new novel

1. Prologue
Definitely not beautiful and just missing the mark of even being thought of as pretty. Chin length
mousy brown hair, not straight, not curly, bobby pinned to the side. About twenty pounds
overweight with breasts too small for her 5’6’’ pear shape figure. Large brown eyes set too far
apart, a slightly bulbous nose and thick but small lips – like Betty Boop, all set amongst pudgy
cheeks plopped upon a broad face.
Seventeen years old and looking like what she was - a transient runaway – parentless, shaggy, a
little grimy. Her too big hands were struggling to burrow their way into low cut skin tight jeans’
pockets making her shoulders scrunch up into her neck. She wasn’t chilly, she just didn’t know
what to do with her hands. An expansive muffin top bulged through a stretchy pink camisole.
Her over-washed blue blazer hung open as she paced the street corner in the light of the full fall
moon.
From his catty corner position he watched her as she shifted converse shod feet from side to side,
eyes moving furtively. Skinny all the way around, but oddly long through his torso and arms, he
would sidle up to building walls and watch people pass by. No one ever seemed to look his way
and he didn’t know whether to feel sad about that or proud of his spidy abilities. He liked to
watch people when they didn’t know he was looking. He liked to watch her. She would be easy
when the time was right. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow.
She continued to pace waiting for her ride and ruminating about her day. She longed for a blunt,
a shot, and a lay in that order. She thought about how she would convince her boss at the
pancake house that what had happened was a practical joke. She needed this job, the time wasn’t
right to move on. It was only a joke – kinda.
She snorted to herself thinking about what idiots boys are just as he came up behind her and
hitched his arm around her neck copping a feel inside her coat. Startled, she jerked away. He
made no attempt to hold her in place; he wanted her to see him. Looking into his face she
relaxed, wrapped her arm around his waist and sunk her head into his armpit.
“I thought you were going to borrow a car to pick me up?” “Nah,” he grunted, “didn’t work out”
“Well, I gotta get home. I can’t play now,” she said, “I’ve got a lot to think about.” He inquired,
“Thinking about what?” “What? You know about what. About the stunt you pulled today at my
job and how I’m going to undo it” she said. “Oh come on,” he said “quit worrying, it was a
joke.” “That guy is a fucking chicken ass cunt and he can't take a joke.” “Anyway, I got what
you want.” He reached into the inside breast pocket of his too short motor cross jacket, which
had built-in chest guards that he assumed made him look more imposing when in fact they just
made his skinny legs and arms look even more so. Not only that, he knew nothing about motor
cross and pathetically feigned expertise when anyone asked. He was a moron.
Inside the pocket he located the object of her desire and whipped out the three inch blunt. He
wafted it under his nose for a good long sniff as if it were a fine cigar.

2. He wanted her bad in more ways than one. He had been trying his best to make her fall in love
with him from the time he first found her rummaging through a garbage can in the back of a
grocery store two days ago. He gallantly and without hesitation, jumped into the dumpster and
reached his hands down deep in the muck. He pulled out a fully wrapped breakfast burrito and
handed it to her with a bow. He loved the shape of her lips as she bit into it and couldn’t help but
picture them wrapped around something else. But even what he did for her today at her work,
standing up to her boss saying she should get a raise. It wasn’t enough. Her boss told him to get
his grungy ass the fuck out of his place before he called the cops. She didn’t respond much
better. She wasn’t liking him any better for his efforts, she was pissed off, and he worried that
she would be moving on soon. He was tired of chasing her and tired of losing. He wasn’t about
to lose her too.
He held the joint out in front of her nose as he walked backwards into the alley beckoning her to
follow. As she lunged to grab her first order of the day, he gave in, handed it over, and reached in
his pocket for a lighter. It was a swift move and instead of the lighter he pulled out a switch
blade and held the stubby knife to her neck from behind before she even got the joint to her lips.
He chuckled to himself – “heh, spidy power!” The joint fell to the ground as she grabbed his
choking arm with both hands pleading and whimpering.
Her brain began to make a familiar clicking sound, one, two, three as she felt him reach his other
hand down the front of her pants. She stopped fighting him, what was the point? It's not like he
cared whether or not getting fucked in this alleyway would be good for her. He slowly lowered
her to the ground not realizing he was easing her close enough to reach inside her left sock. Her
brain still ticking, she touched the tiny pistol, no more than a BB gun really, snuggled against her
ankle. Now it was her turn to move quickly. She squeezed it in her palm, cocked it with her
thumb, put it to his ear and ping – shot it. That’s cool, she thought. “It really worked.” The
cockle shell shape of his ear held the gun in place and muffled the sound. She almost couldn’t
believe her own cleverness. He rolled over, eyes open in disbelief, and out went the light. She
replaced the gun to her sock, located the blunt lying on the ground next to a dark sticky pile of
cigarette butts and Red Bull cans, likely the left overs of some creepy teenager's idea of a party.
She wafted the small roll of pot under her nose for a good long whiff, stuck it in her pants pocket
for later, and with a pleased smile she strolled nonchalantly out of the alley onto Strep St.
He didn’t have to go there, she told herself. She would have given herself to him after a smoke
and a shot; that was her order of the day. But she knew how to fix these inconveniences – in the
way that always worked for her. She didn’t look back. Not literally or figuratively. “Back”
didn’t exist. Nothing existed except what she decided existed. And no one, well, almost no one
ever challenged her reality.
Chapter 1

