I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate (4 page)

When I accepted the Ryan case more than a year after the training and after having worked intensively as a guardian, I felt more secure in my role, and yet nothing I had been taught or learned in the field had prepared me for a confrontation with people who mistrusted me because I did not share their belief system.

The Tabernacle Home for Girls was set on the banks of a quiet curve in a meandering river that fed into the Gulf of Mexico. Directions took me through a pine forest, past live oaks draped in Spanish moss, down a bumpy dirt lane, to an old colonial house that had been recently repainted. A shiny van with the home’s name on the side was in the driveway. I entered through the door marked OFFICE and met Marjorie Hoffman, a heavyset woman dressed entirely in white. The small room held two desks, a new computer system with a laser printer, a copy machine, and a small library. Every surface gleamed and materials were stacked in tidy piles. A girl knocked at the door and her request was dealt with. She was wearing a loose plaid pinafore hemmed at mid-calf. Her long hair was pulled back with a matching ribbon and her freshly scrubbed face was devoid of makeup. In her hands she clasped a Bible, and when she replied to Marjorie, she looked down and said, “Yes, ma’am,” then backed away.

“That’s Tiffany,” Marjorie explained. “She came to us six months ago after living for more than a year on the streets. She’s one of our success stories,” Marjorie continued as she ushered me into Mrs. Shaw’s private office. This room overlooking the cove had been recently redecorated in pinks and blues, with oriental prints, silk flowers, and a couch with embroidered throw pillows.

After a few introductory remarks, Marjorie left me alone with Alice Shaw. Mrs. Shaw, in a tailored teal suit, silk blouse, and stockings, was formally dressed for Florida on a sizzling day.

“I had heard that this was a lovely facility,” I commented, “but it is even nicer than I imagined.”

“Then you probably know that we are all volunteers. We receive no compensation nor do we accept any state or federal funding. We survive on the generous donations from Christians, who believe in our work, and therefore we are free to run our program without any governmental interference.” She stared at me challengingly.

“Tell me about Lydia. How long has she been here?”

Mrs. Shaw pointed to the file on my lap. “That must be in your paperwork.”

“I know it was in June, but not the exact date or how she came here.”

“Because of confidentiality rules I really cannot be that specific.”

“I apologize for not giving you this sooner,” I said, fumbling for a copy of my court order. “Guardians are privy to all records on a child.” I handed her the document and read the pertinent sentence. “ ‘Upon presentation of this Order to any agency, hospital, organization, school, person or office … Lillian Elliott, Gay Courter, and the Circuit Director are hereby authorized to inspect and/or copy, any records relating to the above-named child without consent of said child and parents of said child and records relating to her parents including any drug/alcohol records and any routine progress reports relating to therapeutic goals, without any further consent of any party to this action.’ “

Alice Shaw held the paper as though she found it distasteful. “My husband will have to study this.”

My patience was waning, but I tried another tack. “I’m very interested in learning more about your mission.”

Mrs. Shaw allowed herself a small smile. “Currently we have five girls in our program. We have a rigorous approach that works because it offers the girls discipline for the first time in their lives. Initially a girl like Lydia is shown how to ask Jesus to forgive her sins and to accept him as her personal savior. Then she is introduced to the scriptures and learns how the Lord’s word impacts on every aspect of her daily life.”

“What sort of routine do they have?”

“We wake them at five-thirty in the morning and they are in bed by nine-thirty in the evening. Every moment is accounted for with Bible study, exercise, and one hour of chores.”

“What about school?”

“They receive a religious education.”

“What about regular schooling?”

“It takes a year before the girls are ready to accept anything besides the teachings of Christ. At the proper time they will be tested to see where they are in school, and then an individualized program is designed. Since the longest anyone has been with us is nine months, we are not teaching school yet.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“These girls have already dropped out of school, so we are listed as a remedial, therapeutic facility preparing their minds and hearts to accept and appreciate an education when the time comes.”

“Why does everyone have to lose an entire year?”

