Three Little Words (32 page)

I wanted Karen Gievers to represent Luke, too. Because he was still in foster care, he needed an adult to bring the legal actions on his behalf. Mary Miller, who had now been his Guardian ad Litem for six years, agreed to fill that role.

Both Luke and I had separate negligence lawsuits against the Mosses as well as against the state. Ms. Gievers also contemplated filing additional lawsuits in federal court under the civil rights statutes because the caseworkers in question were not merely stressed or poorly trained; many were sloppy, a few were downright incompetent, and others may have willfully neglected their duties. Mary Miller pointed out that since the Mosses, Mr. Potts, Sam Rhodes, and Mrs. Pace had all had criminal charges brought against them before or shortly after they cared for us, almost half of our foster parents had been people of questionable character. Ms. Gievers, Gay, and Mary wanted someone to take responsibility for this. After all, someone had selected these families to care for us, someone had supervised them, and everyone had acted with the understanding that they were accountable for the kind of care we received.

Ms. Gievers developed a list of the individuals most responsible and filed a federal civil rights suit against them. It asked for relief due to the defendants’ “reckless disregard and deliberate indifference to and violations of plaintiff’s constitutionally protected due-process rights to be safe, and free from harm and cruel and unusual punishment while in the custody and control of the Florida foster care system.” The puppeteers who had pulled the strings of my lost childhood became defendants—but the case dragged on for several years, and I admit it was not at the forefront of my thoughts as I enjoyed life in high school.

In the meantime, the class-action suit, which still included Luke, proceeded until U.S. District Judge Federico A. Moreno decided that the dependency court already protected foster children. The attorneys appealed, but the U.S. Supreme Court declined to consider the case.

Gay told me, “The ruling says that Florida’s laws ‘provide sufficient protection’ for children in state care.”

“When did I ever have ‘sufficient protection’?”

“You still can make a difference—like when you give your speeches.”

“Could the courts or someone force me to stop?”

“Not a chance!” Phil said with a hearty laugh. He placed his arm around Gay’s shoulders.

As I looked from him to Gay, I felt a surge of something I could not quite define swell inside me. If I had been the type, I would have hugged them both. I did slide closer to them. I recall being once again struck with the realization that they would be there for me. They had let me pursue my legal rights, even though they initially had doubts about going that route, and they always had a fresh way to solve my problems. There was a time I didn’t think I needed anyone; now I wondered how could I need these people so much.

The class-action lawsuit didn’t have the Hollywood ending I’d wanted. But my cases against the Mosses and the state were still alive, and we received notice that Mr. and Mrs. Moss were going to give their depositions. The Courters said I did not have to be there, but I wanted to hear what they would say—under oath—with me sitting across from them.

We drove to Tampa on a cloudy morning in April. Instead of the courtroom I had envisioned, we were crammed into a dreary conference room in a court reporter’s office. At first I avoided looking at the Mosses, and then I dared a sideways glance. They appeared older and much more drab than the goblins in my nightmares.

Ms. Gievers interviewed Mr. Moss first. She tried to determine the extent of the Mosses’ assets. Mr. Moss admitted they had received more than $265,000 in tax-free subsidies, plus Social Security checks for some of the children they had adopted. When the questions turned to Mandy and her brother, I perked up. I had not known that their mother, who had tried to give them away in a bar, was actually the sister of Mrs. Moss’s daughter-in-law. Those poor kids had traded one hell for another—and now they were back in foster care limbo.

Mr. Moss admitted whipping two of the children he adopted, but not any foster children. I was shocked when he divulged that they currently had joint custody of a seven-year-old boy, even though a condition of Mrs. Moss’s probation prohibited her from caring for any more children. When Mr. Moss was asked if he had seen me since I had been removed from their home, he said I had called three or four times wanting to visit. I gaped in amazement as he declared that he had picked me up from a home in Brandon and had taken me to spend the weekend with them.

Seeing my reaction, Ms. Gievers called for a break.

“How could he say that?” I hissed in the hallway. “Not only would I never have made such a call, but I never lived anywhere near, Brandon!”

“Calm down,” my lawyer said. “But I’m glad you told me that.”

After lunch Mrs. Moss swapped seats with her husband. Until that moment, she had not said a word, but when she began to answer questions, she spoke in the same deceitful voice she had used to con caseworkers. When asked about the squatting, she said that when children stood in the corner for time-outs, they would scratch the drywall. “And my solution to that was to face the corner, arms like—well, sometimes they would go down on their knees—however they’d want to stand there. That’s not me making them squat. They’re doing whatever, as long as they’re facing that corner and they’re quiet. They got time to think, that’s what the corner is for.”

She emphatically denied telling an investigator that she sometimes punished with hot sauce or that she had paddled another child.

Ms. Gievers asked, “Do you remember putting children into an empty garbage can and beating them while they were in the can?”

“No.” Mrs. Moss’s lips turned into a snide grin, an expression that used to precede some of her meltdowns. As a reflex, I bit my cheek.

Ms. Gievers checked her notepad and asked, “Do you recall—” Seeing Mrs. Moss’s smirk, she asked, “Is there something funny about children being abused?”

Mrs. Moss tried to cover her blunder. “That did not happen.”

Ms. Gievers looked her straight in the eye. “What do you recall about Ashley?”

“She was very, very smart.” Mrs. Moss glanced in my direction, and then her voice became smooth as syrup. “I remember her, me, and Mandy going shopping. And they matched up and dressed alike and we had a good time.”

You are making that up!
I wanted to scream; instead, I continued to chew my cheek. I was furious that she could still twist everything, but what hurt the most was that she could still make me feel helpless. A wayward teardrop slipped down the side of my nose. Phil handed me his folded handkerchief.

Mary Miller caught Gay’s eye. Gay followed her gaze, then covered her mouth as if she was going to cough. Mr. Moss had been sitting slightly behind us on our left. We had been concentrating on Mrs. Moss and Ms. Gievers. Phil noticed what was happening first and nudged me to turn and look at Mr. Moss, who grunted. I realized he was snoring. Not only had Mr. Moss fallen asleep, his dentures had slid out of his mouth! Mary and Gay had lost it and were laughing behind cupped hands. The Mosses’ attorney tapped her client on the shoulder. He startled awake. His wife motioned him to replace his teeth.

After that, I listened dispassionately as Mrs. Moss gave a made-for-television version of their lifestyle that included trips to the circus and Ice Capades, dinners out on Fridays, and pizza every Wednesday night. She contradicted reports she had given to a deputy about how she punished us, confused the names of the children, and made up a story about burning wrapping paper to cover her threats to destroy our Christmas presents. She claimed she read us bedtime stories, wrote us poems, put our baby songs in individual life books. When Ms. Gievers asked where these books were, she insisted that she had sent them along with us.

“What about Ashley’s Easy-Bake oven and her dolls?” my attorney asked.

“I don’t remember anybody asking me about an Easy-Bake oven or dolls,” she said hesitantly. “These kids sit around and they go over it and over it and over it.” After hours of questioning, her inner shrew finally emerged. “And they read it in the paper.” Her voice became as shrill as fingernails on a blackboard. “Then one kid picks up what the other one says and it just goes on and on.”

Ms. Gievers’s voice was firm. “Let’s stop a minute, Mrs. Moss.”

“The kids wanted to do it—and they did!” Mrs. Moss continued anyway.

“The only article that has ever appeared in the newspaper didn’t appear until after you were arrested and charged criminally in 2000, correct?”

“The kids picked up on these reports. And the people that come in asked the same questions.”

Karen Gievers softened her voice. “Did you ever stop to think that the report sounded similar because you kept doing the same things to the children?”

Mrs. Moss was defiant. “But I didn’t, and that’s why I know how they did this!”

Ms. Gievers shook her head. “Do you have any idea of the harm that you caused the children?”

Mrs. Moss’s attorney interrupted. “Object to the form.”

“I haven’t caused harm because that stuff is not true! I think y’all are causing more harm by playing along and letting them say this stuff and encouraging them. I know that’s where your money comes from, but I don’t think that is a fair thing to say.”

Ms. Gievers paused on purpose. “And tell us, again, the total amount of money that you and Mr. Moss got?”

“I have no clue,” Mrs. Moss said.

“More than a quarter of a million, correct?”

Next, Ms. Gievers asked about the overcrowded home. With every answer, Mrs. Moss was getting testier, until her attorney interjected, “We’re bordering on harassment.”

Ms. Gievers apologized and asked, “Do you recall telling Ms. Miller that you had Ashley’s Easy-Bake oven and her radio and dolls?”

“If I had them, I would have given them to her. I sent her off with thirty-six outfits and God knows what else.”

Then why did I have to scrounge in Lake Mag’s charity closet?
I seethed silently.

As she concluded, Ms. Gievers looked at a note that Gay had passed to her. “Have you had any contact with Mandy?” she asked.

“No.” Mrs. Moss stated she had not seen her in two years.

I left the room feeling claustrophobic and exhausted. “How could she tell so many lies?” I shrieked when the car door closed.

“They’ll catch up with her when they match what she said today with what’s in the licensing files,” Gay said.

My lips felt moist. “Do you have a tissue?”

Gay turned around. “Your mouth is bleeding!”

“I bit my cheek.”

Phil kept his eyes on the road, but I could see him shaking his head. “I knew we never should have let her do this,” he mumbled to Gay. “I’m so sorry, Ashley.”

I looked at the blood spots on the tissue and then started laughing. “It was worth it to see Mr. Moss’s false teeth fall out!”

After realizing the scrutiny that the Mosses had to endure during their depositions, I was concerned that their lawyer would try to trap me during mine and then they would have grounds to say I was lying. My head pounded as I tried to recall the tiniest details about my time in their home nine years earlier.

“Don’t worry,” Ms. Gievers said in her gravelly voice that sounded maternal when she was on your side, aggressive when she was not. “When the Mosses’ attorney asks a question, just wait a second in case I want to object. If I don’t say anything, then tell the truth. If you don’t recall, just say that. Don’t volunteer more than you’ve been asked.”