3. Could a room be any browner? Clunky brown laminate desks, brown thick- backed chairs, sickly
beige walls and shit brown carpet that was likely once harvest gold. The lighting didn’t help. For
all the talk of energy efficient fluorescent lights, nothing and nobody looked good anywhere near
them. The styro square panels in the ceiling were soiled with dirt and water, and hid God knows
what electrical, plumbing and heating disasters typical of these ancient county court houses. The
Great Seal of North Carolina looking like it could use a dip in tarnish remover, hung behind the
Judge’s desk. Not a single other wall adornment except an old school house looking clock. The
only sign of modernity was the lap top sitting on the judge’s ledger. He tap, tap, tapped away
either completely enthralled with the millionth child custody case before him studiously taking
notes or he was playing video games. I’d bet on the latter. The obligatory flags with golden
eagles were unceremoniously perched in a stand in the corner of the room and a few vertical
windows shed a streak of natural light on the far side of the room where no one could enjoy it.
The reality of the court room is nothing like TVs Law and Order. The court atmosphere is a
reflection of the judge. Some are stern and stiff, others are loose and chaotic, but always the
hierarchy is clear by the way the lawyers fall all over their obsequious selves; “Yes, your honor,”
“No, your honor,” “If I may approach your honor.” I wondered what exposure to all the brown
had on the judges and lawyers who frequented this room day in and day out.
Sitting on the bench today was Judge Marckle. He was the stern, stiff, type. And the lawyers all
seemed on edge. I’d been an expert witness in his court room before and got him to crack a smile
once, when a parent lawyer accused me of not caring about the feelings of the parents he was
representing for child neglect. I replied that I only cared about the best interest of their child and
that he, the lawyer, was right. “I don’t care about what any of the adults in this room feel or
want,” I said. “Excluding you of course your honor” – which I threw in after the last vitriolic
words left my mouth and I realized I’d just dissed the judge. Judge Marckle replied, “Thank you
Dr. Sweets. I appreciate your candor.” I wasn’t sure about that.
I'm a developmental psychologist specializing in the affects of abuse and neglect on child
outcomes and now working in the field of forensics. Lawyers, departments of social services,
guardian ad litem agencies, and families hire me to review their cases concerning best interests
of a child. This usually entails reading all the child protection investigations, interviewing
relevant parties, writing summary reports and testifying. When providing expert testimony it's
my job to inform the bench (the judge) so that s/he can make the best decision possible, and
more often than not people listen to me and take my recommendations.
I cracked an apprehensive smile at the memory of the judge's reaction to my testy jousting with
the parent lawyer, and I wondered whether judges hold a grudge. I tried to refocus on the
present. It was mid-April. The dogwoods, azaleas and redbuds were in bloom putting on quite a
show along the roads of NC. I hoped the judge did not notice my disinterest in the court
proceedings as I pictured the colorful world beyond brown through the slivers of the glass
windows.
There is nothing more boring than waiting your turn in a family court room. And I’d been doing
it several times a year for the past seven. You never know exactly when you will be called to the
stand and you don’t want to waste the courts time making them look for you, so you pretty much

4. have to be present the whole time. But you can’t move or make a noise. There’s nowhere to talk
on the phone or work on your computer. And I wouldn’t dare risk losing credibility by whipping
out my latest Jack Reacher novel. And how many times can you get up and go to the bathroom?
There were several cases before the judge today and the court room was fairly packed. The case
currently before the judge involved a six year old child who was removed from her mother’s
custody due to the mother’s drug use and subsequent inability to attend to her child’s needs. The
child was placed with a childless aunt and uncle who had little previous contact with the child
but expressed an interest in adopting her – that was until the honeymoon period was over and the
child started urinating on their white carpet, refused to listen, threw major tantrums and shunned
the affections of her relatives. This child was making it very clear that she wanted her mom. The
aunt and uncle decided it would be best for the mother to have her child back; not that they had
any choice in the matter. And the mother had done a good job of completing her case plan (e.g.,
drug counseling, parenting classes, visitations with the child, individual therapy). She was ready
to take custody again and had the support of Social Services and the GAL (the guardian ad litem
is an advocate assigned to a child to represent their rights in court).
Unfortunately, while the child was in her relative’s care she accused her birth father of molesting
her when she was 4 (he was currently in jail awaiting trial for drug possession). The aunt called
DSS and an investigation ensued. This circumstance prolonged the separation of child and birth
mother by 6 months while the department cleared mom and her new boyfriend of knowing about
or abetting the abuse. Now all that was left was getting the court’s okay to move the child back
to her mom.
The bleached blonde social worker assigned to the case was on the stand, ensconced up to her
chest in brown; she didn’t stand a chance of gaining any respect with her inept performance. She
obviously hadn’t read her notes in a while and hadn’t prepped for her testimony. I'd supposed
that the over-worked woman stopped paying attention 6 months ago when the mother completed
her case plan and she knew the child would be going back home. Blondie was stumbling along
torturing the rest of us in the gallery as we waited patiently for our turns to be on the stand. I felt
bad for the mother as the possibility for another delay loomed. But I shouldn’t complain. This is
not my case - I'm here on a different case - and as an expert witness I get paid whether I sit in the
gallery or on the stand. A couple times I waited all day and never made it to the stand. Today
was one of those times.
With no Bill of Rights for children, juvenile court is a nightmare made worse by parent lawyers
extending the process with motions to postpone so that parents can have more time to complete
the few measly requirements the court has placed on them in order to gain back custody of their
children. And by a back-of-the-bus designation in the judicial system: civil court is less of a
priority than criminal court. That’s right, literally in the middle of hearing a child custody case, a
judge can be required to preside over a criminal case, even as minor as a drug bust. Apparently,
only those accused of crimes are entitled to a speedy trial and habeas corpus, which protects an
arrested person from being unlawfully detained. But abused children are victims of crime, not
criminals themselves, and so their cases can drag on for years during which they are “detained”
in foster care. I believe that when neglect or abuse is substantiated by a department of children
and family services, they are saying a crime has been committed against a child; therefore, the