“We do not deviate from a well-established program that works.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“At this home, only eleven months, but it is based on a national program called Teen Crisis Care.”

“Is there any counseling?”

“The entire program is one of spiritual training, but we do have a Christian therapist who works with us.”

“A psychologist?”

“She is trained by the church.” Mrs. Shaw shook her head like a teacher annoyed with a slow student.

“How is Lydia adjusting?”

“Extremely well considering everything she has done.”

“Actually, the records I have are somewhat confusing as to exactly what it is she did.”

“In what way?” Alice Shaw asked in a helpful tone.

“Well, this business with the microwave oven for one. Was it her sister she injured?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what did happen?”

“We’re aware that Lydia, like most of these girls, lies and cheats and manipulates to make herself sound better, but her mother has corroborated these facts. Lydia’s boyfriend came over when the Ryans were not home. Her sister warned that if Lydia wouldn’t let her do something she was not supposed to do, she would tattle to their parents. Lydia’s boyfriend then threatened the sister that he would ‘cut her up in pieces and put her in a microwave oven’ if she called her mother. The poor child was so frightened she ran to a neighbor and the police were called.”

“That’s why Lydia spent three months in juvenile detention?”

“Lydia did not protect the child who had been left in her care.”

“What happened to the boy?”

“His parents got him off, but the Ryans wanted Lydia to learn her lesson once and for all.”

“What had she done to deserve a jail sentence?”

“Let me just say that she was no darling angel.”

Two more girls in plaid pinafores strolled by the window. I asked, “May I see Lydia now?”

“Lydia does not have visitor privileges yet.”

“I’m not a visitor. I am her court-appointed guardian and I have been directed by the judge to see her,” I replied softly, but forcefully.

“We cannot make an exception. Before the girls can learn constructive ways to manage their lives, they must be isolated from the old destructive influences. For their own protection they have no money, receive no mail or phone calls. Nor do we allow any contact with the outside world, and they only see their parents once a month under supervised conditions.”

“But I need to see Lydia so I can make an official report on her welfare.”

“Unfortunately the other girls would not be able to separate a guardian visit from other special attention. Besides, Lydia’s HRS worker is satisfied that she is under good care. As you can see, this is a safe, hygienic facility.”

“I don’t work for HRS, and as congenial as this home appears, I need to know how Lydia feels about living here.”

“That’s precisely why you cannot see her. Lydia could say anything, tell all sorts of tales to get released. She is a chronic runaway who escaped from her last shelter placement, and if she leaves here, she will be remanded to the juvenile delinquency center.”

“I understand your point of view,” I tried again, “but maybe I can explain it another way. Let’s say Lydia was in a foster home, but the foster parents would not permit the Guardian ad Litem to visit. Might you not think they had something to hide? If I don’t talk with her, I won’t be able to attest to the fact that everything is fine.”

“Just look around,” Alice Shaw gestured. “Does this look like an abusive home?”

“Not at all,” I allowed, “but I still need to see Lydia, and this court order gives me access to her.”

“We won’t be bullied by the court when we know we are right,” Mrs. Shaw said, rising. Then she turned and gave a thin smile. “However, because you have gone out of your way to visit Lydia, and Marjorie may not have prepared you for our rules, I will arrange for you to meet with her briefly. Since she is legally our responsibility, I cannot grant you an unsupervised visit.”

I was taken aback. Only known abusers were ever subjected to supervision when visiting a child. Seeing my offense, Mrs. Shaw’s voice became honey-smooth. “Believe me, I am thinking of your protection as much as our own. These girls will do anything to get their way, even if it means unfairly accusing someone of improprieties. This is a delicate time because while Lydia has taken Jesus into her heart, she does not yet have the strength to fight off her demons.”

Alice Shaw took some keys from her desk drawer. “One more thing. At this stage it is unhealthy for someone as fragile as Lydia to dredge up her past. Girls in this phase are filled with negative thinking that has to be erased. I am sure you know that the glass is better half-full than half-empty. We are teaching our girls to look at every day as a fresh start. I trust you won’t violate this.”

