Читать книгу Dirt Roads and Diner Pie - Shonna Milliken Humphrey - Страница 16

CHAPTER FIVE

New Jersey Legal

At the exact moment we left the New England states and diverted onto the New Jersey Turnpike, Trav’s neck stiffened. It was a subtle change, and I doubt another person would have noticed. My feet still rested on the dashboard, and although I had long finished the hot tea from Maine, I continued to fiddle with the empty paper cup.

The New Jersey portion was a blip on our trip’s overall itinerary, but it took up the most mental space. It is a simple marker, the line into New Jersey, but neither of us spoke because there were no good words. New Jersey is loaded with significance.

Trav described his first arrival in Newark at age eleven as one of chaos. An unaccompanied minor in the pre-mobile phone era, he got lost in the airport and, until located, spent his time wandering the terminals alone.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“I don’t remember,” he said, “but I must have found a pay phone and called someone.”

Photos of the American Boychoir School’s historic Albemarle campus building façade match Trav’s memory: a wide circular driveway, eight portico columns, and five dormered windows on the third floor. Trav described the 1917 estate in remarkable detail, and photos align against his details with an eerie level of accuracy. In one image is the formal staircase where he learned to maintain a military-style formation line before descending at each mealtime. He described the sharp creases in his uniform: navy blue pants, white shirt, and red sweater.

When Trav lived at the Albemarle campus in Princeton, classes were conducted in a series of rooms on the first and third floors. Because the choir traveled often, classes also happened in the tour bus. He learned science and math, social studies and language arts.

When not on tour, Trav practiced choral music every day in a high-ceilinged open space called “The Loggia.” For a little boy raised in a modest home, Italian architectural vocabulary felt foreign and overwhelming.

“The Loggia,” he repeated softly when he told me.

Albemarle’s physical details also included the second-floor living spaces. Occupancy varied according to age, and in Trav’s first year he bunked with eight boys. Their bedroom connected directly to an overnight staff perpetrator’s room, and Trav remembers trying to sleep through the sounds from behind that particular room’s door, wondering if and when he might be next.

Stretching behind the school itself, a manicured, formal field extended toward a natural spring-fed pool with freezing-cold water where Trav would swim. Beyond this pool was a stand of forest where Trav hollowed out a place in the thicket to crouch and hide.

Trav described laundry facilities in a dark basement and a strange hallway-cupboard storage space on the main floor. The former he avoided at all costs, and the latter he converted into another secret hiding place.

Late at night, Trav snuck into the school’s kitchen and ate dry cereal by the handful.

“Well,” I said. “That might explain your current late-night food compulsions.”

I suspect many people have no idea about the pervasive and long-lasting nature of childhood sexual abuse, and this lack of awareness is among the hardest parts to navigate because no lawsuit, apology, or jail time will ever make things right. We both wanted some form of understanding, though, so when Trav gave me permission to contact the school, I struggled to find the right words.

I had long ago requested that the American Boychoir School stop sending us solicitation letters, and they did; so, I proceeded with the good-faith assumption that honest conversations can resolve most issues. Since the American Boychoir School had participated in a court case,²² however reluctantly, that helped change child sexual abuse laws, I expected them to be, if not leaders on the topic, at least willing to discuss the issues.

HARDWICKE V. AMERICAN BOYCHOIR SCHOOL. Decided August 8, 2006. http://caselaw.findlaw.com/nj-supreme-court/1138661.html

Given the long history of allegations about the school, I also expected there would be a basic protocol for reporting, resources, and reparation.

I was naïve.

Trav and I have a friend who practices law locally, and before I contacted the school I asked her informally about the best process for obtaining some form of apology. Instead of meeting over our usual coffee, our lawyer friend invited us both to her office. Her tone was grave, and she wanted us to fully understand the process.

Her space, warm and inviting with exposed brick walls, antique wooden fixtures, and natural light from tall windows, overlooked a small park in Portland’s Old Port district. Sitting at her conference table, we learned about criminal action and civil action.

In simplest and most reductive terms, criminal charges happen with a goal of jail time for the perpetrator. Civil action holds a person or an organization responsible for damages, almost always financially. Both put the burden of proof on the party who claims he or she was wronged. In a criminal proceeding, proof must be beyond a reasonable doubt. With civil charges, the burden is known as “preponderance of the evidence” or, in numerical shorthand, 51 percent. This is a key distinction. Civil cases must demonstrate it is more likely than not that a person or organization is responsible.