5. parents are guilty and their children deserve a speedy trial. I’ve made my opinion about this
known, but nobody’s asking for my advice about lawful matters.
The custody case I was hired to consult on had taken four months to get to court because of
lawyer and judge scheduling issues and this one should have been settled a long time ago.
Neither parent had completed any of the requirements of their case plan and neither bothered to
show up for several court dates over the past two years. Their rights should have been terminated
and their offspring adopted by now. A no-brainer, right? Wrong. A screw-up between this court
and the Arkansas court where the children were originally placed into the foster care system
prolonged the inevitable outcome just long enough for a technicality to be discovered. The two
children were still in care in NC – therapeutic care for all the years of sexual, physical, and
emotional abuse they suffered at the hands of both birth parents. Now the birth father was saying
he should have the son back (only the son, not the daughter - what a dick!) because the birth
mother had no right to leave Arkansas with the boy. He was right on that point. Unfortunately for
him though he was known as a sadistic child molester and purveyor of child pornography that
included pictures of his own children that he sold on the internet.
Still, the court appointed lawyer will defend this man like his own life depends on a positive
verdict. Every excruciating detail of who said what, when, where, and how will be laid out. Each
objection will be tediously ironed out as each lawyer asks (with all due respect) for explanations
and clarifications. The father’s lawyer will object to almost all testimony regarding the father’s
behavior because it occurred in another state over three years ago (with no acknowledgment that
his despicable behavior stopped only when the father no longer had access to his children). It
will take days of court time and cost tons of money, even though all the professionals in the
room know how it will end. The children will be set free, no longer owned by parents who are
too stupid, evil and wounded to do them anything but harm. Unfortunately, the damage to the
children is already done.
My case was supposed to begin after lunch, but the last case dragged on, no thanks to bleach
blond, and the six year old’s birth father’s lawyer who repulsively cross examined every shred of
evidence, even though the birth father had a guilty verdict for drug trafficking and was facing a
lengthy trial for molesting his daughter. This guy wasn’t going to see the outside of a prison
within the next 20 years.
It seemed to be just an exercise for the lawyer; just a good intellectual work-out that benefited no
one but himself. As a result, the judge didn't finish hearing the case; the six year old and her
mother would have to wait awhile longer, as would I - both cases were delayed for another
month. Leaving the courthouse, the birth mother of the six year old stopped me and asked if I
could help her get her child back. She obviously had been told who I was and she hurriedly and
clumsily explained her situation to me thinking I would soon disappear and her last hope would
slip through her fingers like sand. As she spoke I nodded knowingly (because I pretty much did
know her story already). I finally cut her off and explained my role as an expert witness and that
I was not a hired gun. However, I told her that from what I had heard in court today it was likely
she would have her child back soon. I suggested who she might call if she needed help paying
for my services. I also gave her my card - her distressed gaze left my face to stare at the small

6. piece of lacquered paper. She thanked me. I held her scrawny hand with its fingernails chewed to
the quick for just a moment to reassure her that this nightmare would soon be over. I hoped.
Now I was late for a family dinner and driving home through commuter traffic. I walked in the
door an hour late, the kids had eaten and my husband, Allen, whom the children nicknamed,
deservedly so, DOD (half dad - half god) handed me a cold glass of Riesling and gave me a full
frontal bear hug; the smile immediately returned to my face and I felt the “crank” in me start to
fade. My pug, Mable, raced around my feet in circles until I crouched and scratched her hind
quarters. Then I checked in with my children. My oldest was away at college, but I got a hug
from the youngest, and a, “Hi Mom” yelled from my elder son who was naturally sitting in his
room, at his computer, in the dark. The other boy was nowhere to be found – not a good sign. I
warned DOD and headed for my office to check the answering machine. I had a cell phone, but
the thought of constant unexpected interruptions from a chiming cell gave me traumatic stress
symptoms and so I decided to give out its precious number to only a chosen few. I considered
not giving it to my children.
My answering machine on the other hand was within my control. It never contacted me on its
own and as long as I didn’t look at it I could pretend that no one needed me, no one was in crisis,
and no one had left a blank message while they realized they’d called the wrong number. The
number three flashed red on the machine. The first message was from a mental health agency in
WY wanting me to present at an up-coming conference on the effects of abuse and neglect on
early brain development. That’s a keeper. The second message was from an adoptive parent in
crisis. Her child, whom she adopted from Russia three years ago was stealing and lying and she
needed a phone consult ASAP. I needed to finish my wine first. The third message was no wrong
number. The third message had me catching my breath, “Hey Patricia. Long time no speak.
Sorry. Kids and all. You know. Anyway, guess who’s baaack? Call me, we need help.”
Southern people often called on the phone without introducing themselves, as if everyone’s voice
is so apparently recognizable why would you need to announce who’s calling. I almost always,
and with undue embarrassment, have to ask, “Who is this? But I did know this voice and I was
pretty sure I knew who her cryptic message was about. And damn, it was way past 5:00 pm, no
way she was still in her office. Tomorrow would come soon enough, so I went back to the living
room to finish my wine, have some dinner, return a phone call to a desperate mother, and attempt
to keep myself in the present. Yeah, right!

