Lifesaving Lessons (19 page)

I also stepped into the new role as family grown-up and began making unilateral decisions about what was right and wrong for Mariah. Real parents don't always consult their kids, especially about thorny emotional issues. When Christmas rolled around and Mariah was torn about whether to go to Tennessee or not, I decided that she would stay home—with me. We sent gifts for her brothers, mother, and aunt and went to Florida for two weeks. (My older sister, Rhonda, had Mariah the first week in Florida—absolutely spoiling her rotten—while I worked to meet a deadline.) On spring break I took Mariah on her first visit to New York City, where we went to see
The Lion King
on Broadway. We ate at fine restaurants, met up with dear friends, and wandered Macy's looking for dresses for formal dinners at school. Her only complaint was that the trip was too short.

Yes, life was good. Mariah entered her senior year at Evergreen Academy no longer on probation. I was not nervous that she would do anything to jeopardize her diploma. She worked with a guidance counselor to apply to colleges, and seemed surprised to be doing so. She confided that she didn't know of anyone in her biological family who had attended college and that not many had finished high school, a signal to me of the many things I had taken for granted. Bif took Mariah to visit colleges in the Boston area. Simon drove her to check out some schools in Vermont. Mariah told me that her group of friends graduating with her from Evergreen were all going to Colorado, some to study and some to live and hang out. I suspected that she might prefer the hanging out to attending college and told her to forget it. Among this group of Colorado-bound kids was Mariah's boyfriend, with whom she had been connected at the hip since her sophomore year. “Not happening!” I had first met Liam when Mariah and I were visiting Evergreen just prior to her reacceptance. He had followed us around campus like a lost puppy, and had been part of the picture ever since. A total dichotomy in my view, Liam was a high-achieving slacker. A wrestling champ and straight A student who didn't need to hit the books, Liam was a bit of a Daddy's little rich kid. I had indications from things that Mariah told me that Liam's parents did not approve of the relationship either. As relieved as I was to understand that Mariah was at least in a monogamous relationship, my observations were that Liam didn't treat Mariah with much respect. Hadn't he been partly responsible for her probation by being caught in her room? So postponing college to hang out with him was not optimum.

Mariah inquired about the possibility of doing a gap year program. “If it is a program that colleges will accept as worthy of a year of your time before entering college, fine. If not, forget about it.” When Mariah delved into acceptable programs, she quickly leaned back in the direction of traditional college matriculation with a freshman class.

Mariah's first choice was Ethan Allen College in Vermont. Her guidance counselor told me that it was a stretch but that she didn't want to discourage Mariah from applying because she wasn't showing a lot of enthusiasm for other schools. I spoke with Mariah about what I saw as fear in her. I said that it was natural that she would be scared at this major juncture in her life—everyone is! I told her about my experience at Colby College and even got a little sentimental when relaying the fact that I begged my parents to take me back home before the car was unloaded. I urged Mariah to apply and pushed her to check into scholarship possibilities. The counselor at Evergreen helped Mariah through the FAFSA (Free Application for Federal Student Aid) process, filing as an independent as I had not adopted her. All of this was like pulling teeth. Mariah became very moody, and it seemed to me that she had taken a few steps backward emotionally. She was as confused as could be, pulling away from me and putting up the old barriers. She even started some really childlike behavior: The coloring books came out.

She was keen enough to go to college, but it seemed she wasn't so hot on the real commitment it was going to take. Here was one place where my sympathy dried up fast. When Mariah complained that she didn't want to borrow money for school, I said, “Tough. Everyone does. Suck it up.” I explained that I had fished my way through college, working on the deck of a sword boat. And I still had to borrow money. I'm sure all of that sounded like the barefoot-uphill-to-school lecture. I was aware of the possibility that Mariah might have assumed I would foot her entire four-year college tab. I agreed to contribute what I could as long as she did her part by working and borrowing and scholarship searching. When speaking to the financial aid folks at various schools, I always needed to explain that Mariah was not my birth child. I hadn't had eighteen years to plan and save for her education. I sort of felt that I was on the defensive when justifying why my kid was an independent with regard to any aid packages.

