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Hear Ye, Hear Ye!
Less than 24 hours before I was to "take the stand", my social worker showed up at my foster home. Most of what she imparted to my foster mother and me could have been accomplished in a phone call , her usual mode of operation. I had been in foster care for several months, seen my mother on rare occasions, albeit not for several weeks at the time. Being nearly nine, I wasn't expected to understand what was going on around me, just do what I was told and not make a lot of waves.
I had been told my mother was in serious trouble stemming from my abuse , but not that the State intended to send her to prison for her crimes. The only other experience I had with courts were the brief appearances I'd gone through in Juvenile Court during CPS custody hearings. Suffice to say I was wholly unprepared for the events which unfolded the next day.
From the day I was taken away from my mother, people had been asking me questions about my mother, my home life, how I got certain bruises, etc. It wasn't uncommon for me to tell the same story to several different people who never seemed to talk to each other. It didn't seem to make any difference if the person was a policeman, doctor, psychologist, social worker, or whatever, the questions were always the same. Answering questions with only one other person in the room is one thing, in a room full of strangers quite another.
The morning of my mother's trial, we showed up at the courthouse early. My social worker had stressed the point we were not to be late, and that I had to be wearing the Pullups she brought the day before. It seemed my social worker's biggest concern was me not having visibly wet pants in the courtroom. We were ushered into a small room just off the courtroom where we were to wait until someone came to get me. My foster mother brought a coloring book and some crayons for me si I could keep myself occupied while we waited. It was only a few minutes before a bailiff came to take me into the courtroom.
As we entered the courtroom I was shocked to see a room full of strangers. It was the first time I had ever seen the inside of a regular courtroom with a judge, jury, bailiff and all the other associated people concerned with conducting a trial. I saw my mother sitting at a table with her attorney, tried to go to her, but was stopped by the bailiff directing me to the chair in the witness box. Before I could say anything, the Judge greeted me by name and said he was glad to meet me. I was still wondering what I was supposed to do, or what I was supposed to say. I said, "Hi Mommy", to which I was told not to speak unless one of the lawyers or the judge had asked me a question first. My mother made no response, just sat there.
The Judge started asking me lots of questions like my name, how old I was, where I went to school, what grade I was in? He seemed like a nice enough person. I had answered his questions then he asked me if I knew the difference between the truth and a lie? I told him I did. He asked me if I had ever told a lie? I had to tell him yes. He seemed to be surprised at my answer, but went ahead and told me I had to be sure to tell the truth today. The bailiff brought a Bible and had me put my hand on it; swear I would tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.
The Prosecutor started asking me questions, most of which I had already answered for the Judge only minutes before. I wasn't speaking very loudly and he told me I had to speak up so the Jury could hear what I was saying. From then on he asked me really personal questions about my mother, where we lived, how we lived and what happened to me when we were living together. I told him how things were at home, the fact it had only been my mom and me since I didn't have a daddy. He asked me if my mother had ever spanked me real hard or beaten me with like a belt or anything like that? I told him, "Yes, that happened sometimes."
With me sitting in the witness box, the Prosecutor started handing the Judge several big photographs, asking him to let the Jury see them. They were blown up copies of the pictures the doctor had taken of me the day they took me away from my mother. The Judge looked at them, handed them back to the Prosecutor and told him to proceed. Before he showed each picture to the jury, the Prosecutor handed it to me and asked if I remembered it being taken? I said Yes each time he asked. I only glanced at the pictures, they weren't pretty to look at and I didn't want to see them again. By watching some of the people in the Jury I could tell they were shocked, they didn't like the pictures any better than I did.
As the questions kept coming I didn't know what I was supposed to say so I looked at my mother hoping she would give me some idea what to tell the people. The Prosecutor saw me looking at her and moved so that he was standing between us. It seemed like I was on the stand for a long time answering the same questions I had answered for people time and again.
Without preamble the Prosecutor suddenly asked me if I still wet my pants? I was embarrassed, remember it seeming like there wasn't another sound in the courtroom. I kept my head down and nodded yes. The prosecutor told me I had to speak up, the Jury couldn't hear a nod.
I don't remember exactly how long the Prosecutor kept asking me questions about wetting my pants, wetting my bed, if I wet more than once a day, if I had wet my pants at school, on and on. He asked me how my mother would react to me wetting my pants, or bed? I told him mostly she was angry, would spank me for wetting and call me a baby because of it. He asked several questions about how my mother treated me while we were living together, wanted to know if I had ever told anybody else about the way I was treated at home. I told him I'd told lots of people but nobody seemed to pay any attention or care until I had been taken away from my mother. I had told people, they always told me it was ok I should just try harder to be good, not make my mother angry.