7. Chapter 2
What did he think he was going to do with that silly ass pocket knife, she thought? She wasn’t
going to let him hurt her. What a douche. She knew he was watching her, everyone watched her.
And she knew about the knife and she knew what he wanted from her, the same thing everyone
wants from her. But she was no 304, sex had to be on her terms and it wasn’t all that interesting
if she wasn’t doin the chasin and catchin. She did like him though. She would miss him; it was
cool how he dumpster dove for her. But she reminded herself that he was a hoodrat and he
wasn’t all that.
She needed to hang with someone who could get her to the next place, wherever that was. A car,
some money, some tron, some weed, a nice place to sleep. That’s what she deserved. “Man, why
do I keep runnin into losers,” she asked herself. “I gotta get the hell outta Patterson. I shoulda
stayed in Richmond. I had friends in Richmond. Well, until they started gettin all up in my
bizznezz, tellin lies about me and shit.” Every time she got close to someone they would turn on
her. People suck! She started thinking about “the one” who turned on her that got her runnin in
the first place.
Up until that point she had a good thing going hopping from one foster home to the next every
year or so. She was convinced that foster parents were truly the dumbest people on the face of
the Earth and she learned that she could milk them for quite a while before they started thinking
something was wrong. She remembered, oddly nostalgically, her first foster parents when she
was about four years old. She didn’t remember the foster parents’ names but she remembered
them being really nice to her and talking about adopting her, and then they just up and changed
their minds. At five she was with another family, and so it went. One time she got to stay with
this single “Mom” for two years. She thought maybe she was about nine years old because the
woman bought her her first bra. The woman wasn’t around much and she pretty much did what
she wanted. But then the woman got a boyfriend. She remembered “hatin on that guy.” She did
her best to straighten that woman out about him. She even took her clothes off and got in bed
with him one night when the woman was working late, just to prove to her that he was no good.
He almost had a heart attack. Jumped out the bed so quick he tripped and fell face down on the
rug running for the safety of the bathroom. That was some funny shit. But she had to at least try
to prove it to that woman before it was too late. And then it was too late and she was moved to
another so called “home”. She imagined that woman feeling pretty stupid about now. “Man, it is
truly amazing how much I know about people.”
Where to next? “I gotta get outta Patterson,” she repeated to herself.
She checked her pockets for money, stopped by McDonalds for a burger and fries and headed
back to Stacey’s house on foot for some sleep before her next shift. Stacey, one of the relic
waitresses at the pancake house would be worried about her – “that nosy bitch.” It wasn’t a bad
deal though. Stacey had a car and kept food in the place. They got along pretty well. She’d told
Stacey it was only until she could find her own place and it had only been like two months; she
thought everything was going great. But lately, Stacey had been bugging her for rent money, but
she didn’t think that was fair. She was only sleeping on the couch; she wasn’t taking up hardly
any space. But for some reason Stacey was getting antsy for her to move out. When Stacey

8. would ask for rent money she’d turn on the tears and remind Stacey of her unfortunate status as a
teenage runaway who grew up in foster homes. She’d say, “If I could just save up a little more
money I could get a nice place like yours. I never lived in a nice a place as this before.” Yeah
right, what a dump she thought, speaking of Stacey’s third floor attic apartment. located in an old
cracked walk-up with a rickety staircase, creaky worn floors, and drafty grimy windows with
caked up sills. “I never had a nice place before,” she’d repeat, glancing at Stacey through tear
streaked eyes. And Stacey would relent, even giving her a big old hug, a pat on the shoulder and
some stupid bible verse that was supposed to make her feel alllll better.
There were a lot of things she was really good at and turning on the tears was one of them. Tears
were a kid’s secret weapon, better than fit throwing, pouting, or fighting. Adults just hated it
when kids felt sad. And they especially hated it when a poor unfortunate foster child felt sad.
Yup, tears were a magic ticket. Strangely enough, she thought, tears also worked well with other
kids. Not her of course, she would never fall for that shit. Hearing a child cry was like nails on a
chalk board to her. But, other kids were morons; they would hand over their favorite toy and
their last piece of candy if they thought it would help another kid to not feel sad.
Lots of kids had tried the crying routine on her. She was reminded of a neighborhood kid at one
of the homes she lived at. He used to follow her around like a shadow. She figured he wanted her
to jerk on his little wanger so she took him behind a construction site around the corner and made
him pull his drawers down. He loved it, but then all of a sudden he started crying. But that
nonsense wasn’t going to work on her. She told him to knock it off or she would give him
something to cry about. God, he was so annoying. What did he expect? She couldn’t figure him
out. He just stood there with his drawers down crying. She started chasing him away and he
tripped and fell – right on a 2x4 with a nail sticking out. It went right into his head. It was wicked
awesome. He stopped crying that’s for sure. She yanked his drawers back up and ran home.
Later that day she’d decided she’d had enough of that foster home and she pulled a kitchen knife
on their precious, yappy dog. She wasn’t going to hurt it but it was enough of a gesture for the
foster parents to call her case worker and get her moved that night. I’m so so sorry,” she'd heard
the “mother” say to the social worker, like she was the one who had done something wrong. “I
cannot keep her any longer. You must come get her now!” By the time she left their home the
foster parents were worried sick about their perfect little boy who failed to show up for dinner.
She never knew what happened to that kid, nor did she care that much. He was so annoying.
Foster parents are the dumbest people on Earth, she repeated to herself.

