I Speak For This Child: True Stories of a Child Advocate (37 page)

Tammy had been bitterly disappointed. “If we’d known this ahead of time, they could have spent the whole summer with me.”

I had commiserated with Tammy, and told her that we would work something out as soon as possible. I made no promises though. The new school year was in full swing and the trial was definitely going to begin the following week. I felt as if we were drifting in a hot-air balloon. The wind seemed to be blowing constant in the direction of Red Stevenson’s guilt, but until the verdict was in, we would have no idea of our final destination.

4
Shampooman and Lollipop
The Stevenson Trial

But the hearts of small children are delicate organs. A cruel beginning in this world can twist them into curious shapes.

—
CARSON MCCULLERS

W
HAT DO YOU THINK IS GOING TO HAPPEN
?” R
UTH
L
EVY
had asked me as we looked over the clothes she had bought for Alicia to wear in court.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never attended a criminal trial before, but Grace Chandler thinks she has a strong case. However, she warned me that the only thing that is predictable is that everything is unpredictable.”

“What worries her the most?” Ruth wondered.

“She isn’t certain how the children will react during testimony and cross-examination, whether Red Stevenson will take the stand in his own defense, and especially how the jury will perceive a teenage girl accusing her father of incest.”

“She doesn’t think Alicia will be credible?”

“She’s mainly concerned about the first time Alicia had intercourse with her father in the bathroom of the marine shop.”

“That worries me too,” Ruth said.

“Grace has a different concern. She thinks that bathroom sounds like one in a home, not a mechanic’s shop. She’s afraid Walt Hilliard is going to make it seem as if Alicia were confusing the location of the rape, or worse, that she has made up the whole incident.”

“Do you agree with her, Gay?”

“Every time Alicia’s told that story all the details have been consistent,” I said, but I was worried because Grace and Ruth were not persuaded.

Then there was a curious coincidence.

One of my son’s friends, Shane, needed a ride home from an after-school activity. I was going in that direction and volunteered. I phoned his mother, who asked if I could drop him at his stepfather’s upholstery shop, which specialized in boat cushions, canvas awnings, and sails. As Shane gave me directions, I felt as though I had heard them before. “It’s behind North Main. After you cross the railroad bridge, you make the first left turn before the underpass.”

When I saw the building with garage doors on both ends and a boat on a trailer in the yard, I asked,” How long has your father had this shop?”

“About a year.”

I pulled into the parking lot. “What occupied it before?”

“Red’s Marine was here before they moved behind the shrimp docks.”

I braked hard. “Do you mind if I use your bathroom?”

I closed the door and faced the beige toilet. The walls in the large room were apple green. Above the toilet were shelves holding cleaning supplies and a floral deodorizing spray. Feeling dizzy, I sat on the toilet and looked around. There was a bathtub with a shower. Across from it was a woodstove with a bouquet of dried flowers in a teapot.

I stood up, turned around, and faced the walls and placed my hands on top of the toilet tank. My legs had to straddle the widest part of the toilet bowl. To keep my balance I had to stretch my back. A child of nine would have been at least four inches shorter, but if she were supple, she could have done it. Her butt would have stuck out at a very accessible angle. A tall man would have had to bend his knees, but that would make him unstable. To maintain his balance he could reach forward and grasp something—something like the braced elbows of the girl beneath him.

Here was the scene that Ruth had been unable to imagine: the child with her head facing the toilet, her back flat like a table, her arms pinned down by her father, her legs spread wide to bridge the toilet, her vulva pointed in the right direction. Also, if you saw the room, you could see that everything matched Alicia’s description.

Shaking, I splashed cold water on my face and started for the door. With my hand on the knob, I stopped. I turned around again and this time I could conjure Red’s hairy back and legs and arms and Alicia’s soft baby skin and her curls drooped in front of her face as she was being taken by the man she loved most: her father.

First thing the next morning, I told Grace Chandler where I had been, and that afternoon the prosecutor drove out to the upholstery shop to take photographs.

After all the delays, the trial was set for the second Thursday in September. In criminal court there are only two parties to a case: the prosecution and the defense—which excludes the victim. Only fifteen states, including Florida, currently provide for children, who are victims, to be represented in criminal court, in this case by a Guardian ad Litem. However, because the child had no real status in the proceedings, the guardian, who speaks for the child, is odd person out, with little say in how the events will proceed.

The goal of the prosecution is usually punishment, but the guardian representing a child victim may realize that the child’s needs may be in opposition to those of the state. In Alicia’s case, Grace and I had been in agreement, and she had gone out of her way to insure that I was included in every stage.

On the Monday of the week of the trial, I brought Alicia to the courthouse so she could become familiar with the surroundings. To break the ice, Grace walked Alicia around the courtroom and had her sit in the witness’s seat, then in the jury box, and even in the judge’s place.

Alicia giggled as she pounded her hand on the judge’s desk and bellowed, “Order in the court!”

Thinking I would be interested, Grace handed me the list of evidence that would be submitted by the defense. I didn’t know what to look for, so Grace helped me. “Notice that something is missing?” When I shook my head, she explained that Walt Hilliard had not had Alicia’s deposition transcribed. “Now he can’t use Alicia’s conflicting statements about her ages against her.”

“Why wouldn’t he get the transcription?” I asked.

“It’s very costly, and now it’s too late.”

“Does that mean he won’t be able to introduce any of the testimony from his interview with Alicia into evidence during the trial?”

Grace winked at Alicia, who was all ears. “A lucky break for us.”