“I am here to introduce myself, to explain my role and, if she is amenable, to ask her a few questions so I can better understand her present situation.”

“Yes, well …,” she murmured distractedly. Then she made eye contact with me. “Please consider that she is in a strictly controlled program and we can’t confuse her by having her new values compromised by another counselor with a different set of doctrines.”

“Guardians are not counselors, however we do try to be certain that our children are receiving every necessary service.”

I watched Alice Shaw purse her lips with disapproval. “Are you suggesting that we might not be taking adequate care of her?”

I resented having my words twisted to put me on the defensive. I took a deep breath and continued. “No matter what Lydia has done, or what facility she lives in, she is still an American citizen with legal rights, just as even convicted criminals have rights. And one of her rights is to speak freely to her appointed Guardian ad Litem. I will abide by your rules now, and since this situation is different than any I have encountered, I will see her without demanding privacy. But because this goes against my directives as well as the Guardian ad Litem guidelines, I will have to check with my supervisor about whether or not I will be required to speak with Lydia alone next time.”

“When might you wish to return?”

“In a week or so, or sooner if Lydia wishes.”

“Our rules say visitors cannot come more often than once a month.”

“Why don’t we discuss that later? Right now I am anxious to meet Lydia.”

Alice Shaw opened her mouth, then decided against further comment. She went into Marjorie’s office and asked her to locate Lydia. In the meantime she gave me a tour of the downstairs, unlocking the chapel, the dining room, and well-equipped kitchen. “There are no sodas, candy, cakes or other sweets permitted because we must detoxify the children from their dependence on refined sugars and drugs.”

Here was something with which I could wholeheartedly agree, and we talked about nutrition until Lydia was led into the empty classroom.

Lydia stared at her feet until she was introduced, then looked at me as though she were going to have to undergo an upsetting medical procedure.

“Hi,” I said but did not approach her or offer my hand.

If Mrs. Shaw had said anything accurate about Lydia, the word “fragile” certainly described her. I had been expecting a tough cookie, a girl who could bully her sister and seem a real threat to her younger siblings, someone who needed a few months in jail to soften her hardened nature. But Lydia was a delicate, fine-boned young woman with streaky strawberry blonde hair and huge light-brown expressive eyes. She was dressed in a plaid pinafore with pink knit shirt, red socks, immaculate white sneakers. Lydia returned my smile with one of her own that seemed to slip out unexpectedly.

“This is Miss Gay,” Marjorie said, then handed her a Bible to hold during the meeting. The counselor pulled out a chair from one of the student study carrels. “Why don’t you sit here,” she said to me. “I’m very busy so I won’t be able to stay with you.” With her chin she indicated Mrs. Shaw’s office and her expression seemed to conspire with me slightly. I was certain this was with Mrs. Shaw’s knowledge and felt they were playing some version of good cop/bad cop. “But I’ll be in and out,” she said, and went to the other side of the partition where we could not see her, though if she hovered nearby, she could hear us.

I introduced myself to Lydia as her Guardian ad Litem. “Have you ever heard of that before?”

“I’ve been in lots of programs and am used to all sorts of people messing with me so what difference does one more make?” she said without masking her irritation.

“What sorts of people?”

“You know, HRS people, public defenders, police, social workers, therapists. They all want to
help
me, but now that I have been saved I know that only Jesus can do that.” Lydia’s eyes shone with conviction.

“Jesus must be making a big difference in your life,” I said softly. “I also can understand that I must look like one more in a long line of people you would rather not meet, but I’m different.”

“Like how?”

“First, I will be here for you until you are eighteen, no matter where you live, even if you run away again or go back to the juvenile detention center.”

“I’m not running away or going back to JDC ever again!”

“Good. But no matter what you do, I will still try to help you.” I handed her my card with the GAL office numbers, told her how to place a collect call.