9. CHAPTER 3
It had been a year since I’d last heard from Shelby with a Christmas card of her beautiful family.
The essence of bliss. She in a red sweater and her husband Joe in a green one, each holding a red
and green capped baby on their laps. Shelby was smiling just a bit too broadly and Joe looked
drawn and slightly incredulous. I laughed when I pulled the card out of its envelope. It was so
like Shelby to make a mocking statement out of a tradition that she despised – the annual display
of the modern Norman Rockwell vision of prosperity, joy and peace. She and I joked a lot about
the challenges of parenthood and how she was going to be the perfect parent, at least compared
to the stupid and sometimes evil parents we were used to working with. But her message on the
card said it all. “The dream is truly impossible.” I knew that.
I thought it was also clever how her message was written so directly that what you wanted to
believe tricked your brain into thinking the card said, “The dream is truly possible.” I love this
woman!
Shelby obviously was anxious to talk to me because here she was calling me again - way too
early in the morning - before I’d had a chance to return her call from yesterday. When I heard the
phone ringing I thought it could be my eldest daughter calling from college probably for money,
but she would start the conversation asking for advice - she knew how to reel me in. Then I
remembered she, like her mother, was not an early riser. No way it was her, and when I picked
up the phone without glancing at the caller ID I got shocked and stumped all at once - Shelby
style. In her best southern drawl she said, without announcing who she was of course, “You
won’t believe what she did now.” Instantly, I was brought back to the case we worked on
together two years earlier before she went on pregnancy leave with her first child. The
unthinkable happened three months into that leave – she got pregnant again. I guessed that after
staying home with two babies in a row, now likely in daycare, she was ready to get back to work.
Shelby and I had met 6 years earlier at a child and family law conference where I was the
plenary speaker. I spoke about the factors that might increase a birth parent's chances of getting
her/his children back from foster care and about the challenges of raising someone else’s
children, which I knew about all too well because I had adopted four youngsters who blessedly
were almost grown now. In graduate school my specialty was parent-child relationships but I got
lured into the area of the developmental disorders associated with complex trauma – chronic
exposure to abuse and neglect during the first three years of life at the hands of a caregiver - after
I adopted two sibling groups from the foster care system within a 2 year period. They had me
stumped and I was bound and determined to figure out what the hell was wrong with my
children. I became an expert on the subject by observing therapists, attending conferences, brain
storming with other professionals, creating and testing model practices, and researching and
writing several books. This led me to consulting on numerous child abuse and custody cases with
agencies around the country, and training hundreds of foster/adoptive parents and professionals
in a variety of venues.
At the conference Shelby and I sat at the same lunch table and between her homegrown southern
sense of humor and my New York born candor we alternately shocked and amused everyone else
at the table. Despite our age difference - me being old enough to be her mother - she and I

10. became fast friends, friends that would go months without talking and then hook up in an instant,
like a day apart had never come to pass. She called me a couple times a year, whenever there was
extra $$$ in the coffer for attachment and adoptability assessments of children she was working
with.
Two years ago she asked me to consult on a case involving a fifteen year old in foster care.
Shelby was a foster care guardian ad litem (GAL), and had been assigned by the court to
represent this child’s best interests. Unfortunately, most GALs are volunteers from all walks of
life and as such know very little about how the needs of many of abused and neglected children
differ from the needs of other children. But Shelby isn’t one of those. Shelby has a law degree
and is one of the few child welfare professionals that I’ve come across who really has a grasp on
these special kids. In part because her parents had adopted a three year old when Shelby was
twelve. Shelby had always wanted a little sister and her parents thought they could give their
child what she wanted while helping another child at the same time. Unfortunately, they all
learned the hard way how some of these foster children are irreparably damaged from in-utero
drug and alcohol exposure and post birth abuse and neglect.
Shelby’s adopted sister Pamela had challenged the whole family throughout her childhood,
making the remaining part of Shelby’s childhood a bit of a disaster. At her worst Pamela was
destructive, defiant, dishonest and disingenuous – she didn’t have a best. She ran away at
eighteen, as she always said she would, found her birth mother Tina, as she always said she
would, and moved in with Tina, as she always said she would. It was a tearful reunion with
promises of forever. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out to be the fairy tale story Pamela had
imagined. After a couple of months Tina tossed Pamela out, presumably because neither of them
was willing to work and Tina did not want to share her disability check with Pamela.
As far as Shelby knew Pamela had been living on the streets ever since. It had been four years
and Pamela only checked in with her adopted family if she was desperate for food or shelter. It
took Shelby’s parents about two of those years to be convinced (by me and Shelby) that helping
Pamela was only prolonging the inevitable and they finally stopped. Pamela stopped calling soon
after.

