Having spent three days belaboring the judge in this case, I decided to shift my emphasis on Friday. Time to turn to the role of CPS.
When Psychomom first bit Hunter back in November, my wife called CPS. As you can tell from the pictures posted here, it was a serious bite. CPS launched an "investigation," which turned out to take quite awhile (well over a month). They finally wrapped up their investigation by substantiating the abuse, and confirming that it was actually Psychomom who bit Hunter. And then they did a peculiar thing. They did nothing.
"Nothing" didn't sit well to those of us who actually know what's going on in the home. We felt outright physical abuse, which both Ryan and Hunter have suffered, deserved action. So T.J. (their father) filed for the EPO which resulted in the current conflict. Bear in mind that CPS had no role in getting into court, and thus no business there. In an attempt to justify their lack of action, they prepared a report for the court. What they didn't do, though, was talk to any of the people who actually know what's going on. Then they showed up in court to dazzle the judge with their ignorance. The long and the short of it is, CPS consideres biting an acceptable form of abuse. And the judge went with them.
So, on Friday I switched my sign. It has the same gruesome photos of Hunter's bite, but it now says, "CPS Call This 'Discipline'. Shame on Them." I also added the governor's phone number to the sign and my flyer, and urged people to call and demand an investigation. Thus adequately armed, I took up my post Friday morning at the courthouse.
I came to two conclusions very quickly. First, it didn't take long to figure out that CPS is actually more unpopular than Family Court. (I wouldn't have thought that possible, but it shows you how naive I can be.) I stood outside the courthouse for several hours on Friday, talking to anyone who'd listen. Not one person spoke a word in their defense. They seem to be universally despised. It was heartwarming to know I'm not alone in my sentiments.
The second conclusion I came to is that I'm unlikely to be invited to the annual CPS Christmas party. I gave flyers to several women I'm certain work for CPS. While they made no attempt to defend their actions, I was subjected to a glare which was distinctly hostile. Too bad. I'm not likely to lose any sleep over the fact that I'm not popular with CPS.
After four days of picketing the courthouse, I can only say that the experience has been gratifying. I've met some very nice people, and now have more insight into how our legal system is perceived by the average Joe. I've been amazed at the concern and even passion displayed by total strangers who see two small children in danger. And I've developed my character by facing up to adversity - even the ogre from Thursday.
I can't wait to see what next week brings.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
The Ogre from Thursday
Thursday morning seemed pleasant enough. I took up my post about 10:30. People are beginning to get used to me. One guy pointed out that I was late. I explained that I had to stop at the cigar shop, and they don't open until 10:00. I promised to stay half an hour later, though, to make up for the lost time.
People are also beginning to ask how long I plan to keep this up. My response is that I'll be here until my grandsons are in a safe place. That's very simple. I'm 61, and don't expect to live forever. But I expect to live long enough to see them safe, unless pneumonia gets me first. It's cold outside.
After about an hour, I noticed a deviation from the routine pattern. A couple came out of the courthouse. It was pretty obvious they were lawyers. (They're easy to spot. They're well dressed, and carrying briefcases. You don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know a legal beagle when you see one.) They came through the door and headed my way. I wasn't expecting much, since lawyers never even read the sign. True to form, the man turned his head and pretended I wasn't there. But then the woman acted totally bizarre. She stopped. And then, in total shock, I realized she was actually reading the sign. You could have knocked me over with a feather.
Thank goodness, I recover quickly. I gathered my wits and began to watch her closely. Abnormal behavior demands caution. I watched as her nostrils began to flare; her face reddened; she was breathing heavily, like a bull in Tijuana preparing to charge a matador. I watched her feet to see if she'd paw the ground, so I'd have some warning before she charged. And then, in a flash of insight, I realized who she was. This was the ogre from Thursday.
