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.
⇒The Class B Felony and My Autistic Son — Part I
⇒The Class B Felony and My Autistic Son — Part II
Dear Attorney X,
Thank you for your phone call this afternoon. After thinking about our conversation, please allow me to offer the following from my perspective.
This is not a “traditional” case because this is not a “traditional” relationship.
Both of the individuals involved have special needs, especially around processing language.
I am the sole support/caregiver for both my son and for my girl. That is why they are living together. She calls me “Mama.” There is no other person that directly oversees her welfare.
The process of how this unfolds is unfamiliar to anyone who has never gone through it and I’m asking you to make it:
Clear, so that my son and I can understand
b. Less stressful
c. Act toward an outcome that is in the best interest of my son and my girl which needs to be clear to you that, according to both my son and my girl, they want this to “go away”.
I believe that this incident, although extremely difficult to be going through, will ultimately provide clarity for how XXXXX and XXXXX will be able to live together “better” in the future. So, in that sense, it will be a positive thing.
And I say this with the confidence that the act that my son is being accused of did not in fact happen or I would NOT be advocating that my son and my girl continue to live together. I do not want to do this again.
I expect that in your role representing my son (but communicated with both of us) that you respectfully understand that:
1) I am a special needs parent of a challenging adult who has taken on the responsibility of another special needs adult for the last eight years… and I’m exhausted. Please have some respect for this unusual situation and understand that it is even more stressful for me to be in this situation.
2) I need you to make it clear how to direct what resources are available to XXXX because I am the person she is coming to for this information and I do not know. She currently has no one else that she is comfortable with.
Thank you again for your guidance as you represent my son in this matter.
Respectfully,
XXXXXXX
“Mama, I’m in trouble,” she was crying, “Can you come get me?”
It was my girl. I was wrapping up my daily visit with my parents when my phone rang. She explained that she had gone out for the day with some members of her family. Something went wrong and words were exchanged. I understood all too well how my girl’s language processing deficits easily led to misunderstandings. She, along with one of her male relatives, were told to “get the “f” out of the car” by the driver. They stepped out of the vehicle close to the man’s home. He did not have a car and he had serious health conditions that prevented him from walking. It was a blazing 96-degree July afternoon. My girl had asked the driver to bring her to her home to her apartment. The relative drove off in a rage, leaving my girl 14 blocks away from her home.
As I pulled up to the curb, I was greeted by her male relative. He thanked me. He told me what happened. He expressed serious concerns about the condition of the driver that were, frankly, none of my concern. I had my hands full. I simply chalked it up to the heatwave, made sure that he was all set, and then proceeded to the needs of my girl. I took her to get something to eat, brought her home, making sure that the a/c was working in her apartment and that she was okay.
I was seated in a restaurant in Candia with two friends. If they were upset by my tardiness, they didn’t say a word. Each of us is an autism spectrum Mom, and, over the years, grew to admire and support each other. Our get-togethers were usually filled with robust conversation and friendly banter that frequently left us helpless with laughter. Not that night. I couldn’t decompress. They wanted to help me.
I explained that earlier in the day I received a call from my son’s attorney. He had been upset with me. He said that I made things worse. Those words landed like a punch in the stomach. I couldn’t get a clear answer as to what made him say that. I now recognized why my son struggled to understand him. I was struggling too.
One of my friends said, “Make an appointment to meet this attorney. And this time, I’m coming with you.”
The next day, six weeks after the arrest, I received a call from the advocate that I’d engaged for my girl. She told me that the court had appointed an advocate for my girl. As such, she was discontinuing communication with her. She wished us well.
“Your body isn’t handling stress very well,” said my primary care physician as she checked my blood pressure again, “Is something unusual going on?”
I was seated at the end of the exam room table wearing a paper gown. I had been lost in thought while going through the steps of getting my annual physical. She repeated the question. I looked away. “Your body is telling me more than you are,” she said, “and it’s not good.”
She carried on listening to my heart and feeling around my neck. She waited patiently. Not once did she glance at the clock. I wondered didn’t she have other patients waiting to see her? Can we wrap this up? She stopped and raised an eyebrow, “Are you having unwanted thoughts?” I knew exactly what she meant. I didn’t say anything. She spoke about the impact of stress on our health.
She pulled the privacy curtain, and I could hear her open the door. She whispered something to a colleague. She returned briefly and directed me to get dressed and sit in the chair and wait for her to return.
She knocked before entering the room again. She sat down and quietly asked again, “What is going on?”
This time, I explained the situation to my very caring doctor. Lack of sleep. Gut-wrenching fear. The sword of Damocles over my head. I told her that I’m not strong enough to carry this load. It is crushing me.
Then she asked the question again. “Are you having unwanted thoughts?” An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. She watched me for a few moments. Then I said, “Look, I’ve paid for my ticket. I have my popcorn. I had no intention of leaving the show until it’s over. You’ve asked what’s going on and I’ve answered you honestly.” She hesitated.
I snapped, “I’m here aren’t I?” She prescribed two Rx medications. I groaned. I worked very hard over the years to exercise and eat healthy so I wouldn’t need any medication. She said, “I want to see you in six weeks.”
That evening, I took a call from an acquaintance, a former liaison at the Bureau of Developmental Services. She told me about a law that states that adults with disabilities who have been found guilty of serious crimes in NH can be sent to secure group homes in the community that are monitored 24/7 rather than in with the general prison population. She said to make sure the lawyer, and more importantly, the judge knew that my son gets adult services in NH. This information brought me little comfort. I tossed and turned that night.
Four of us went together to the meeting. After introductions, I inquired if the attorney had received my letter. Yes. But he also stated that he did not need to respond to my letter. My son is his client. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with it. I reminded him that when he took this case, we made it clear that my son had deficits in communication and that he agreed that I was to help facilitate when and if any questions came up.
Rather than waste everyone’s time engaging in a debate about this, I explained to the attorney that my son was struggling and talking about being willing to risk everything and drive back to the apartment. He wanted to go home. The attorney said he would file a motion to revoke the bail conditions.
I then focused on three questions that we had. I read them slowly and clearly. I wrote down the exact words that the attorney said in response. It was all incomplete sentences, jumping from topic to topic and he never finished his thoughts. I have no doubt of this attorney’s intelligence. In fact, I think he’s brilliant. But he knows what he’s doing, and we don’t.
The meeting ended. My husband, my son and my friend rode down with me in the elevator. I asked if anyone could tell me the answers to the questions. None of us could say with any confidence that he answered us in a way that we could understand.
When I got to my car, I glanced at my phone. While we were meeting with the attorney, I’d ignored a call and turned off my ringer. I’d missed a call from a detective with the police department looking to speak with me.
My hands were shaking when I dialed the phone. The detective was polite and almost robotic in style. She wanted to know if my relationship with my girl has changed since the incident — no; she wanted to know my thoughts on her family members — I was confused by the question, I rarely saw any of them, but I answered honestly. She wanted to know about the person that I’d asked to advocate for my girl. I explained that I met her when I served on the Independent Living Committee of the NH Council on Autism Spectrum Disorders and had subsequently participated on the Quality Council of the UNH Institute of Disabilities and also participated together in Person Centered Planning. I said she’s intelligent and I respect her. That’s why I reached out to her. I do not know her mailing address. I’ve never been to her home.
I explained my understanding of how my girl became disabled when she was a toddler, and how it impacts her and what accommodations she needs.
I asked that regardless of the outcome that someone please recommend resources that would be beneficial to my girl. She assured me that it was being taken care of.
Two days later, my girl asked if I could give her a ride to a hearing scheduled in mid-July. So long as we didn’t discuss the case, I believed it would be okay, but I simply said, “I’ll find out.”
My son and I called his attorney. He didn’t know about the hearing. We never received a notice from the court and it wasn’t, according to the attorney, on the docket on the court website. I was not allowed to ask my girl about it.
It was only a day or two before the hearing that the attorney finally received confirmation about the hearing. He told me that I could give my girl a ride to the courthouse.
On the morning of the hearing, I brought her to breakfast she told me that she was scared. She didn’t want to go. I took her to an outdoor prayer area at the Precious Blood Monastery. She began to cry. I gave her a hug. We said the Hail Mary together. Out loud, I prayed to her mother to give our girl strength and to watch over her. I walked to my car so she could have some alone time. She joined me in the car and said she was ready. I dropped her off at the courthouse.
During the same time period, my husband dropped our son off at the courthouse. We had to do it separately as they still were not allowed to see or speak to each other. My son had asked me not to attend the hearing, but as I returned home and pulled into my driveway, my phone rang. My son was anxious and changed his mind and asked me to go to the courthouse. Then his attorney came on the phone and said to meet in courtroom 4.
I went into the house and spoke to my husband. Not knowing what to expect, we took separate cars to the courthouse. We walked in together, went through the metal detectors and were directed to courtroom 4. We took seats in the back.
The judge came in and the proceeding began.
Coming tomorrow: The Class B Felony and My Autistic Son — Part IV
*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.