11. Chapter 4
While I was off educating the world regarding traumatized children, my husband, Allen (aka,
DOD) was the full time stay-at-home parent and homemaker, and became, as a result of raising
traumatized children, traumatized himself. According to him, however, “It’s nothing Prozac and
a beer can’t fix.” Gotta love him. If I’d been home with any kids full time the funny farm
ambulance would have been at my door step on a regular basis.
Allen and I were truly happy that our eldest daughter was off to college and our eldest son was
soon off to Parris Island for Marine basic training. Never thought they’d be okay. Two more to
go and I had high hopes for them. Not so with the kid Shelby was calling me about. When I
heard Shelby use that familiar but eerie line, “You won’t believe what she did now,” I noticed a
lump forming in the middle of my breast bone, like I swallowed my fish oil capsule sideways. I
knew it was bad – this kid was bad news two years ago, nothing I could prove but I knew. And I
knew, unlike my children who received the best of care and interventions, she wouldn’t improve
with age.
Her name was Rebecca but there was nothing Sunny Brook Farm about her. She was called
Becka and she had spent most of her life in kinship placements, foster care, preadoptive
placements, and group homes starting at age two. Our case with her ended when Shelby and I
tried to get the court to admit Becka into a residential treatment facility. An RTF provides more
structure, containment, and therapeutic interventions than a group home. And while the RTF may
not have been able to “fix” Becka at least the general population would be safe from her; and I
truly believed we needed that protection, particularly for our children.
But the court thought they knew better. Becka’s latest in a long line of short term therapists got
on the stand and gave a stirring account of a sweet, misunderstood, confused teenaged girl who
just needed a good home and lots of love (like none of her past 12 homes were any good or
loving). I thought to myself, “You take her then.” It was decided that Becka would be placed in
yet another group home. I warned the court that Becka would likely run away as she had done
many times in the past and that we had less than three years to get her some real help before she
would age out of the department of children and family service’s purview, which would make
her next stop, jail. Boy, that was prescient.
The judge pointedly asked Becka if she would stay in the group home until she was eighteen
years old and Becka, obediently and earnestly replied, “Yes, ma’am, I will.” She ran away that
night shortly after her therapist dropped her off at the “Do Drop In” group home in Burlington.
She supposedly had an argument with one of the group home staff about hair gel and she was
off. I found out about it when Shelby called me too early the next morning, without announcing
herself, just saying, “You won’t believe what she did now.” Last we heard Becka made it to FL,
where her people are from, and we hadn’t heard about her again until now. She was back - and
naturally, in trouble.
I said, “Shelby, how the hell are you and don’t you ever say hello first?” She giggled a lovely
tinkly laugh tinged with southern hospitality and then got back to business. “No time, Patricia,”
she said. “I’ve been as busy as a moth in a mitten! But I’m good, had a blast staying home with

12. my little ones until too many newspaper articles about school shootings and child homicides got
my blood boiling and I knew I had to get back in the saddle.” “Joe told me to stop reading and
watching the news, but you know me. You and I are a lot alike.” I tossed that idea around for
half a second. That might have been true ten years ago but my type AAA personality had waned
down to a puny type A and Shelby was still going strong. Joe is a saint, I thought. “When can we
meet?” she asked. “We are talking about Becka right?” I questioned her somewhat rhetorically.
“Is fatback, fat?” she replied. I had no idea, but I got the gist.
We made plans to meet the next day after lunch at my favorite watering hole, Starbucks. Shelby
arrived just after me and we greeted each other with a flourish of animated hugs, mwahs, and
compliments about how great we both looked given our circumstances (her being the mother of
two babies only a year apart, and me being old). And she did look marvelous and I did look -
okay. Thirty two year old Shelby has long wavy honey hair like the woman from the old (very
old) Breck shampoo commercials, sunny skin, sweet blue eyes, and though she used to have a
zaftig figure, and she still has 36 D breasts, breast feeding two babies brought the rest of her 5’
7’’ body down to a slim size 6. She is what was considered in my day to be the “all American
girl.” I, on the other hand had given up on makeup, high heels, and even hair several years ago.
My youngest daughter tells me I’m an “adorable little woman.” I tell her that I used to be a real
looker. And DOD says I’m “still the most beautiful woman in any room.” I’m happy.
After retrieving our perspective designer coffees we sat in a private room with a small
conference table and I pulled out a pad and pen as Shelby started explaining exactly why she
needed my services.
“Becka’s been accused of a murder in Durham,” Shelby began. “Oh God,” I dipped my chin and
held my hanging head in my hand.” “Didn’t you hear about it? Where have you been keeping
yourself, she asked me, at the bottom of a well? Not at all meaning to insult me. But I hadn’t
heard about it and I shook my head, no. Unlike Shelby, I’d given up listening to the news and
reading newspapers many moons before – too sad, too negative, too much. I was very ready to
hand the social-conscious-outrage baton over to the next generation.
“She allegedly was babysitting a ‘friend’s’ toddler,” Shelby went on, “and somehow, according
to the mother, Becka suffocated the kid.” Shelby said ‘friend’ with a lift of her eyebrows to
indicate that I would know what that meant. And I did. In Becka’s world everyone was her friend
until they were her enemy. She never met a stranger but at the same time everyone was estranged
from her; she never truly connected with anyone on an intimate level. She couldn’t live
comfortably with other people and at the same time she couldn’t live alone. Such was the life of
an attachment disordered personality.
“Are they sure the kid's mother is describing Becka? Did she know her by name? How did they
ID her? Where is Becka now? How did she end up in Durham?” I rattled off questions like a
machine gone not waiting for an answer as another question popped into my head, which I often
did when I was excited and which always annoyed the heck out of Allen. But Shelby handled
this annoying foible in stride and answered each question in turn. “Yes, the mother is sure it was
Becka. She said she had gone to high school with Becka for a few months a couple of years ago,
and Becka had dropped in for a visit about a week ago after they reconnected on Facebook. The

