Lifesaving Lessons (20 page)

Imagine explaining that driver's education at the age of fifteen does not require sitting in the instructor's lap. Imagine explaining to your daughter that the twelve-year-old boy Cody, who coerced her into taking and sending over the Internet naked pictures of herself, was actually a fabrication of her guardian and uncle, the defendant. As were the young girls from Texas who sent pictures of the defendant's penis to my daughter. As was Marie the defendant's self-manufactured French girlfriend and cybersex partner, complete with broken English.

The defendant fits the definition of the classic pedophile by his mind control and total manipulation of his prey. That's just the tip of the iceberg, and I won't go on because I'm sure you've heard plenty.

Last, imagine, if you can, explaining to this beautiful young lady why the defendant, her abuser, did not, if it happens today, receive the maximum sentence. What he did wasn't bad enough? That's a tough sell. He got brownie points for having no criminal record? He's just never been caught. The defendant did not wake up at the age of forty-six and decide he had sexual desires for young children.

What makes this case different from others? What makes this case different from others of sexual abuse and child pornography? I've been asking myself that question. Why should Your Honor consider a sentence upward rather than below the range? Most crimes and offenses of this nature are hidden and private. The defendant made this abuse public when he invited his victim's male peers to become voyeurs and abusers themselves. He sent my daughter's school friends pictures of her naked in a way that falsely indicated that she had sent them herself.

Imagine forming some compelling and reasonable argument to urge your daughter that she did, in fact, have to return to high school. Imagine convincing her that she has nothing to be ashamed of and that she can hold her head high above her school chums' voices calling her a “porn star.” I hate what the defendant has done to my daughter. I hate what the defendant has done to my community. He has shattered our naïveté. We are riddled with guilt for not seeing the truth and, in fact, enabling the abuse.

I hate what the defendant has done to me personally. I now question the way I interact with the island children. Is it okay for me to hug Johnny or pat Alex or ruffle Andrew's hair? Is it okay for me to share a hotel room with my daughter? The eye-opening and stomach-turning truth about the defendant has made me paranoid and has profoundly changed the way I think and act. I understand that it is within my rights to seek financial restitution in this case. I have chosen not to do so. No amount of money will erase the years of abuse suffered by my daughter. Believe me, I'd love for her nightmares to go away. Money can't restore my community's innocence or ease our feelings of guilt. The best we can do is ask Your Honor for the maximum sentence. I consider the opportunity for this little bit of input today a real privilege and I thank you for hearing me.

Phew. I was sure the entire courtroom heard me exhale as I sat down between Bif and Simon. Bif squeezed my hand and Simon gave me a reassuring nod. Frankly, I was amazed that I had referred to Mariah as my daughter without planning to. It just came out, and seemed okay. Thank God she hadn't heard it, I thought. The hint of being my
anything
right now might trigger her oversensitive gag reflex or cause pain in her chest or bring on hives. Ken had his turn at the podium and, as I recall, was remorseful. I figured his attorney coached him on that. I didn't hear most of what he read from the single white sheet of paper that crinkled in his shaking hands. My mind was more on Mariah's birthday and how we'd celebrate it a few days late in conjunction with her graduation party and congrats-on-college-acceptance soiree. We'd do it up in true Greenlaw fashion, I thought. The judge left the courtroom for his chambers, leaving me in the caring hands of Bif and Simon.

.   .  .

The judge returned to the courtroom. We all rose. The judge asked us to be seated. The sentencing itself was far different from what I had imagined, and what I had imagined was inspired by my childhood television experience watching
Perry Mason.
I was impressed that the judge was so thoughtful. He explained everything in detail while I kept waiting for him to growl and come out with some number of years for Ken to be incarcerated and then slam down the gavel. There were “levels” added, which I figured were bad points for Ken. For example, there were two additional levels for material including prepubescent minors, five for distribution of child pornography to juveniles, four for images depicting violence against minors, and so on. And there were three levels subtracted for the defendant's accepting responsibility for his offenses, and that was the grand total of good points. The total offense level was thirty-seven and the criminal history was category one. This yielded a guideline range of 210 to 262 months. The judge sentenced Ken to 240 months on the trafficking offense and 120 months for possession. The judge noted that because it is impossible to traffic in child pornography without possessing it, the sentences were to be served concurrently. Bottom line: Ken was sentenced to 360 months, which was the maximum within the guideline range. When you added and subtracted all the pieces, he would be in jail for 240 months—20 years. That seemed like a good long time to me. Mariah would be safe.