Our friend explained that the first step in a civil proceeding is to send a demand letter. Although this is a mean-sounding term, a demand letter outlines the circumstance and invites a conversation.

“Great!” Trav and I agreed. A letter seemed perfect! We would include a statement from Trav’s doctors to demonstrate our legitimacy with more than ten years of documented treatment, and we would start a conversation—exactly what we wanted.

That is when our lawyer friend said that if we sent this letter, we must be prepared to enter litigation.

“Say more,” we requested. Neither of us is stupid, but litigation was a word we generally heard only on televised court dramas.

The school, she explained, would likely give any demand letter directly to an insurance company. Since insurance companies often handle these situations, an institution typically extracts itself from any active participation.

“Huh,” we thought, confused. “That doesn’t seem right.”

What she described next was worse.

The insurance company would likely deny any claims, forcing us to bring a lawsuit. If we sued, the next step would be “discovery,” during which Trav would be required to disclose not just his own experiences, but any rapes witnessed by him or confided to him by other little boys, including names and any available contact information. This disclosure would bolster his credibility, and Trav would be asked to list each specific act of sexual misconduct he recalled and experienced, assigning dates, times, and identifying details for verification.

What’s more, Trav’s therapist, psychiatrist, and physician would likely be compelled to submit all session notes and patient files, and every private conversation would be used by a team of insurance litigators to discredit him.

Any mention of sexual dysfunction, any suicidal consideration, any medications tried, and any moment of marital or personal doubt would be scrutinized for inconsistencies. My husband’s entire collection of private physical and psychological details would be open to a roomful of professionals paid to cast doubt on his already shaky, twenty-five-year-old boyhood recollections.

“Just for an apology?” I asked.

“This could get very ugly,” our lawyer friend explained, noting that civil cases often last for years.

Perversely, Trav’s personal success would count against him. “How bad can his life really be,” a litigator might ask, “if Trav is able to work full time? If he owns a home? If he has never been arrested? If his credit score is good? If he is widely respected in his community? If he can maintain a marriage and friendships?”

“The school is aware of its history,” I countered. “Can we just send statements that show the severity of his situation?” I moved my head toward the window’s park view for a moment, the lush green grass color intensified by the overcast sky, as I tried to negotiate a saner alternative, because the system our friend described made no sense.

A statement from Trav’s doctors that summarized treatment details with dates seemed ample proof for a “preponderance” that, more likely than not, spending thirty sleepless months hearing, seeing, avoiding, and experiencing already-documented child sexual abuse is the source of his post-traumatic stress disorder.

And, once that was established, why wouldn’t the school officials say, “I am sorry this happened while you were in our care. How can we help?”

When I turned back toward Trav, his face had reddened, his breathing was shallow, and his eyes were glassy. There was no space for push-ups, and if he had had a hammer, he would have pounded it.

I wanted Trav to find his voice, but that day in our lawyer friend’s conference room, I imagined my own deepest, most shameful secrets and darkest memories not just being exposed, but exposed to a team of strangers whose professional mission is to discredit details, line by line, and I began to respect the strength many victims find in silence.

I put my hand on Trav’s and thanked our friend for the information. We both hugged her and made vague plans to meet for dinner. Then we drove home.

As for so many victims, Trav’s options for justice and reparation are nearly nonexistent.

On one side is an institution with a well-documented, decades-long history of childhood sexual abuse allegations, and on the other side my husband juggles more than a decade of documented post-traumatic stress in an effort to function. For a 51 percent likelihood that the two are related, this seemed like an easy correlation.

It sounds fair, but it is common for men who suffer from childhood sexual abuse-related post-traumatic stress disorder to bury memories deep. While specific statistics vary, childhood sexual abuse cases, especially among boys, are vastly underreported and rarely see legal action. Statutes of limitation vary in intricacy and by state; financial settlements can be taxed as income, and generally speaking, 30 percent is paid to a personal-injury lawyer.

Most importantly, while in litigation and often as a settlement condition, nobody involved can talk or write publicly about the topic.