13. mother said Becka asked to stay with her for awhile. I don’t know how long she’s been in
Durham before that but so far I've gathered that after running away from NC 2 years ago she
made her way down to FL through Myrtle Beach, SC and then perhaps hung out in Jacksonville,
FL where her people are from. Then she headed back here. I don’t know the whole story because
the police haven't tracked her down yet and, when they do she won’t give anyone a straight
answer anyway. You know her. If there's one rat you can see, there's gonna be a dozen you can't.
You are likely the only person who knows how to get underneath the skin of a kid like her and
into her head. So, that’s the first thing I need you to do; when they find her I need you to
interview her with me. And if the court presses charges against her then I'll need you to provide a
developmental assessment to be used at her trial.
Whenever a lethal crime is committed by a child, it is our human nature to ask, “Why did he do
it? or How could he have done it?” A developmental assessment can slake that curiosity but even
more than that it helps to humanize an alleged or convicted felon in the eyes of the court. This is
particularly helpful in cases of teenage crimes because an assessment can make a big difference
in how a judge and jury see the child (who is being tried as an adult) and as a result the type of
conviction and sentence the child receives. Utilizing a developmental assessment during a trial or
during sentencing is a new trend in the court system. An assessment links the child’s history,
gathered from a variety of sources, with research-based information regarding the adolescent
brain and the effects of early experiences of trauma on child development and behavior. In others
words, it tells the child’s life story, or rather, in this case, I do. And that story often reveals
possible states of mind at the time of the crime and factors that may indicate rehabilitation
potential.
I’d only completed two developmental assessments in my career, both were recent, both were for
very serious crimes, and both defendants were teenage boys. The first was an assessment of a
seventeen year old boy convicted of shooting and killing a young man at a party. The second was
of a fifteen year old boy who snapped and stabbed his teenaged girlfriend 39 times with a pocket
knife. She lived, and he was charged with attempted murder. Now I would be doing an
assessment of Becka, a seventeen year old girl accused of the unthinkable – killing a baby.
I gestured for Shelby to go on with the details. Shelby continued, “Allegedly, the mother walked
in on Becka sitting on the child who was wrapped in a blanket and surrounded by pillows.” “Oh
wow,” I interrupted. “You know what that reminds me of? That old way of doing attachment
therapy. You know – rebirthing. Remember that therapist in CO who went to prison back in the
late nineties for reckless child abuse resulting in the death of a 10 year old girl? Shelby said she
had not, and reminded me that that was way before her time. So I explained.
The child lived in NC and was the adopted child of a nurse who worked at Duke. From the
mother’s description, the child clearly had Reactive Attachment Disorder so the kid was pretty
much a mess: lying, stealing, destructive, unloving, no empathy, immature, aggressive, passive
aggressive, sexually provocative, impulsive, depressed, emotionally labile and anxious. The list
of antisocial behaviors associated with RAD goes on and on, and unfortunately these kids don’t
have a long list of positive behaviors to balance out the negative. It’s horrible for the adoptive
parents. Consequences have no impact on changing the suffering child’s attitudes or behaviors.
Some of these children never respond to nurturing and in fact resist mothering all together, no