I didn't have long to wait. Her head shot upward, and she fixed me with a gaze that Medusa would have envied. I expected to turn to stone at any second. And then she spoke in a raspy, hate-filled voice. "Your sign OFFENDS me," she snarled. "Take it down right now."
Oh, my God. Imagine my horror. I've been standing outside a public courthouse for three days with a big sign attacking a judge, and demanding justice for my two grandsons. My feet are cold, my hands are frozen, my nose is running, and I've talked to hundreds of people. But now I've managed to OFFEND someone. I felt a sudden rush of self-loathing. How could I be so oafish? Oh, the shame. Thank goodness my momma's not here to see this.
Penitent, I decided to make amends. All I could figure to do was to try and justify my loutish behavior. So, I asked in my most polite voice if she'd like a flyer, so she'd understand what drove me to be such a cad. She informed me very quickly that she wasn't interested. Well.
At that point, I realized this was not your average ogre. This was an ogre who was choosing to be ignorant as well as offended. The average ogre would at least try to find out what the hell was going on before they attacked a stranger in public. But not this one. This was clearly a person who was secure in her ogreness (is that a word?). And at that point my brief moment of penitence passed.
I informed her that since she didn't really care what was going on, she should move along. I believe my exact words were, "Go somewhere else and be offended. I'm busy."
Just to prove that there's always balance in life, the ogre was followed by two separate encounters with ladies of great charm and grace whom I also took to be lawyers. They broke the pattern and took a flyer, read it, and discussed it intelligently. They even made helpful suggestions about potential strategies to bridge the gap between me, my grandsons, and the "justice" system. I don't want to give away the gameplan, so I'll keep you informed as those strategies develop.
Thursday was a good day. I met some nice people with helpful suggestions, and survived an ogre attack. What more could I ask?
People are also beginning to ask how long I plan to keep this up. My response is that I'll be here until my grandsons are in a safe place. That's very simple. I'm 61, and don't expect to live forever. But I expect to live long enough to see them safe, unless pneumonia gets me first. It's cold outside.
After about an hour, I noticed a deviation from the routine pattern. A couple came out of the courthouse. It was pretty obvious they were lawyers. (They're easy to spot. They're well dressed, and carrying briefcases. You don't have to be Sherlock Holmes to know a legal beagle when you see one.) They came through the door and headed my way. I wasn't expecting much, since lawyers never even read the sign. True to form, the man turned his head and pretended I wasn't there. But then the woman acted totally bizarre. She stopped. And then, in total shock, I realized she was actually reading the sign. You could have knocked me over with a feather.
Thank goodness, I recover quickly. I gathered my wits and began to watch her closely. Abnormal behavior demands caution. I watched as her nostrils began to flare; her face reddened; she was breathing heavily, like a bull in Tijuana preparing to charge a matador. I watched her feet to see if she'd paw the ground, so I'd have some warning before she charged. And then, in a flash of insight, I realized who she was. This was the ogre from Thursday.
I didn't have long to wait. Her head shot upward, and she fixed me with a gaze that Medusa would have envied. I expected to turn to stone at any second. And then she spoke in a raspy, hate-filled voice. "Your sign OFFENDS me," she snarled. "Take it down right now."
Oh, my God. Imagine my horror. I've been standing outside a public courthouse for three days with a big sign attacking a judge, and demanding justice for my two grandsons. My feet are cold, my hands are frozen, my nose is running, and I've talked to hundreds of people. But now I've managed to OFFEND someone. I felt a sudden rush of self-loathing. How could I be so oafish? Oh, the shame. Thank goodness my momma's not here to see this.
Penitent, I decided to make amends. All I could figure to do was to try and justify my loutish behavior. So, I asked in my most polite voice if she'd like a flyer, so she'd understand what drove me to be such a cad. She informed me very quickly that she wasn't interested. Well.
At that point, I realized this was not your average ogre. This was an ogre who was choosing to be ignorant as well as offended. The average ogre would at least try to find out what the hell was going on before they attacked a stranger in public. But not this one. This was clearly a person who was secure in her ogreness (is that a word?). And at that point my brief moment of penitence passed.