Grace’s secretary called her to the phone. She hurried out. When Alicia was done playing judge, I steered her back to the state attorney’s office. Grace was still on the phone. She waved for us to take a seat on her sofa, then said a few clipped words, hung up, and swiveled to face Alicia. “Just before you arrived, your father’s attorney and I met in Judge Donovan’s chambers to discuss another plea bargain. The judge said he would consider a plea that included a prison term.” As she stared at Alicia, Grace’s fig-colored eyes seemed to absorb all the light from the room. “What do you want to do?”

“How am I supposed to know?” She turned to me.

As Guardian ad Litem my main responsibility was to be the child’s voice in court, but I refused to stretch this to include second-guessing Alicia’s true feelings. She would live with the consequences far longer than I would. But even at that crucial moment, Alicia’s eyes were partially closing as she made her somnolent escape from reality.

“Alicia!” I said loudly enough to rouse her. “Remember you told me your goals and I wrote them down?” Opening my accordion file, I found the “bagel memo.” I showed Alicia my notes. “Your number one request was you didn’t want Cory ever to live with your dad again. You said that was more important than your father going to prison. Do you still believe that?”

“I guess.”

“How will you feel when you know your father is locked in prison and your decision helped put him there?”

“It’s okay.”

I took a deep breath. “Do you still love your father in some small corner of your mind?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“You don’t want the responsibility of this decision, do you?”

She twisted her hands and her knees were trembling. “No.”

“Let’s take a break,” I said, and led her out of the office.

Alicia backed into the corner of the farthest wall of the bathroom.

“Alicia, whatever you decide is fine with me.” She hugged her arms to her chest. “Now, shut your eyes and listen to yourself. Only you know what’s right for you, but you are hearing conflicting voices telling you what to do. One voice wants to go to trial and see what happens. It wants to give you the chance to tell your story and be heard by a jury. Another voice wants to run away and for this all to be over, no matter what. You might have another one reminding you of your promise to protect Cory.”

I paused for almost a minute. “Now think, Alicia, and listen. And when you are ready, tell me which voice is the loudest.”

As I watched, a transformation took place. Alicia’s crossed arms fell to her sides. Her back straightened. Her chin lifted. Alicia opened her eyes. “Safe … safe and over.”

“You’ve decided that you want Cory safe and the whole business over with?”

“Yes.”

“Will you tell Grace that?”

“Yes. Yes, I will.”

Alicia strode past me, out the bathroom door, and straight across the hall into the state attorney’s office. She did not pause at reception but put her hand on the inside door like she had seen Grace do and waited expectantly for the buzzer to sound to let her through. I followed her past the maze of desks to the corner office, where Grace was going through a file cabinet beside her desk. Alicia marched in, sat in Grace’s executive chair, and leaned back.

Grace looked over Alicia’s shoulder at me, as though waiting for an explanation.

“I guess Alicia is taking charge,” I said, smiling.

Grace understood at once. “She’s the boss,” she said, then came around and sat on the sofa in the spot Alicia usually took.

Alicia tapped one of Grace’s pens on her blotter. “My father will have to remain in prison until Cory is eighteen.”

“That’s four years from now,” I said to Grace.

“After that, I don’t care what happens,” Alicia finished.

“A ten-year sentence would work out to about that much time behind bars,” Grace responded. “Is that all right with you, Gay?”

“I’m not in charge, Alicia is.”

“Excuse me,” she said without sounding facetious. “Is that what you had in mind, Ms. Stevenson?”

Alicia leaned way back in her chair. “Yes, it is.”

Grace reached for the extension telephone on a side table and dialed Mr. Hilliard. She made the offer, then waited on hold. “Your father’s there now. Hilliard is discussing the plea with him.”

A short while later, Walt Hilliard was back on the line.

“Are you sure?” Grace asked, surprised. “My deal gets him out while he’s young enough to do something with his life. Any guilty verdict is a mandatory twenty-five years. You want to take that risk?” She hung up and faced Alicia. “He wants to roll the dice. We’re going to trial day after tomorrow.”

The next morning my husband brought me the two local newspapers. One was a metropolitan daily; one was the county paper. Each carried a headline about the case.

The county paper said:

J
URY
C
HOSEN IN
T
RIAL OF
M
AN
A
CCUSED OF
R
APING
D
AUGHTER

Attorneys selected a jury Tuesday for the trial of a local business man accused of having sex with his 9-year-old daughter. The man, whose name is being withheld to protect the victim, is charged with sexual battery on a child less than 12. The girl is now 15 years old.

 

The regional section of the city paper reported it differently:

A jury has been picked for the trial of Richard Leroy Stevenson, Sr., 43, charged with sexual battery on a 9-year-old child.

Stevenson was sentenced in county courts in the last year for saying “bull——” in the courtroom.

 

“Oh, no!” I shouted, then phoned Lillian and read her the stories. “One paper says
incest,
the other says
Stevenson.
Most people read both papers.”

“Then everyone will figure it out,” Lillian said. “Poor kid.”

“When this is over she’ll have classmates asking her how it was to screw your father. Can’t we do something to protect her?”

“There’s no way to muzzle the press,” Lillian said, “but you could ask very nicely.”

The editor of the regional section was a man I had met many times. He returned my call promptly and listened politely as I pleaded for him not to mention the defendant’s name in future editions.

“Sorry, we’ve made an editorial policy on this case. All we do is report the news,” he said in a world-weary voice.

“I am shocked and appalled by your callous attitude,” I said before I hung up.

The jury was made up of five men, one woman, and one alternate, who was also a woman. Because they were going to be on the witness stand, Alicia, Rich, and Cory were not permitted inside the courtroom to hear other people’s testimony. Lillian decided that I would remain in the courtroom so I could request a closed hearing for the children’s testimony. I’d already asked Grace if the press could also be removed, but she handed me 918.16, the same statute that gave guardians access to the courtroom, which read: