Editor’s Note: This story was written by a local mom who, through a traumatizing experience, helped to change how Manchester’s police department trains and prepares officers to deal with situations involving people with disabilities. We will bring you that story, as well.
But first, the prelude to change.
What follows is her story, presented in four parts; a journey through a system she quickly discovered was ill-equipped for the unique circumstances that began with a simple phone call for help. The author is using a pen name to protect the identity and privacy of her adult son and those involved.
⇒ Part 1: The Class B Felony and My Autistic Son
“Mom, am I going to jail?” he asked sleepily as he walked into the kitchen.
Mustering up all of the confidence that I could, I said, “Of course not. You haven’t done anything wrong.” I looked up at him with a reassuring smile.
I glanced at the clock. He’d slept in past noon. The question came again. “But Mom. Are you sure? Are you sure I’m not going to jail?”
I was grateful, and a little envious, that he’d slept at all. I tried to keep my voice carefree as I redirected his attention, “You must be hungry, Sleepyhead. It’s nearly one o’clock.”
I was not used to him living at home. He’d had his own apartment for a little over two years. I thought back to when he finally was approved for public housing. Ironically enough, he moved out on April Fool’s Day 2019. Since that time, my husband and I had become accustomed to being empty-nesters.
I turned my attention to the fridge. I hadn’t been grocery shopping since the arrest and I’d stopped buying his favorites a long time ago. He probably wouldn’t like my usual lunch of a Lean Cuisine or a tuna stuffed tomato. I would make sure to add some of his favorites the next time I went to buy groceries.
I glanced at my watch and replied, “Let’s go out. We have time to eat before we meet the lawyer. I’ll drive.” I grabbed my keys and looked over at him. He never did master the art of grooming and hygiene. He looked decent in the clothes I bought for him yesterday. He’d taken a shower before he came downstairs. He’s a good person, very bright and full of potential. But the world sees a sloppy-looking overweight man with long hair and a tangle of a beard. And the world notices unexpected behaviors. If I didn’t know better, most days I’d say he looks like a homeless person.
Still, I was proud of the progress he’d made. He’s been living in his own apartment for two years with his girlfriend. He drives and owns his own car. He recently become responsible for handling his own budget. These things are common and expected for typical people. But for people like our son, each milestone he reached required years of hard work. He was a success story we could only dream of decades earlier. Now it was all a mess. Had I been fooling myself into thinking he was going to make it? My son’s comment snapped me back into the moment. He said, “Mom, I’m hungry. Can we go now?”
As I steered the car to a local diner, my thoughts drifted to the documents I’d been reading when he came into the kitchen, “You have been arrested on the following charges: 2nd degree assault — felony B.” Circled near the bottom of the form were the words, “Contact the Court at 1–855–212–1234 if you haven’t heard from them within three days of turning in your form.” I’d wondered if my son had turned in a form at the police station, or if he was even given a copy. There was also a hearing notice from Hillsborough County. The hearing date was nearly 30 days after the arrest, “You are ORDERED to appear for arraignment before the Superior Court in Manchester.
As my son gulped down his meal of pancakes and bacon, I picked at my salad. I was anxious about the attorney that we hired. He was a sole practitioner who once had been a prosecutor. He was also helpful on the phone. He was affordable. He was experienced. But I began getting negative reviews from friends of friends. I was overtired. It was difficult to think straight.
His attorney greeted us with a smile and carried himself with a relaxed self-confidence. He reminded me of a blonde Tom Cruise. He listened as my son described what happened. I provided a letter from my son’s PCP as documentation of his diagnosis. I provided him with printouts of texts that were exchanged with the “victim” on the day of the arrest.
The attorney stated that my son was the true victim and that the other party committed a crime by lying to the police and that fact would have to come out. She would face prosecution. I shook my head and said no. I insisted that he find another way. She lived with me for four years. She was like my daughter. I did not want anyone to blame her. She didn’t understand. She has a brain injury. She had stopped taking her medication and became irrational and violent. When the police arrived, she escalated from a state of rage to being terrified. She didn’t want to be arrested. She couldn’t process all that was happening.
The attorney referred to a motion that he could file to get her representation. I expressed concern that it could confuse and frighten her. I asked him to try and resolve this without going to court. The attorney said he’d need to wait until a prosecutor was assigned to the case, then he’ll try to speak with him/her.
I explained that I needed to help this girl. She was living all alone for the first time in her life. I didn’t want her to be frightened. I wanted to make sure she had groceries and everything she needed. He reminded me that my son and the victim could not see or hear each other or communicate in any way. He told me that I was free to help her with everyday things and see her as much as I pleased, but he made one thing clear: I was not to discuss anything about the case with her.
My son was struggling, holding it together. He stated how much he missed his roommate and his cat. He just wanted to go home. The attorney explained again the seriousness of following the rules of the restraining order. He told us that there’s simply nothing he can do until a prosecutor was assigned to the case. He suggested that my son go home with me, watch the film, “My Cousin Vinny” and try to relax.
Later that week, I had dinner with the roommate. Everything about it felt awkward. Because of the covid pandemic, we dined outside beneath a tent in what had been a parking lot. Neither of us knew what to say. The server came and we ordered cocktails and appetizers and soon we were relaxing and chatting and catching up on everything… except anything to do with my son and the case. She asked how he’s doing. She’d ask what happens next. I told her that, for now, I was not allowed to talk about it. I told her to remember to check her mail every day. I told her to listen to her voice messages every day. She told me that she was lonely. She told me that she was frightened. I told her stay strong. I encouraged her to pray. I told her that I love her.
After that, we went out quite often. I made sure she paid the rent. I made sure that she had everything from cat food to shampoo to laundry detergent. One day she commented how heavy the laundry basket is. My son had always carried it for her. I went on Amazon and ordered a rolling laundry cart. I took her to the pharmacy to get her meds and to see her doctor and whatever other errands she needed. I would see after work most days and on the weekends. Since my house was off-limits as my son could not be within 300 feet of her, I took her out. All this dining out was costing me a small fortune. After I dropped her off, I would go home and prepare dinner for my family and do my household chores until bedtime. I would collapse from exhaustion only to wake up in a panic between 2 and 3 a.m. every morning.
The nights dragged on. In the middle of the night, I would read as much as I could find about my son’s situation. It was not good. It did not matter that she wanted to tell the truth because many women recant their accusations in fear of retaliation. Even when a man calls the police, they are often found guilty. Frequently, female victims find the strength to defend themselves and strike back and then the abuser reports it as a crime.
The laws are designed to protect victims. Female victims. I read dozens of stories. Women being abused. Men being abused. Their partners were drunk or under the influence of drugs or had a mental illness. I would fall into a restless sleep. My alarm would go off and it would be time to get up and go to work.
Several times during my workday, I’d be at my desk and my phone would ring. I am grateful that my employers were so understanding. They knew that I had to answer it. I’d pick up the phone, “Mom, am I going to jail?”
After work I would stop at home, check on my son, and then head off to check on my parents and make sure they were doing okay. I would drive them to their appointments and keep a watchful eye on them. Then I would go see my girl.
I told her that I was very proud of her managing things by herself. In an effort to save money and my energy, we began having occasional “stay at home” dates to stream movies apart but together virtually. She was in her apartment and I sat in my living room. We’d start the movies at the same time and texted back and forth our comments about silly things like how cute Brendan Frasier was in “George of the Jungle,” etc. She was in good spirits and texted me every night to say goodnight. I reminded her to feed the cat. I reminded her to lock the door.
My husband and I decided to try to distract our son and take the lawyer’s advice. We began to watch “My Cousin Vinny” together as a family. The film, starring Joe Pesci as a New York lawyer with no trial experience, was not funny at all to my son. He saw innocent defendants being represented by someone who had no clue of how to behave in the courtroom and no idea of how to help them. He wasn’t wrong. He did not grasp the comedy of it. And frankly, in this circumstance, neither did I. My son went upstairs without watching the end.
One week before the arraignment, the attorney communicated with my son that he’d had tried to reach the prosecutor by phone and was getting nowhere. He went down the Court and managed to get her email address. The prosecutor responded that she was in a trial and very busy.
My son went to meet with his attorney so that he could sign a motion to waive his presence at the hearing and a motion to waive extradition. In short, we would not need to go to court for this first hearing.
I asked the attorney how to handle something. I told him that our girl wanted me to take her out to buy clothes for court on Friday. The attorney said, “Why?” I reminded him that she doesn’t have anyone to explain this stuff. Nearly a month and gone by and, to my knowledge, no one from the Court reached out to her. When she told me that she’d received a hearing notice, I couldn’t talk about it. Am I allowed to tell her that the hearing was being waived?
It felt cruel not to have anyone answer her questions about the case. He said that she needs to call the court. He wrote the phone number on a post-it note. He said that I could not be present when she made the call. I explained my concern that she would not feel comfortable making that call alone. I asked if I could get an advocate for her. The attorney said yes.
Later that day, I called an acquaintance and explained the situation. She and I worked together on various councils and committees. She’s highly educated, has a calm way about her and I came to respect her experience in working with families like mine. I’d shared the story of the arrest. Would she be willing to help my girl call the court and help her understand their instructions? She agreed.
I told her that I’d give her a ride the following afternoon to meet the advocate and they can make the call together and that I’d just wait in my car. We agreed to meet in the parking lot of a shopping center in Concord. After 29 days, I felt some relief and was able to sleep for a couple of hours that night.
The next day, after work, I drove my girl up to Concord. We met in the parking lot, and after introductions were made, I walked off into a store so they could have privacy. After twenty minutes I walked back toward the car and saw them waving to me. The phone number I was given didn’t work. We got a recording stating that the number is not in service. She googled it and I dug the hearing notice out of my bag. The phone number was correct. It simply wasn’t working. With nothing else to do, I drove her home.
Frustrated, I called the attorney when I got home. I told him the phone number for the court didn’t work. He said, “Welcome to my world.”
I turned my attention to getting the mail and feeding the dog when my son walked in, “Mom, am I going to jail?
This nightmare wasn’t ending.
Coming tomorrow: The Class B Felony and My Autistic Son — Part III
*Author’s note: I chose to conceal my identity to protect the privacy of my son and my girl. I do not want them to be identified by their disabilities and weaknesses. My son feels betrayed by the police and violated by experience. My girl feels like she was tricked into saying something that wasn’t true and no longer trusts the police. They deserve a chance to put this behind them and find happiness in their quest for independence.
