Long Blue Line: Based on a True Story (29 page)

I returned home and told Derrick all about the visit. I couldn’t help but cry and worry about what would happen. I was so sad that I wasn’t as connected as I had always been with my girls and mad that, in spite of my poor judgment and mistakes, any one would have the right to take that away! I lay on my bed and cried for two hours. The first hour I cried for Chloe and Zoe, knowing that I hurt them and knowing that they must be so incredibly confused. I know that kids always blame themselves, but I hoped that they didn’t ever think that any of this was their fault. The second hour, I cried for our new baby. I cried because I was preparing for the worst, and the reality that CPS might take my baby away from me was a real one. Everything was sinking in and I would be forced to face the pain of it at some point.

Before the Court Hearing for Chloe and Zoe, I wanted answers from the CPS, and I wanted them in person. I was sick of hiding my pregnancy. I wanted to find out if they could tell me what could be done about Chloe and Zoe and what I had to do to get them back with me. I was getting scared and desperate. I wanted it to be clear that I would do whatever it took. The day before the Court Hearing, I walked down the street and crossed the highway. Derrick was working, and he didn’t know what I was doing. I walked into the lobby and asked the receptionist to see if a caseworker could speak with me for a moment. Five minutes later, a short man with dark hair in his fifties called me to the back where his office was. We sat down, and I was shocked at the first thing he said to me.

“When is your due date?” he asked. I made up a date that was a few months off, trying to confuse them and make it difficult for them to plot to hurt me even more. “Look,” I said. “I just need to know what I need to do to keep my parental rights. I will do anything that you ask of me. I would even leave Derrick if I had to. I lost time to do these things when I was arrested, and I need to show to you and the Court that I’m serious about taking care of my daughters and fixing the situation.” “I can’t say with confidence that there is anything I can do for you, Elizabeth. I’ll speak with my supervisor and look into it, but most people who make those decisions already have their minds made up.” He was useless. He didn’t even try to give me the information I needed. He didn’t even act like he cared about anything except trying to be nosey and scribble down notes about my pregnancy. I left after he said he would give me a call later in the week. I knew that he would not. It was all a waste of time, and I was even more worried. I prayed and prayed for God to help me get through this and to allow the Judge to see my progress and desire to fix my life and the lives of my girls. I told God that with me being so pregnant, I didn’t think I could handle losing my babies forever. The night before I had Court, I fell asleep with a bad feeling, and I cried until I started dreaming.

My alarm went off at eight in the morning. Derrick had taken time off work to take me, because he knew that I would need him if everything went bad that day. He was convinced that it would be okay. The few other people that I discussed it with were also sure that it would turn out in my favor - simply because I had completed every possible self-improvement class on the planet! I wanted to believe that it would be okay, but I wasn’t able to get my hopes up.

We drove down the icy highway and managed to find a parking spot only five minutes before the hearing began. We waited in the lobby along with ten other couples that were probably suffering through the same thing that I was. I was surprised when my name was called first. I wanted Derrick to go in with me, but it was a confidential hearing because it involved minors.

The seats were maxed out with what looked like Social Workers, Police employees, and other people wearing badges around their necks. If it’s so private, why the hell does it look like the media is here, I was thinking. I had no clue who they were and wanted them the hell out of the Courtroom. I told my Lawyer this, and she managed to get the Judge to kick half of them out. That was when I noticed that I had never seen the Judge that was currently before me.

I asked my Lawyer where the other Judge was. He had handled my case since the beginning and was actually qualified and knowledgeable enough to make such a huge, not to mention final, decision in my life. “He is sick today so this is a temporary Judge,” she said. She saw the look of frustration and anxiety on my face. “I can’t tell you what is going to happen, but I'll fight to get this postponed, okay? It’s not a promise that I can even do that,” she said. She had that same look of sympathy on her face. She looked like she didn’t even want to be there. The Judge called the case number and had the Recorder document everyone in attendance. Mary was there. When I heard the Attorney for CPS mention this, my heart shattered because I knew what was going to happen.