When she was accepted at Ethan Allen, there was no backing out. She had miraculously gotten into her school of choice against great odds. But after the initial thrill of achievement of acceptance, she became quite negative. She began talking about Colorado with a longing, and being cheated out of something that others had, and sort of whining about
having
to go to college. I explained that she certainly did not
have
to go. But if she chose not to go, she had better plan on getting a job. There was no suitable year-round employment on Isle au Haut. I absolutely forbade her to stay on Isle au Haut and do nothing like so many others before her. The tension that had eased in our relationship was piano-string tight once again. Our phone calls were few, brief, and unpleasant. During these calls, I could tell that something was weighing heavily; I assumed the fear of college. Once again I began questioning my decision to bring this girl into my otherwise happy life.

I voiced my sadness to Bif, who had an interesting and, I now think, quite accurate insight. “She turns eighteen in two weeks and graduates from high school the following week. Mariah is acutely aware that your legal guardianship terminates automatically on her eighteenth birthday. She must think you'll be done with her like every other parental figure she's had. Right?” I didn't comprehend the depth and breadth of what Bif suggested until much later. For all our comfort and closeness of late, secretly a part of me wished I
could
be done that easily. The better part of me, though, knew that this was a long-term relationship and that as the grown-up, I had to find a way to ease Mariah's fears. “You'll just have to let the brat know that she's stuck with us!” Bif teased. I wondered how I would do that while we barely spoke and when we did, Mariah was so bitchy I felt like slapping her. Who is stuck with whom? What did stick was the nickname. Mariah officially and affectionately became “the brat.”

When the caller ID on my home phone read “U.S. Government,” I was not alarmed because I had become accustomed to Mariah's court advocate calling with updates that were later received via the post office. When I learned that Ken had pleaded guilty to both charges of which he had been accused—possession and transportation of child pornography—I was hugely relieved. Ken was now awaiting sentencing. This news was well beyond welcome. It was joyous because we now understood that Mariah would not have to testify in court. She had the option of speaking or reading a statement at the sentencing, the very thought of which threw her a huge emotional fastball. Our own relationship, only recently realigned, now teetered on a knife's edge.

Mariah wanted to appear and face Ken if doing so would amount to a stricter sentence, she said. But neither the federal prosecutor nor her advocate could tell her whether her showing up would have any effect or influence on the outcome. I couldn't help but think that seeing Ken would inevitably set off mixed and strong emotions in Mariah. Ken had been Mariah's only caregiver for several years. He had been responsible for moving her to the island, which, admittedly, might ultimately have saved her life. I felt that Mariah would not benefit from seeing Ken, and I wanted to protect her from another unintended consequence: In some emotionally laden twist of logic, she might be haunted by the idea that she had contributed to his demise (leaving aside the fact that half the island population would happily have done just that, literally). Mariah must surely have a tender spot in her heart for her abuser. Although she had never shown or verbalized anything that hinted at the Stockholm syndrome, I knew that it was a survival strategy. And Mariah was certainly a survivor.

After several days of discussion and flip-flopping on the topic, I made the decision that Mariah would not attend the sentencing. “You are not going. You need to stay at school and not worry about it. I'll go and speak on your behalf and will call you immediately afterward.” And that was that.

The days leading up to the sentencing, graduation, and Mariah's plunge into legal adulthood were dreadful: Three huge life cycle events converged in one short period. The calls back and forth had virtually come to an end. Mariah wasn't even calling to get permission to leave campus, something she had been doing like clockwork. The daily reminders and countdown of days to her birthday stopped. She didn't even e-mail me asking for a bit of spending money. She did submit a written statement to the judge who would preside at the sentencing procedure. I wouldn't have known that, but her advocate sent me a copy to read so that I could better ready my statement. Mariah's written testimony was eloquent, succinct, and mature. I called to say that she had done a great job with it, and ended up leaving a message that was never returned.

