPhee. Certainly neither could be considered child-friendly and the guards in prison had a more amiable manner than either of M’s jailors.

  They entered silently, whilst M ran towards me into my arms yelling “Mummy” delightedly. He then sat down in a plastic chair and looked around nervously taking in his surroundings. We now had three people supervising – the two Social Workers and the prison guard. They all went to the drinks machine and bought themselves coffee without offering anything to M. I was not allowed to have cash in jail so couldn’t offer him anything either. He had come straight from school and had had an hour long journey to get there. I stuck my neck out in the end and asked them to buy him an orange juice from the machine. They gave him enough money only for some water and did so reluctantly. Nanny Mac and Miss W sat chatting to each other – often in muted tones – whilst glaring at me, no doubt spreading more of their malicious lies to the prison warden who, up until then had been quite friendly, but I suspected ran with both the hare and the hounds. It was a product of my experience that I no longer trusted anyone and as far as I was concerned they were guilty until proven innocent, as I had been.

  M was chatty, asking lots of questions about prison life. He told me again how his father had shown him pictures of the prison on the internet and when the Deputy Governor walked through the visitor’s room he was able to identify him immediately. I hated the fact that he had so much insight into my situation at just eight years old.

  He told me that he had recently attended the Looked After Children’s Review meeting and had been accompanied by his father. With a pang of anger, I realised that they had all met to decide M’s future without me having a voice at all or even being sent a form to offer my views. They had not even afforded me the opportunity to send a representative, such as my lawyer or my father to the meeting. They had clearly already made up their minds to exclude me and I felt the all too familiar heavy grip of fear in my stomach.

  M looked as if he hadn’t been sleeping and had dark circles under his eyes. I longed to take him in my arms and tell him he would be coming home to Mummy soon, but the cold reality was that he was likely to be going to his father.

  There were no toys in the visitor’s room, other than a few designed more for babies and toddlers and M was not allowed to bring anything into prison. He was uncomplaining and after his drink, he sat on my knee on the floor, longing for the closeness that we both craved as we attempted to play a memory card matching game, suitable for a much younger child. It didn't matter to M what we did, he relished every second we had together as I did and the minutes ticked by all too quickly.

  M wanted to give me his empty drinks bottle to use in the gym for water. This was not allowed, however, which seemed ridiculously harsh and M asked why. I told him “It’s just the rules sweetheart.” How could I explain to an eight year old that he could not give his mummy a harmless plastic bottle? I tried to reassure him that I was fine and that life in jail was not too bad and hoped with all my heart, that he wouldn’t see the reality behind my forced smile. I wanted to yell; “This is all wrong. How dare you destroy my family?” to the two Social Workers who sat head to head, no doubt revelling in my suffering. I tried to keep what dignity I could
by not letting my pain show and being as natural as possible with M.

  M continued “at least the decision will be made in two week’s Mummy.” I realised someone had already discussed this with him. He quickly added, “that’s good isn’t it." I nodded and said, “yes,” but in reality I knew it may be the end of my involvement in his life and there was nothing good in that. I desperately wanted to tell him to stop co-operating with them and to assert his wish to come home, but could say nothing. My contact with M would have been stopped instantaneously had I said anything at all that undermined their plans.

  M was completely ignorant to the dangers that lay in his future and the fact that the Court, Department, Guardian and his father all wanted to push my father and I out of his life. Had he known this then, I am sure he would have protested vehemently but he was labouring under the illusion that even if he did go to R, his father would let him see me on a regular basis and that would be preferable to the supervised contact we had endured for eighteen months now and staying in foster care where he was deeply unhappy.

  When five O'clock came, M and I had our final hug. I was afraid that with so little and such regimented contact, he might shut down in showing his feelings, but he was as loving towards me as he had always been. He clung tightly to me and I held him close – pushing back the tears that threatened to come. “I love you the world and back Mummy,” he said and I responded, “I love you the world and back too,” as we always had before we went to sleep each night. Now we were apart, but in our hearts and minds we were still together.