14. matter how long they have lived in the new, safe environment and no matter how often and
strenuously they declare they want a mother. It’s the lifelong burden of getting abused and
neglected as an infant and toddler.
RAD was not widely accepted by mental health professionals even 5 years ago so you can
imagine how challenging it was for any of us adopted parents to get effective therapeutic
treatment years ago. “How could it not be widely accepted?” Shelby interjected. “It seems so
obvious to me.” I went on. Nobody wanted to diagnose a child with a social disorder that
accused the birth parent of pathogenic care, that couldn’t be medicated, and that seemed to be
unaffected by talk and play therapies, which were the only acceptable child therapies, and for the
most part still are. It’s only been recently recognized that RAD is a symptom of a much bigger
problem – brain dysfunction.
When neuropsychologists started doing research on the effects of early exposure to abuse and
neglect on the brain, all of a sudden attachment problems became widely accepted. I can
remember teaching professionals years ago about the permanent effects on the brain and the
whole room would grow still and silent. Nobody really wanted to hear what I had to say, even
though many knew the truth in what I was saying. They wanted teddy bear and heart stories of
hope and salvation, and love and therapy curing all wounds. I was not a big hit with audiences,
not like I am now. Back then they wanted to stone me. Now this information, although a lot
more detailed and well researched, is widely accepted as fact, not only fact, but obvious fact,
like, “duh!” Like they never doubted it for a second.
Shelby said that she was confident Pamela had RAD and she remembered her parents dragging
Pamela from therapist to therapist. Her mother would come home crying. Over dinner she would
hear her parents’ frustrations with being blamed by the therapists for Pamela’s problems; that
they weren’t loving Pamela enough, or they weren’t parenting her with empathy, or that they had
unresolved childhood issues themselves and needed therapy. “I can relate,” I told her. Shelby
said, “It was so confusing to all of us, especially since others saw Pamela as charming and
exciting but to us she was distant, disconnected, and frankly, a little frightening. At home she
was always on edge and hyper-vigilant
I said, “It is counterintuitive to think that a loving family home could be stressful for a child,
however, this is the defining element of attachment disorder – tremendous perceived stress and
fear in the exact same parent-child relationship that a child should feel safe and secure. That is
why attachment disordered children attempt to get their needs met from complete strangers (and
appear competent in doing so) but not within a relationship that requires reciprocity. They don’t
get that whole giving back thing that comes so naturally to other kids. Parents of children with
severe attachment problems eventually feel frustrated, inadequate, angry, and hostile. They have
tried everything they know to be good parents and to help their child behave and to love them
back, unbeknownst to them that the child uses these goals against them.
“So how did the little girl die in therapy?” Shelby asked. I jumped back into the story. The
mother took her daughter to a clinic in CO for treatment. The treatments they did were called
“holding therapy” and “rebirthing therapy.” Holding therapy was supposedly a way to release the
child’s repressed rage by holding them against their will and provoking a high level of arousal.

15. Shelby said, “You hold me against my will and you’re going to feel a high level of arousal right
in the crotch, and not the good kind.” I know, right. What you’re thinking makes sense. But the
method was derived in part from learning theory which suggests that there are only three innate
emotions: fear, rage, and love. Rage is elicited by the restriction of bodily movements.
Therefore, it was assumed that because traumatized children are filled with rage from unrequited
needs, provoking rage by holding the child against his will should free the child to love again.
Unfortunately, it was more complicated than that and most mental health practitioners found the
whole idea reprehensible.
Shelby looked pensive. “So is that what happened to the little girl? Her therapist held her too
tight and she died? That seems farfetched?” Not exactly, I went on. This child was involved with
a rebirthing technique similar to holding. The therapist wraps the child up in blankets or a sheet
and places pillows around the child to simulate the womb. “Oh, girl, this sounds familiar.”
Shelby interjected. Yup. Then the therapist requests that the child climb out of the simulated
womb and be reborn to her adoptive mother. While the child climbs out the therapist and mother
often place pressure on the pillows to simulate the birthing experience through the canal. Shelby
jumped in again, “I hate to say it, but this seems whacked to me. Therapists are a nuttier bunch a
bananas than their clients.” I know it seems that way sometimes, but I truly believe this therapist
had the best of intentions. Unfortunately, something went terribly wrong and the child died. I
think she choked on her own vomit. Shelby’s hand flew up to cover her mouth. “Okay, that’s it.
Say no more. TMI TMI.” Shelby said shaking her head looking like she was going to vomit.
Well you’ll be happy to know that since then these interventions have evolved considerably, and
continue to do so now that we know that a traumatized child’s negative behaviors come from
unconscious dysregulated fear as opposed to anger and conscious efforts to control and
manipulate. Then I pondered out loud whether Becka had ever participated in any coercive
therapies back in the day. I was definitely going to dig into that. If Becka had experienced
holding therapy or rebirthing she might have mistakenly thought she was helping the toddler if
she was crying or out of control, just as Becka’s therapists probably said that what they were
doing would help Becka. Or maybe she did mean to hurt the little girl. I really would not put it
past her.
Shelby and I finished our coffees and started heading for the door. We made plans to meet again
in two days to go over our notes from two years ago. We felt confident the police would catch up
with Becka soon, she was young and likely had few resources and honestly she just wasn't very
bright. We wanted to be prepared to hit the floor running when the time came. On the way out of
the door Shelby said, “You’d have to be dumber than a bucket of worms to leave your child with
Becka! That girl has the mothering instincts of a male lion and the heart of a thumping gizzard.”
Likely the child’s mother is a carbon copy of Becka, same MO, I said. “So she didn’t give a crap
about the kid either,” Shelby said as a statement more than a question to me. “I bet you anything
she went out for a pack a cigarettes, met a dude on a motorcycle, fell in love and forgot she had a
kid.” Oh, I’ve actually heard that one before, and in a cloyingly sweet, innocent voice I
mockingly said, “I didn’t leave my child alone, I left her with my neighbor.” UGH! Shelby rolled
her gorgeous blue eyes and waggled her shoulders saying, “Amen to that, and an ARGH to
boot.” She had the strangest sayings and I wondered if she was making them up as she went

16. along or if these were real southernisms. I loved her so much for making me laugh I didn’t really
care. We waved each other off as we headed for our perspective sanctuaries - home.