My Lawyer was fighting as hard as she could even though the circumstances were entirely against me. She mentioned every single accomplishment that I had made since I left jail. This included twelve weeks of parenting classes, thirty days at a rehab facility, six months at an Intensive Daily Outpatient Center, nightly Narcotics Anonymous meetings, counseling sessions, and weekly drug testing. The Probation Department had written a letter stating my compliances, and it seemed that the pile of certificates I quickly obtained would have shown my desperation to be with my children. My Attorney had the Bailiff give the Judge the documented proof.

During the time my Attorney was fighting our case and saying everything possible to delay the hearing, I heard the whispers of the employees of Social Services, the Court, and the CASA workers behind me. To them, I was nothing more than a drug-addicted liar who never was, and never would be, a good or capable mother. Now, it was I who was one of those pathetic women that I used to shake my head at in shame. It was all business to them and the closing of another case that they would be free to shake out of their hair.

When the Judge began to speak, the people behind me became silent and still. The Judge said a few sympathetic words of praise acknowledging the completion of my recovery classes. Not once, though, did his eyes directly meet with mine. I was silently begging him to just look at me, as I held my head up with a determined desperation. I wanted him to look at me, and I wanted God to let him see through me and just give me a fighting chance. When I realized that he was not going to look at me, I dropped my head in defeat.
Please, God, please just give me a chance. I’m so sorry for making so many mistakes and I’m begging for your mercy. Please God - just don’t let this happen.
I silently prayed.

As he was speaking his final ruling, I flashed back to the best days of my life - the days that my girls were born. I endured pain that I was never really prepared for. Their lives depended on this pain. The pain was just as real as they were, which made it painfully beautiful. The moment that I saw their faces and heard their first cry singing into my heart, I knew that I could go through the pain a hundred times over again. Nature pumped endorphins and serotonin through my body, and I was elated with joy. To hold in my arms the most perfect and pure gift that anyone can ever receive is what makes life and all of the pain it can cause, completely meaningful and perfect.

My gifts were about to be taken away forever. I managed to hold onto my dignity as I was hearing the most feared statement of my life, which was being ordered by the Judge, as permanently and painfully as anything could possibly be.

“The State of California and the county of El Dorado are granting the motion to terminate all parental rights of the biological mother, Elizabeth Jeter. The minors, Chloe and Zoe, ages three and four, will remain in the custody of the state until final orders for placement have been determined.” 

The Judge was slamming his stamp down to certify the orders as if it were a signal to the Clerk to hurry through the paperwork and get on to the next, I felt it slamming intensely into my chest. It burned, ached and scarred. I was branded - branded as nothing more than a “birth-mother.” When the stamp from my punishment rose, it stole the flesh of my heart with it. I felt as if they died. They were gone. I would not see them again. I wouldn’t have any more visits, and I wouldn’t know where they were at all times.

Their first cries, smiles, laughs, words, teeth, steps and sweet pieces of artwork brought home to hang on the fridge were gone. I would have to hold on to these memories as tightly as I could because when I would inevitably become broken with pain in the long years ahead, I would no longer have the privilege of holding my daughters for any comfort or to uphold my responsibility of comforting them. Though Zoe was so young that she may not remember me down the road, I held on to the hope, and prayed to God as hard as one can pray, that Chloe would have just
one
first memory of me holding her, laughing with her, and loving her.

Please God, just let her remember how much I love her. Please don’t let her forget. She can tell Zoe the truth when no other will. Please…

Just don’t let her forget…

It was done. I sat with my head in my hands and my face soaked with the consequences of my punishment. I didn’t want to get out of my chair. I just knew that the crowd of big shot Social Workers was gleaming with pleasure. They took joy in my pain. I wondered if Mary did too. I didn’t want to believe that it was over and there was nothing else that I could do. My Lawyer reached over to lightly rub my back in sympathy. I looked up at her and thanked her for the fight. As I hesitantly turned toward the isle leading to the exit, I kept my head down, not wanting to give my audience any more gratification from seeing my tears. I slightly glanced up to the left, and for a split second, I made eye contact with the woman who was taking my babies home with her to be their new mother. The only thing I hoped to accomplish through this brief exchange of eye contact was to etch into her mind for the rest of her life the broken soul that I became from losing my daughters on that sad day in 2007. I wanted her to always be hesitant to say any negative words to my Chloe and Zoe as they grew older. I wanted her to see my true tie to them, induced by instinct and nature, which we would always share - in spite of all the orders, separation and words. According to me, and even more importantly God, Chloe and Zoe were my children. Not hers.