I informed her that since she didn't really care what was going on, she should move along. I believe my exact words were, "Go somewhere else and be offended. I'm busy."
Just to prove that there's always balance in life, the ogre was followed by two separate encounters with ladies of great charm and grace whom I also took to be lawyers. They broke the pattern and took a flyer, read it, and discussed it intelligently. They even made helpful suggestions about potential strategies to bridge the gap between me, my grandsons, and the "justice" system. I don't want to give away the gameplan, so I'll keep you informed as those strategies develop.
Thursday was a good day. I met some nice people with helpful suggestions, and survived an ogre attack. What more could I ask?
Wednesday and Walter Hickman
If you read the title to this post, you're no doubt asking, "Who's Walter Hickman?" Let me explain. It goes to my earlier point about the unpopularity of Family Court among those who have actually been there.
In my younger days, I spent several years editing newspapers. I started out in a small county in east Tennessee. The Sheriff in that county was a huge, bear of a man named Walter Hickman. Now understand this. East Tennessee is pretty rough. Walter had a tough job. Maintaining law and order wasn't easy there, and he sometimes had stiff opposition in enforcing the law. Yet Walter managed to get himself re-elected term after term. I asked him once how he managed it, considering the number of arrests he made and the high rate of lawlessness in the county. His answer was enlightening.
"It's real simple, son," he said. "People understand that my job is to enforce the law. But they also understand that I'm going to be fair with them when I do it. And as long as I'm fair, they don't hold a grudge. They figure I'm just doing my job. So they keep right on voting for me."
As I stood in front of Family Court Wednesday morning, Walter came to mind. I was continuing to hear complaints about the court, and I was still surprised about the depths of the animosity among people who had been there. I understand that courts are, by their nature, adversarial. Someone is going to be unhappy with the result. But I believe the hostility toward Family Court is because people don't leave feeling they've been treated fairly.
I thought of my own experience there. I've been there three different times to testify concerning my grandchildren. Not once have I been inside. The courtroom has been locked every time, and no witnesses have been called. Is that fundamentally fair? I mull over the question of why a judge would choose to make decisions affecting the lives and safety of small children without hearing every bit of relevant evidence. But for Family Court here, this is the norm. Concerned family is locked out, and never given an oportunity to have their say or tell what they know. No wonder people perceive the system as being unfair. And people who feel they've been treated unfairly are hostile. It's really as simple as that. I concluded that Family Court could learn a lot from Walter Hickman. He may have looked like a bear, but he was a pretty shrewd one.
Wednesday was an uneventful day. I passed out my flyers and met some very nice people. Again, people were overwhelmingly pleasant. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm doing something wrong.
In my younger days, I spent several years editing newspapers. I started out in a small county in east Tennessee. The Sheriff in that county was a huge, bear of a man named Walter Hickman. Now understand this. East Tennessee is pretty rough. Walter had a tough job. Maintaining law and order wasn't easy there, and he sometimes had stiff opposition in enforcing the law. Yet Walter managed to get himself re-elected term after term. I asked him once how he managed it, considering the number of arrests he made and the high rate of lawlessness in the county. His answer was enlightening.
"It's real simple, son," he said. "People understand that my job is to enforce the law. But they also understand that I'm going to be fair with them when I do it. And as long as I'm fair, they don't hold a grudge. They figure I'm just doing my job. So they keep right on voting for me."
As I stood in front of Family Court Wednesday morning, Walter came to mind. I was continuing to hear complaints about the court, and I was still surprised about the depths of the animosity among people who had been there. I understand that courts are, by their nature, adversarial. Someone is going to be unhappy with the result. But I believe the hostility toward Family Court is because people don't leave feeling they've been treated fairly.