As suddenly as he started asking questions, the Prosecutor looked at the other attorney and said, "your witness". The Judge stopped the other attorney saying it was time for Lunch and he could start asking his questions after recess. The Judge told everybody in the courtroom we would take an hour for lunch and come back at one o'clock. He looked at me and told me I was not to talk to anybody about the case while I was at lunch and if anybody asked me questions I was to tell him as soon as we got back. When I stood up to leave everyone in the courtroom could see I had pottied my pants. I don't remember wetting them.
While everybody else went to lunch I was taken back to the witness room where I could change my pants. My social worker was really upset, angry I had wet my pants in the courtroom and not told anybody I needed to go potty. I really don't remember wetting my pants or even needing to go. We went across the street to Wendy's for lunch, one of the few things I enjoyed the whole day. I tried to ask my social worker what was going to happen in the afternoon but she just told me I wasn't supposed to talk about the case. When we were done eating my social worker took me to the rest room so I could potty. I was really embarrassed: she took me to the women's rest room then stood behind me, with the door open, while I was using the toilet.
After lunch I was taken back to the courtroom, told to remember I was still under oath and had to tell the truth. My mother's attorney started asking questions, the same ones I had just answered earlier. The one thing I remember most about his questions was him asking me after every answer if I was really sure it happened like that or was I making things up? It made me mad and I told him I didn't tell no lies only what happened.
After a little bit, he started asking me questions I had already answered but they were different. He asked me if I still wet my pants? When I said yes, he asked me if I wet my pants on purpose? I told him no, I just had accidents sometimes. He went over and over the same ground asking me several times if I had wet my pants at home, at school, when I was playing, when we went somewhere besides home. Each time I answered his question he would ask me if I was sure or was it different than how I said it was. No matter how I answered the question , he would make it seem like I was wetting my pants on purpose just to make people mad. I guess he finally heard all he wanted to about my wetting, he suddenly changed topics.
I was really surprised when he started talking about me being in foster care because I had lied to authorities about how things were at home. He started off asking me if I did things wrong sometimes. I had to tell him I did. He asked me if I got punished when I did wrong things? There was only one answer to that, of course I'd get punished. Did I ever get punished when I hadn't done something wrong? It was hard for me to say , I was never sure how my mom would react to anything. He went on a long time about things I did wrong, things other kids didn't do like wet my bed or potty my pants. Finally he asked me if parents should punish children when they do bad things? I had to say yes because kids wouldn't know better if they didn't get punished.
His next line of questions were about the pictures displayed on the bulletin board:Q: Do you remember when they were taken?My mother's lawyer kept asking questions like that for a long time, I suppose an hour or more . Each time he asked a question he would ask me if I was sure about my answer? Finally he asked me if it wasn't true the only times I got punished were when I had done something bad? I told him my mom had punished me but sometimes I didn't know why only that she did. He turned to the jury and said, "Surely its a parent's right to punish an unruly child , discipline must begin at home."
A: Sure, they were taken the day I was taken away from my mom.
Q: Did I tell anyone it was ok to take pictures of me?
A: I suppose so, they really didn't ask just kept telling me to move one way or the other.
Q: Were you embarrassed when they took the pictures?
A: Kind of, because I was only wearing underpants most of the time and sometimes didn't have them on either.
Q: Did anyone tell me why they were taking the pictures?
A: Only that they wanted to have them in case there were questions asked.
Q: You just let them take pictures of you because they wanted to?
A: They said I had to.
Q: Who said you had to let them take pictures?
A: The doctor and the policeman.
Q: Did your mother know they were taking pictures?
A: I don't know they never said.
Q: You were mad at your mother that day weren't you?
A: I don't remember, I suppose so.
Q: You got spanked for wetting your bed that day didn't you?
A: Yes, mommy always spanked me for wetting my bed.
Q: When you were at home, weren't you always running into things, getting bruised?
A: I got hit by lots of things.
Q: What do you mean when you say you were hit by lots of things?
A: Like hitting stuff when I fell or slipped.
Q: So the bruises we see on these pictures were from you getting hit by lots of things, right?
A: I guess so.
The Prosecutor shouted Objection and said it wasn't right for the other lawyer to address the Jury like that. The Judge said "Sustained" then asked the lawyer if he had any more questions for me? The lawyer said "No your honor, I think he's said quite enough." Then the Judge told me I could leave.
I don't remember what time it was, I guess it was about three thirty or four when I got off the witness stand. As we walked past my mother, she glared at me then called me a "lying little bastard". The Judge told her to be quiet but it didn't make any difference, she had already said too much. My social worker told my foster mother she could take me home and that she would be over to see me the next day.
As we walked out of the courthouse I saw my mother down by the parking lot getting into a police car. It was a shock to see her in hand-cuffs with a deputy helping her sit down in the back seat of the car. I started to run to her but my foster mother grabbed my arm and took me to the car. It would be nearly a month before I saw my mother again. A month of asking to see her and being told "we'll see." I wasn't stupid, I knew it wouldn't happen there had already been too many broken promises, too many visits canceled at the last minute. I was alone, even my mother didn't want me anymore.
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