I was eager to call Mariah and report that Ken had received the maximum sentence. I was disappointed once again to have to leave her a message, knowing that my call would not be returned. My sense of relief and satisfaction that justice had been served were shared by the island community. Once again my friends and family stepped up to join me in what could otherwise have been a very lonely feeling of strange triumph. I wished that Mariah would share that space with me, but maybe it was better that she didn't.

When I went to the post office I was surprised to have something in my box from Mariah. She had sent some tickets to her graduation and a note that read simply: “If anyone wants to come.”

A Mother Is Born

I
n the spirit of “seeing is believing,” and once again flanked by Simon and Bif, I gladly but somewhat skeptically took a seat among the hundreds of family members packed into a white tent that welcomed the proud parents of the pending graduates of Evergreen Academy. It was a steamy hot morning, the kind that finds everyone wiping a brow with the back of a hand. Nothing smells quite like dew evaporating from canvas. The aroma, as distinct as bacon, thickened the air in the same way. Graduation programs fanned perspiring necks and faces through the welcome address. Simon loosened his tie.

A small sea of white squares askew on heads and draping gowns in the front of the seating area shifted impatiently in metal folding chairs while a few nervous whispers escaped from under caps. I wasn't sure under which of the sixty squares Mariah sat. They all looked alike from my perspective. And that was a good perspective in light of what I knew was so very different.

The awards part of the ceremony was long. There seemed to be endless lists of highest achieving students, Good Samaritans, and exceptional athletes, each called up one at a time. Each recipient of each scholarship made his or her way to the podium and shook hands with a right hand and grabbed a plaque and an envelope with the left while posing for posterity in a bright flash before exiting the stage and making way for the next smiling representative of wholesomeness. Have you ever watched a parade because you had to, one in which you were not genuinely interested? Float after float, marching bands, clowns on tricycles, majorettes, horses, the mayor's wife in a convertible . . . it was easy for me to drift away from the scene. Capped and gowned teenagers floated ghostlike across the platform, much like the sheep I was almost counting.

As the scholars and jocks cycled from and to their individual seats, so did the events littering my relationship with Mariah walk through my memory, where they'd gained their own pageantry. But I suppose that's what sentiment is, and what better time to allow myself a little human sentimentality. The only person in my entire life other than myself for whom I had taken responsibility had reached one of life's benchmarks. Mariah was graduating from high school! So much of what Mariah had achieved was not tangible or measurable to the human eye, so this diploma was a big deal. The fact that she was graduating from this fine school was equivalent to walking on the moon for a kid with a normal background. She had certainly come a long way. I had come a long way.
We
had come a long, frustrating way. Had it really been three years since she'd arrived at my place—bag, baggage, and cat—for a short stay while her uncle got his act together? Wow. I wondered where we would go from here.

It was certainly her choice to stay within the nest or to take flight. It was her prerogative to call the place on Isle au Haut home or to leave it behind in search of whatever it is young people need. Because her eighteenth birthday had landed in the week of final exams, I hadn't seen her since she had been out from under my legal care. In our few conversations that consisted mostly of polite small talk, I spoke in terms that I believed gave her no choice other than to remain under my care and guardianship. Even if not legally bound to do so, I wanted to continue toward the goal of “us.” Outwardly I wore my heart on my sleeve. I spoke nonchalantly and only in terms of “us” and “we” when discussing future options and plans. But I was secretly worried that she might not want my family, my friends, my house, or me.