I thought of my own experience there. I've been there three different times to testify concerning my grandchildren. Not once have I been inside. The courtroom has been locked every time, and no witnesses have been called. Is that fundamentally fair? I mull over the question of why a judge would choose to make decisions affecting the lives and safety of small children without hearing every bit of relevant evidence. But for Family Court here, this is the norm. Concerned family is locked out, and never given an oportunity to have their say or tell what they know. No wonder people perceive the system as being unfair. And people who feel they've been treated unfairly are hostile. It's really as simple as that. I concluded that Family Court could learn a lot from Walter Hickman. He may have looked like a bear, but he was a pretty shrewd one.
Wednesday was an uneventful day. I passed out my flyers and met some very nice people. Again, people were overwhelmingly pleasant. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm doing something wrong.
Happy Tuesday, Courthouse
Tuesday morning dawned clear and cold. I loaded up the car and headed for the big courthouse at 7th and Jefferson. At 10:00 a.m. I planted myself in front of one of the big columns, armed with a huge sign and a folder full of flyers. It was a hoot.
The first few people who passed seemed distinctly concerned. I'm pretty sure they thought I was dangerously demented. While I was well dressed, I was standing there with a big poster with two pictures and text that said, "Protect Our Children. Remove Judge Stephen George." Clearly, their anxiety level skyrocketed momentarily - until they were a safe distance away.
But then a strange thing happened. I greeted everyone who passed pleasantly. I didn't foam at the mouth. No innocent passerby was bitten on the leg. And people began to take an interest.
They began to read the sign and ask, "What's going on, anyway?" I gave every person who asked a flyer, and explained the situation.
After about fifteen minutes a very large Deputy Sheriff came out of the building. He looked grumpy. He parked himself in front of my sign and read it. I offered him a flyer, which he politely declined. But he didn't draw his gun or his nightstick, so I figured I was ahead of the game. He went back into the building and began talking to the other Deputies at the door. But none of them came out at the moment.
A few minutes later, a very polite, well dressed woman came out. She wasn't wearing a coat, which indicated she worked inside. She smiled nicely and asked if she could have one of my flyers. I told her she certainly could, and thanked her for asking. She carried it inside, reading as she went. I figured at this point the fat was in the fire. They have photocopy machines inside. I was gratified by the thought, though. If they wanted to copy my flyer and pass it around inside, good. Flyers are expensive to print. (How long's it been since you had to buy cartridges for an ink jet printer? They ain't cheap.) I was heartened by the possibility that the county might be helping pay to circulate my flyer. My tax dollars at work.
I learned quickly that my audience was made up of three types of people. First were the people who worked inside. You could spot them every time. They read the poster, because they wanted to know what kind of nut would picket the courthouse. But then they moved on inside. Their interest didn't extend to the details. They just wanted a broad outline. They were always polite and courteous, though, so I enjoyed them.
The second group were the lawyers. They're hilarious. They approach the building and see a poster. Then they rush to get away, being careful not to display even the slightest interest in what it might say. It's as if they think the poster may have leprosy, and they'll contract it if they read the thing. There's also the possibility they're afraid of "guilt by association." If someone sees them actually reading it, they may somehow be linked to this subversive exercise in free speech. Then there's the frightening possibility that if they read it, I might actually ask them to DO something. God forbid!!! The final possibility (which is my personal preference) is that lawyers have a secret pact. They have to be neutered before they're admitted to the bar. That explains why none of them have enough balls to even read the poster.
Our third group is the people who have business in the building. They're only passing through. They have no stake in the game. So overall they're pretty interested. Most of them stop and look at the pictures (the same two I posted here earlier). They're shocked, and frequently outraged. Most of them take a flyer. A lot of them ask if there's anything they can do to help. The response to my being there is overwhelmingly positive. I'm somewhat shocked at the negative reaction to Family Court, though. They seem distinctly unpopular among people who've been there. More about that in my next post.