I didn't know how I would feel about laying eyes on Ken knowing the lengths to which he had gone to ruin another human being's life—and a child's at that. In my opinion, he had not quite succeeded. But the jury was still out on that, so to speak. I braced myself psychologically for what I might feel at the sight of him. Would I feel sickened? Would I be frightened? Would I be enraged? I was as nervous as a cat as I sat and waited impatiently on the hard, cold bench in the federal courtroom in Portland. When Ken was led in locked in handcuffs, I went numb, and for an instant felt removed from the scene. I quickly reentered, and thought how pathetic he looked, and I felt sorry for him. Bif and Simon flanked me, providing much needed support through the legal jargon and pomp and circumstance of robes, suits, and ties, which seemed too ill fitting at this particular occasion to determine the fate of a man so pale and bloated that he appeared to have been stuffed into his orange jumpsuit.

The proceedings seemed to crawl in waves, like a tide that would surge ahead two inches and then recede and regroup before making another attempt to come ashore. There were motions heard from both the defending attorney and the government's, one asking the judge to impose a sentence in the lower range of the guidelines, and the other requesting a departure upward from the range. There was a question as to the authenticity of Mariah's written statement, to which I testified that it was indeed hers. Both attorneys presented their cases regarding the appropriate sentence. And finally, witnesses were asked to speak. I was the only witness.

As I was sworn in, my voice cracked and I was afraid that I would melt down as I had in front of my community so many months, tears, laughs, triumphs, failures, and days of frustrating anguish before. I was asked before I began to please avoid the use of names. Because Mariah was a minor, I should refer to her as “MJ” or “my legal ward.”

My name is Linda Greenlaw and I'm here on behalf of some of the victims in this case, primarily a young girl whom I will refer to as my daughter, because that is what she has become. Although I'm sure Your Honor understands that MJ is not my biological daughter, according to the state of Maine, I am her legal guardian. Prior to guardianship, I had what I would consider limited involvement and contact with MJ.

Limited contact and involvement is a pretty relative term. We live on a small island where there is a year-round population of about fifty people, so the involvement and contact in a small island is much deeper and more frequent than you would see in a big city.

Around half a dozen years or so ago, the defendant moved to the island from Memphis and was soon followed by this little girl he referred to as his niece. His story was that he was saving his niece from a very bad family situation, including a heroin junkie stepfather, extreme poverty, abuse, and a half-wit mother who, it appeared, had virtually given her daughter away.

We love our children on my island. We value family. The community accepted with open arms the defendant and his niece. The defendant was thought a hero for saving this beautiful little girl. Fast-forward four years: The defendant got sloppy. An admitted alcoholic, he fell off the wagon in a big way, bringing to light the fact that he was not saving this little girl. He had, in fact, taken her from the frying pan into the fire. With all due respect to the defense, my entire community was duped by the defendant. I think the defense has been duped by his client regarding the question of intent. The defendant is an extremely clever pedophile who fooled an entire community. I can't ask or expect Your Honor to put yourself in the victim's shoes. Imagining the abuse she endured is beyond comprehension. The lengths to which the defendant went to destroy the life of an innocent child is unimaginable. He began grooming—and I do believe “grooming” is appropriate—his victim long before moving to Maine. They shared a bed every weekend for at least three years in Memphis, Tennessee.

I can't ask you to put yourself in the place of the victim, but I can ask you to try, if you will, to see this from my perspective. Imagine reprimanding a young girl about personal hygiene: MJ, you are thirteen years old, you need to bathe every day. You know, it's very important. Imagine how you would feel later when you learned about the hidden camera in the bathroom and the fact that she became aware that her trusted and loved guardian had been photographing and videotaping her while she bathed. The last year under the defendant's guardianship, MJ was taking her dry and clean clothes into the shower with her to change because she didn't know if the camera was on, or where it was. And she knew that it was connected directly to her uncle's computer. Imagine explaining to your daughter that the advice from public health to parents to talk about sex with their kids did not include show-and-tell. Does the advice to talk about sex with your kids give a guardian license to share details of his own sexual exploits and complaints of abstinence from certain sexual activities due to the extraordinary size of the penis?