A woman I had never been introduced to that was in charge of the Family Drug Court followed me out of the Courtroom and stopped me to offer a hug.

“Sometimes, the hardest thing in life is allowing one’s self to let go. I’m so sorry for your pain.
”

Out of an entire community made up of Counselors, Social Workers, Probation Officers, Attorneys, Law Enforcement, teachers and every citizen who had a role with the objective to help those in need, Olga was the only one who showed me true compassion. She thought I was worthy of comfort, and her hug may have been the tiny spark that kept my flame of hope and faith ignited - as it would soon be blown away…. again.

As I sit here in reflection and ending this chapter with tears in my eyes, I am grateful to see the beauty in this pain that now has purpose. I do not have tears from reliving the devastating experience. Today I have tears from feeling the tremendous joy in knowing that humanity is capable of empathy, compassion, and forgiveness. If only we could all be more like Olga.

I will always love and miss my little girls, and I still hold onto the hope that one day we will be united again.

“
My name is Elizabeth…and I am an addict
.” I was sitting on an old run down couch in a musty room at a local church. I knew that if I were to have any chance at all to keep my new baby, I had to surrender and succumb to this new identity. I was a self-proclaimed drug addict. Deep down, I knew that wasn’t the real me.

I hadn’t used any substance for about ten months. I stopped the self-destruction about two weeks before I found out that I was pregnant for the third time. Whenever I put anything into my body, whether it was alcohol or drugs, I knew that I was allowing myself to be the bad mother that they all had named me to be. I knew that I was disrespecting my daughters. Getting back together with Derrick, not to mention becoming pregnant with his child, was the ultimate disrespect. It was the ultimate disrespect towards my family, my daughters and to myself. I was surprised to discover that I was pregnant. My mind and body had been through such shock and tragedy that you would think Mother Nature surely would have know better - even if I didn’t.

A few weeks away from my due date, I spent my days obsessively researching the law and what I could do to beat it. I spent my nights lying in bed crying because I was afraid for my unborn baby. My future was completely uncertain. My life didn’t have any direction or stability. I told this to the small group of women at the Narcotics Anonymous meeting. I saw the look of compassion in their eyes. At least they took me for who I was regardless of my circumstances. I was sure that they’d probably heard it all.

I woke up one morning and just couldn’t handle any more uncertainty or anxiety. Derrick was working so I didn’t have our only car. If I could get just one answer it would be worth it. I put on my extra large light brown fuzzy coat and started walking toward the highway. It was about a fifteen-minute walk from where I lived.  It was cold and snowy, and I had to take extra care not to slip on the black ice. When I walked into the waiting area, I became sad as I was reminded of the heartbreaking visits I had with Chloe and Zoe. The vision of Chloe racing to put her jacket on so she could leave with me will never leave my mind. “Mommy! I want to go in YOUR CAR!” she cried. She had pure fear and desperation written on her face and a deep sadness in her watering eyes. I had no way to soothe or comfort her. The Social Worker was rushing me to leave and claiming that I was “just making it worse.” “Do you have no soul?” I asked the merciless, red headed woman. “You’re making them cry. It’s time to go now,” she coldly replied.

All of this flashed back to me as if it were happening in the moment. Most of these Social Workers behaved as if they had no feelings and didn’t have any children of their own. Their lack of understanding and compassion, along with their deliberate lies and fabricated reports, ripped my family apart. As I spoke with more and more parents through my classes and meetings, I came to realize that there was a serious problem within the CPS organization. A woman who was only a few years older than me had permanently lost her 5 and 6-year-old daughters to the system. Ironically, they allowed her to keep custody of her newborn baby boy. I did not understand how or why this selective separation was taking place. If a mother is deemed fit to care for one child, then it seems she certainly should be fit to care for all her children. I do realize, however, that I did not know all the facts. I hoped that they would allow me to keep my baby.