Tuesday ends uneventfully but triumphantly (is that an oxymoron?). I was still at large, and had begun to make my point. It was a good day.
The first few people who passed seemed distinctly concerned. I'm pretty sure they thought I was dangerously demented. While I was well dressed, I was standing there with a big poster with two pictures and text that said, "Protect Our Children. Remove Judge Stephen George." Clearly, their anxiety level skyrocketed momentarily - until they were a safe distance away.
But then a strange thing happened. I greeted everyone who passed pleasantly. I didn't foam at the mouth. No innocent passerby was bitten on the leg. And people began to take an interest.
They began to read the sign and ask, "What's going on, anyway?" I gave every person who asked a flyer, and explained the situation.
After about fifteen minutes a very large Deputy Sheriff came out of the building. He looked grumpy. He parked himself in front of my sign and read it. I offered him a flyer, which he politely declined. But he didn't draw his gun or his nightstick, so I figured I was ahead of the game. He went back into the building and began talking to the other Deputies at the door. But none of them came out at the moment.
A few minutes later, a very polite, well dressed woman came out. She wasn't wearing a coat, which indicated she worked inside. She smiled nicely and asked if she could have one of my flyers. I told her she certainly could, and thanked her for asking. She carried it inside, reading as she went. I figured at this point the fat was in the fire. They have photocopy machines inside. I was gratified by the thought, though. If they wanted to copy my flyer and pass it around inside, good. Flyers are expensive to print. (How long's it been since you had to buy cartridges for an ink jet printer? They ain't cheap.) I was heartened by the possibility that the county might be helping pay to circulate my flyer. My tax dollars at work.
I learned quickly that my audience was made up of three types of people. First were the people who worked inside. You could spot them every time. They read the poster, because they wanted to know what kind of nut would picket the courthouse. But then they moved on inside. Their interest didn't extend to the details. They just wanted a broad outline. They were always polite and courteous, though, so I enjoyed them.
The second group were the lawyers. They're hilarious. They approach the building and see a poster. Then they rush to get away, being careful not to display even the slightest interest in what it might say. It's as if they think the poster may have leprosy, and they'll contract it if they read the thing. There's also the possibility they're afraid of "guilt by association." If someone sees them actually reading it, they may somehow be linked to this subversive exercise in free speech. Then there's the frightening possibility that if they read it, I might actually ask them to DO something. God forbid!!! The final possibility (which is my personal preference) is that lawyers have a secret pact. They have to be neutered before they're admitted to the bar. That explains why none of them have enough balls to even read the poster.
Our third group is the people who have business in the building. They're only passing through. They have no stake in the game. So overall they're pretty interested. Most of them stop and look at the pictures (the same two I posted here earlier). They're shocked, and frequently outraged. Most of them take a flyer. A lot of them ask if there's anything they can do to help. The response to my being there is overwhelmingly positive. I'm somewhat shocked at the negative reaction to Family Court, though. They seem distinctly unpopular among people who've been there. More about that in my next post.
Tuesday ends uneventfully but triumphantly (is that an oxymoron?). I was still at large, and had begun to make my point. It was a good day.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Now the Trouble Begins . . .
Needless to say, I was unhappy. And I have a peculiar personality quirk. I try very hard to meet people half way. But if you really piss me off, I let you know it. I gave this situation careful thought, and here's how I viewed it. Judge Stephen George held what should have been a public hearing in private. He refused to hear witnesses who should have testified. He ignored physical evidence of the abuse (photographs). And he placed my grandsons back into an abusive situation. My opinion of Family Court in general, and Judge George in particular, was somewhat jaundiced. I decided to act.
First, I downloaded a complaint form from the Kentucky Judicial Conduct Commission. I wrote a rather scathing complaint about the judge, and got it in the mail Monday afternoon. Then I did the unthinkable. Since secrecy seems so important to the Family Courts here, I decided to go public.