The invasive and prolonged discovery process is a tactic likely meant to avert false accusations. False accusations are a fear, but false accusations are also exceedingly rare and account for approximately 1–2 percent of all accusations. Victims tend to understate, rather than overstate, their experience, and many victims are reluctant to take their cases to court.

Shame, fear, and lack of basic vocabulary contribute to underreporting in children. For adults—especially and exponentially among male victims—it is not facing the perpetrators; it is the lead-up to the process. For men, it’s often less about fearing the perpetrators (as it is with children) and more about dealing with the machinations of the justice system. A large majority of victims lock memories away in an effort to survive. Recollections often emerge slowly and in dim fragments over time. For anyone attempting to hold an individual or, worse, an entire institution responsible, those fragments do not feel convincing.

It is a cycle that perpetuates itself: Shame and lack of vocabulary for children result in shame and buried memories for adults.

“I might not have the timeline and details 100 percent,” Trav maintains. “But I know what I saw, and I know what I heard.” And, most heartbreakingly, “I know what happened to me.”

As his wife, I needed to know that I had brought Trav every option for his consideration. I could not do push-ups or pound a hammer, but I could find the best experts for the best advice. I could bring my husband choices.

I contacted a second lawyer—one who represented other alumni in other sexual-abuse cases against the American Boychoir School. This lawyer confirmed our friend’s explanation, and his ease with the process was equal parts disarming and reassuring. He asked what Trav’s medical records would indicate, and more importantly, when.

What and when?

They seem like simple questions, but again, the answers are much more complex. I draw a line of accountability from my husband to the institution tasked with keeping him safe, but legally, this line gets wiggly. If, for example, Trav spent a weekend at the home of a trustee, off campus and out of state, but the perpetrator was the trustee’s colleague and not the trustee himself, that abuse would likely not “count.”

Being afraid to sleep while resisting sexual advances by staff and teachers or witnessing the repeated sexual abuse of other boys? This is difficult, too, because as with the damage caused by secondhand smoke, those sleepless months were harmful, but were they caused by actual sexual abuse or fear of sexual abuse? The former is a straight line, and the latter is not.

Any sexual activity among students—even older students acting out their own abuses by faculty and staff members on younger boys—could be considered consensual and age-appropriate experimentation.

The Boychoir traveled extensively throughout the United States and Europe, spending nights with random, unvetted host families, and laws governing childhood sexual abuse differed in each location. Compounding the confusion, Trav was barely eleven years old and often only remembers first names or no names at all.

The “when” is even more laughable. His clinical depression, when first diagnosed? Or the first inklings of memory confided to me a year later? When he actually spoke the words, with conviction, “This happened to me” in the therapist’s office? Or years later, after the biggest rush of specific vivid details? Or most recently, on the night I made those apple pies and drove him to the venue, when he remembered the details of his friend’s rape?

“What and when?” asked the second lawyer, well versed in claims against the American Boychoir School. These questions also included an implied “how much?”

Personal injury lawyers often work for 30 percent of any damage award. Damages are generally connected to physical injuries, and with the modest symbolic goal of a full tuition refund for his parents and possibly uninsured healthcare costs, Trav’s circumstance is in no way a big moneymaker. After taxes and expenses, any settlement might buy a decent car or a year at a good college. And, again, the American Boychoir School’s insurance company, not the school itself, would address the details.

That is how “what, when, and how much” morph into a complex algorithm of “Is it really worth it?”

For that car or tuition payment, Trav would need to out other victims and lose all of his privacy while subjecting himself to a years-long period of intense scrutiny. Or, he could get nasty and request even more money, knowing that any increased amount would prolong the process. In exchange for any settlement, there would almost certainly be a requirement that he not disclose the terms or discuss his experience.

Trav’s fear is that he might disappoint me by not wanting to pursue legal action. “I am worried you will think I am weak,” he once said.

Then, in a reversal a day later, it was “Screw them.”

The next day, back to “No.” Then, again, it was “I have nothing to hide.”

That is what it is like. Some days, it feels worth a fight. Some days, just getting through the day is what matters.

Right now, he has taken it off the table. Most victims do.

2 HARDWICKE V. AMERICAN BOYCHOIR SCHOOL. Decided August 8, 2006. http://caselaw.findlaw.com/nj-supreme-court/1138661.html