I walked down to the Social Services office for two reasons. I wanted to see if there was anything else that I could do to have one more chance to get my girls back - even if it meant leaving Derrick. The other reason, which I deliberately would not bring to the surface, was to find out if they knew that I was pregnant and if so, what their plans were. I wanted to find out if they would offer me services again. If they mentioned my pregnancy, I fully intended to beg them to give me the Court-ordered list of improvements I would need to make. I wanted to get this done before my baby was born to prevent them from taking my baby.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist kindly asked. For the most part the women at the front desk were always nice to me. “Yes, I just want to find out if I can talk to one of the caseworkers who was in charge of my recently closed case.” The woman dialed an extension behind the glass window and had me take a seat. I was out of breath and trying to carry myself in a confident manner. It was just impossible. I couldn’t even pretend. Finally, a short man opened the door and called my name. He didn’t smile as I approached, and he stayed quiet and cold. He led me down the hallway and into his office. I thought it was strange that a man in his late 50’s had an office overflowing with toys and stuffed animals and cartoons all over the walls - yet he was such an ass at the same time. Maybe he needed the extra distraction in his office to avoid scaring little kids to tears. I was almost scared to tears.

“How are you Elizabeth?” he nonchalantly asked. He really could care less. “Your caseworker is on vacation for two weeks, and I’m taking on her responsibilities until she returns.”
Great
, I thought. As soon as he mentioned this, I knew there wasn’t any hope. There was a very small chance to appeal my case, and I knew that there was nothing else I could do. This man would have no mercy. “I just wanted to see if there is any way at all to appeal the decision of the Court. I’ll do anything for a chance to prove myself. I’ll leave Derrick if that’s what it takes. I’ve completed my 6-week intensive outpatient treatment, parenting classes, voluntary drug testing, anger management, everything I’ve been able to think of. I can’t stand the thought of never seeing my daughters again, and it’s taken a while for the seriousness of everything to sink in. I think I’ve just been in shock.” Before I could say another word he interrupted me. “Like I said, your caseworker is on vacation. I have no say in any of this, and all I can do is leave her a message.” My heart sank to my stomach. This man wasn’t about to answer any of my questions or offer any kind of hope. Before I could respond to him he quickly added, “So when is your due date?”

The familiar adrenaline rush of fear pumped through my body and I became weak. I had to think fast. This was a clear indication that he was going to take note of my due date and file for state custody. I lied. “It’s in March,” I simply replied. Maybe it would buy me enough time to have my baby before the hospital got the memo.
Just maybe they’ll forget about me and let me move on with my life,
I silently wished. “Are you planning on taking this baby too? Can you offer me services so that doesn’t happen?” I pleaded. “Well we can’t offer services for something that doesn’t even exist yet,” he sarcastically replied.
Does he really think my baby doesn’t exist yet
, I thought. His response confirmed his lack of compassion for human life – especially babies. There couldn’t be a worse person than him to do this job. After getting nowhere and ultimately making things more difficult and possibly even setting myself up, I left and started the walk back home.

“Well, he didn’t say they were taking the baby, right?” Derrick asked. “Of course not. They’re not going to tell me something like that!” I fired back. “Don’t they have to tell you if there is an open case or a pending case?” he asked. “I don’t know, but I don’t have a good feeling.” I curled up in bed and tried to be strong and stop the tears. I was so sad. I was sad because I hadn’t even met my baby yet, and I just knew there was going to be trouble. “Don’t worry Elizabeth. They won’t take her. I won’t let them. If we have to, we’ll get my parents involved. They’ll get a Lawyer if it comes down to it. We’re not going to let them take our baby away.” He had that believable and convincing tone that I always believed and trusted. It was much easier to just believe him and focus on getting through the rest of the pregnancy. I knew that this baby was a fighter. This baby went through grief and jail and rehab with me and then lost Chloe and Zoe with me. I knew that my baby had to have felt my pain. My new goal was to bring this baby into the world and offer him or her a life that was safe, quiet, happy and peaceful. I was going to offer this baby all that I had failed to offer Chloe and Zoe. I wanted so much to do this right.

Even though I failed so miserably, I still held on to hope. If I didn’t at least have hope, I would have nothing. Hope gave me a reason to live. The dreams I had of coming out on top of everything helped me trudge through the mud every day - and it sure as hell was muddy. I remember how attached I became to country music and the lyrics. The songs were always about real people with real problems and heartache.