First, I made a flyer detailing the abuse the boys have suffered and their sorry treatment by the authorities here. (I'll clue you in on all those details in another post.) It has two pictures on it, and is a very attractive flyer. It gets attention. It also explains that I've made a complaint about Judge George, and asks people to call and demand his removal.
Next, I went to the Dollar Tree and bought several pieces of poster paper and some stencils. While my graphic arts skills are weak, I nonetheless managed to put together a large poster. It has two pictures - the two I posted here. In large letters underneath the photos, it says, "Protect Our Children. Remove Judge Stephen George." By bedtime Monday night I was ready.
My friends universally agreed that I was nuts. The concensus seemed to be that I simply could not complain about a Family Court Judge in front of his own courthouse. They assured me I was facing imprisonment, torture, or death. And probably all three. I was undeterred. I believe in freedom of speech and the right to peacefully demand a redress of my grievances. So, Tuesday morning I showed up at the courthouse, sign, flyers, and all. More about that in my next post.
The trouble has begun.
First, I downloaded a complaint form from the Kentucky Judicial Conduct Commission. I wrote a rather scathing complaint about the judge, and got it in the mail Monday afternoon. Then I did the unthinkable. Since secrecy seems so important to the Family Courts here, I decided to go public.
First, I made a flyer detailing the abuse the boys have suffered and their sorry treatment by the authorities here. (I'll clue you in on all those details in another post.) It has two pictures on it, and is a very attractive flyer. It gets attention. It also explains that I've made a complaint about Judge George, and asks people to call and demand his removal.
Next, I went to the Dollar Tree and bought several pieces of poster paper and some stencils. While my graphic arts skills are weak, I nonetheless managed to put together a large poster. It has two pictures - the two I posted here. In large letters underneath the photos, it says, "Protect Our Children. Remove Judge Stephen George." By bedtime Monday night I was ready.
My friends universally agreed that I was nuts. The concensus seemed to be that I simply could not complain about a Family Court Judge in front of his own courthouse. They assured me I was facing imprisonment, torture, or death. And probably all three. I was undeterred. I believe in freedom of speech and the right to peacefully demand a redress of my grievances. So, Tuesday morning I showed up at the courthouse, sign, flyers, and all. More about that in my next post.
The trouble has begun.
Hunter and His Arm
Judge George had copies of these photos, clearly showing the injury Hunter received from his mother. Yet he refused to hear testimony from three witnesses, and dismissed the protective order. This is "protecting" our children?
Our Nonday In Court
I wasn't exactly correct when I said, "Then we met the judge." Court was a shocking experience. The supposed purpose was for the judge (Stephen M. George) to hear evidence to decide whether or not the Emergency Protective Order should remain in force. That would continue to protect the boys. There was a small glitch in the system, though. We didn't get to meet the judge, because he wouldn't hear evidence from the witnesses. Let me explain.
Family Court in Kentucky has a somewhat unique status. They're authorized by law to close the courtroom if necessary to protect the best interests of the child. It appears that isn't quite the way it works, though. Family Court judges in Louisville close all the courts all the time. Family, friends, and the public never know what's going on in the courtroom. Apparently none of us have the best interests of our neices, nephews, or grandchildren at heart. We're ignorant, uneducated oafs who can't be trusted. So we're locked out of the public courtroom we're paying for, presided over by a judge we elected. How odd. We're smart enough to elect such a magnificent specimen of judgehood (is that a word?), but too dumb to be allowed to watch him work. Go figure.
Now, being locked out didn't sit well with me. But I took it gracefully because the welfare of the boys was at stake. I waited patiently, along with my wife and a family friend who is also familiar with the neglect and abuse the boys suffer at home. We waited, and we waited, and we waited. And then guess what. T.J. came out of the courtroom and told us the judge had dissolved the order and adjourned the court, without hearing our testimony. It seems he didn't have enough evidence to keep the order in force. Yet he wouldn't let the three witnesses testify, which might have given him the evidence he needed. Is there something rotten here in Denmark? (That's more Shakespeare, in case you didn't recognize it.)