While milling around the campus that morning before the ceremony, I met random parents of kids I had never met. Protocol dictated the same exchange over and over. “Who's your son or daughter? What does he or she have planned for the immediate future?” “Mariah” and “Ethan Allen,” I bubbled naturally, happily, and yes,
proudly.
I'm not sure the words would have been as carefree if they had been spoken in Mariah's presence.

Beyond “Congratulations,” I wondered what else I would say to Mariah after the ceremony. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as Bif studied something on her phone and Simon gazed into space. What words of wisdom would I impart? What would a “real” mother say? I probably had another two hours or so to figure it out, I thought as I looked at the program and realized that Evergreen was still in the awards phase of the agenda. We still had to hear from the student speakers and to endure the commencement address before diplomas were dealt. I admired Mariah's name as it appeared in the list of graduates. Pretty official, I thought with a sigh. Suddenly my attention was torn from the program. What did I just hear? Bif reached out and tapped my knee rapidly and Simon applauded as Mariah made her way through the row of classmates and up the steps to the stage, where she was receiving an award. I clapped enthusiastically. When I turned to Bif with a look of question, she shrugged and laughed. “I was doing e-mail,” she whispered apologetically. I turned to face Simon as he raised his eyebrows and shoulders simultaneously, indicating that he didn't know what Mariah was being recognized for either.

I didn't blink for fear of squeezing the tear that had pooled along my lower lid and sending it onto my cheek for all to see. I swallowed the tightness that gripped my throat. It didn't matter what Mariah had received an award for. She had been recognized. I sat taller in my chair and paid close attention to what remained of the commencement exercises. I was impressed with the students who took the podium to speak. The valedictorian asked his classmates to turn to one another and say “Good-bye,” as that was something that hadn't been taught in the four years of private school education. Sure, they had had lots of practice with “See you later, See you after class, See you at the game, See you after break . . . ,” but they had never had to say “Good-bye” to one another. And now it was time. I choked up again as I wondered how Mariah was handling that closing. She had some experience with hearing it. I wondered if she believed that she would never hear it from me.

The commencement speaker was actually a duo of father and son. They sucked. I thought that Evergreen Academy could have done better by this graduating class. This was such a big day! I suppose it wasn't so much what they said but more what they didn't say that I felt so profoundly lacking. This class needed to know how important their education was. They needed to be told that education could never be wasted—no matter what they chose to do with it. They needed to know that education is the one thing they had achieved that could never be taken away. I imagined that Mariah didn't care, so I decided to cut the speaking team some slack. Really, I thought, all this class
wants
to hear is “Congratulations!” I was worried because I knew some awkwardness was imminent as Mariah and I forged ahead.

After the last diploma was passed, the final applause had subsided, and the crowd dispersed from under the tent and sprawled out into the brilliant sunshine, Bif and Simon left for their homes. I found Mariah hugging friends and teachers and crying a few happy tears. She quickly handed me her diploma and award, and asked if I could carry them to the car for her. “What is the award for?” I asked.

“I have no idea! I wasn't paying attention either.” Mariah laughed and was immediately swarmed by another group of friends wanting photos. “Can I meet you at the car? I won't be long.” I agreed and told her to take her time. We were in no particular hurry. I experienced a mix of emotions as I walked Evergreen's campus for what I knew would be the last time. Mostly it was relief. I felt a slight twinge of sadness as I watched families posing for pictures around their new graduates.

Mariah, true to her word, was not long returning to the car. We worked together lugging boxes and bags of her belongings from her third-story dorm room to the Jeep. When the goldfish was placed in the only remaining open spot, we headed out in silence. I figured Mariah would curl up in a ball and fall asleep. But she didn't. She sat happily and alertly by my side and seemed to be comfortable in the quiet. Her phone rang. “Hello? Oh hi. Thank you. It was great! Hey, can I call you later? I'm in the car with my mom. We're heading home.”