On the subject of evidence, here's a photo the judge had in front of him. It's little Hunter's arm after he was bitten. See what you think.
How it Began
I never really set out to make a spectacle of myself. It just sort of happened one day. It was the only way I could figure off the top of my head to try to save my grandsons.
Ryan and Hunter are my grandsons. They're three and four years old, and they're in a bad situtation. Their mother and father (my step-son) are divorced. Their mother is schizophrenic and bi-polar. Much of the time she's off her medication. And as Shakespeare would say, "There's the rub." (That was Shakespeare, wasn't it?) When she's off her medication, she's a little nuts. (In fact, she's a little nuts when she's ON her medication. But it's worse when she's off. I digress. Sorry.)
In November, she went berserk and bit Hunter - the three year old. It was bad. Hunter was left with a big circle of teeth marks on his arm and a permanent terror of his mother. I have a lot of sympathy, because she terrifies me and I'm 61. My wife called Child Protective Services (CPS) here in Louisville, and Hunter came to stay with us. Ryan toughed it out at home, coming to stay with us on the weekends. That wasn't his choice. It was his mother's. She wouldn't let him leave full-time. She uses him to clean the house.
After a lengthy but superficial investigation, CPS substantiated the abuse. (That means they agreed she bit him and that it was abusive.) But they didn't order the boys removed from her home. Apparently biting is an acceptable form of abuse to CPS. When Jennifer (the mother) learned she was off the hook, she brought the police and picked up Hunter. (Clever girl. She realized I wouldn't give him back, because he was still terrified of her and didn't want to go. The two cops with guns persuaded me to see it her way. The cops in this town frequently shoot people.)
At this point their father (T.J.) intervened. He went downtown to the courthouse and obtained an emergency protective order for the boys. So far so good. Since he has joint custody with Psychomom (Jennifer), the Sheriff's Department (they have guns, too) picked up the boys and delivered them to T.J. And things were fine for three weeks. The boys were safe. Then we met the judge. More about that tomorrow.
Ryan and Hunter are my grandsons. They're three and four years old, and they're in a bad situtation. Their mother and father (my step-son) are divorced. Their mother is schizophrenic and bi-polar. Much of the time she's off her medication. And as Shakespeare would say, "There's the rub." (That was Shakespeare, wasn't it?) When she's off her medication, she's a little nuts. (In fact, she's a little nuts when she's ON her medication. But it's worse when she's off. I digress. Sorry.)
In November, she went berserk and bit Hunter - the three year old. It was bad. Hunter was left with a big circle of teeth marks on his arm and a permanent terror of his mother. I have a lot of sympathy, because she terrifies me and I'm 61. My wife called Child Protective Services (CPS) here in Louisville, and Hunter came to stay with us. Ryan toughed it out at home, coming to stay with us on the weekends. That wasn't his choice. It was his mother's. She wouldn't let him leave full-time. She uses him to clean the house.
After a lengthy but superficial investigation, CPS substantiated the abuse. (That means they agreed she bit him and that it was abusive.) But they didn't order the boys removed from her home. Apparently biting is an acceptable form of abuse to CPS. When Jennifer (the mother) learned she was off the hook, she brought the police and picked up Hunter. (Clever girl. She realized I wouldn't give him back, because he was still terrified of her and didn't want to go. The two cops with guns persuaded me to see it her way. The cops in this town frequently shoot people.)
At this point their father (T.J.) intervened. He went downtown to the courthouse and obtained an emergency protective order for the boys. So far so good. Since he has joint custody with Psychomom (Jennifer), the Sheriff's Department (they have guns, too) picked up the boys and delivered them to T.J. And things were fine for three weeks. The boys were safe. Then we met the judge. More about that tomorrow.
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