Sunday, August 12, 2007
STICKS AND BONES - CPS Abuses in Fairfax County revealed.
STICKS AND BONES
Alice and Miguel Velasquez couldn't explain the bump on their daughter's rib cage to themselves or to their doctor. How, then, could they explain it to Alexandria's Child Protective Services?
by
Sarah Godfrey
On Feb. 3, 2000, Alice and Miguel Velasquez took their daughter Liliana for a routine well-baby visit at the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda. They were concerned about a lump on the left side of their 4-month-old's rib cage.
Alice, 22, an Army medical-lab technician, had discovered a slight protrusion while handling Liliana a few days earlier. The lump was not visible to the eye but could be felt by running a hand across the child's ribs. She thought of calling Liliana's pediatrician, but the child didn't seem to be in pain when the spot was touched.
Alice's husband, Miguel, 30, a flooring contractor from El Salvador, wasn't home at the time, so she called her grandmother in Indiana to ask for advice. "Liliana is just fine," the older woman assured her. When Miguel returned, he also felt the lump. Unconvinced that it was nothing, he told his wife that they should definitely show it to the doctor when Liliana went for her checkup.
When the couple brought the lump to the attention of the intern who examined Liliana, they say, he dismissed their worries at first. "He said it was probably a calcium deposit, and that she appeared happy and healthy," says Alice. Still, she pressed him. With a history of spinal disorders such as scoliosis and spina bifida in her family, Alice wanted to be sure that the bump wasn't an early indicator of one. "I was hoping if an X-ray caught the signs early, that it could be corrected."
When the couple persisted in their concern, the intern brought in staff pediatrician Dr. Paul Reed, who consented to X-rays for Liliana. Radiologist Donald Flemming performed the X-rays and detected five rib fractures in various stages of healing, as well as three additional suspected rib fractures.
The extent of the baby's injuries prompted Reed to immediately contact Capt. Barbara Craig, a doctor and the director of the Armed Forces Center for Child Protection, as well as Child Protective Services (CPS) in Alexandria, Va., where the Velasquezes were living. Social workers immediately came to the hospital to interview Miguel and Alice.
Liliana was transferred from Bethesda and kept overnight at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The next evening, after the social workers obtained a court order, Liliana was taken into city custody and placed in a foster home.
The Velasquezes claim they had no idea what had happened to cause their daughter's injuries, and were adamant that they had done nothing to cause them. They never imagined that for the next year and a half they would be faced with the impossible task of convincing the city that their daughter's injuries were caused by a rare bone disease they had never even heard of.
Nor could the Velasquezes foresee that another family's experience with Alexandria social services would affect their battle to regain custody of their daughter after the disease was identified. Alice and Miguel had no idea that they would be seen as an opportunity for a city agency under scrutiny to redeem itself.
"While we were going through all of this, the Katelyn Frazier case happened," says Alice. "That made everything a lot harder."
Doctors who discover injuries that appear to be nonaccidental in children are required to notify the proper authorities, usually the jurisdiction's child-welfare agency and/or law enforcement officials. Any doctor who fails to make such a report can face steep fines and possibly imprisonment, depending on state statutes.
Once social workers become involved, they, too, must adhere to specific regulations, in their case dictating how they investigate reports of suspected child abuse or neglect. Virginia receives more than 33,000 reports of possible abuse or neglect each year; its city and county social workers are required to investigate each and every one.
The social workers must decide whether long-term intervention is warranted and whether the child should be taken into protective custody. The investigation process includes talking with the parents—and child, if the child is old enough—face to face, making home visits, and checking for past reports of abuse against any adult members of the household. If social workers find that a report of abuse is founded, they devise a long-term foster-care plan with the family and continue to monitor both parents and child. Parents must meet certain conditions before they are able to regain custody. Usually, they are required to take parenting classes and undergo individual therapy. If they are cooperative and complete the requirements, the family can be reunited.
On its Web site, the Virginia Department of Social Services, which oversees local jurisdictions, states its goal as reuniting families: "Even if the child must be temporarily removed for safety, the goal is to return the child to the home as soon as possible."
Miguel and Alice Velasquez agree that in the beginning stages of their involvement with the social safety net, both the military doctors and the Alexandria social workers who placed their daughter in foster care were doing their jobs correctly. "I've worked in a hospital," says Alice. "If I'd found a child with even one rib fracture, I would've acted the same way."
Two high-profile local cases of child abuse, however, have shifted the goals of child-welfare agencies in both Alexandria and the District of Columbia. Area social-service agencies' traditional emphasis on family reunification has come into question following the deaths of two little girls who might still be alive had they not been returned to their birth mothers.
Twenty-three-month-old Brianna Blackmond was killed on Jan. 6, 2000, two weeks after D.C. child-welfare workers restored legal custody to her mother, Charrisise Blackmond. Brianna had been taken away from her mother in June 1998 after a social worker discovered her and seven siblings living in filth and rummaging through trash trying to find food. She was immediately placed in foster care.
The events that led to Brianna's return to her mother were a series of egregious oversights. The social worker handling Brianna's case failed to complete her recommendation that Brianna not be returned in time for a court hearing. While both the social worker and the attorney representing the city were on vacation, a D.C. Superior Court judge approved a motion entered by Charrisise Blackmond's lawyer to return Brianna to her mother—without a hearing. No one made a home visit before the child was returned. Anyone who had would have discovered that Charrisise Blackmond and several of her children were illegal tenants in the public-housing unit inhabited by Angela O'Brien, the woman who would later kill Brianna with a blow to the head.
Three-year-old Katelyn Frazier was fatally injured two days after Christmas 2000 while in the custody of her mother, Pennee Frazier. Their Alexandria apartment was shared with Frazier's boyfriend, Asher Levin, and three siblings. Katelyn had spent the majority of her life in a foster home under the care of Lesley Dodson, who had sought to adopt the child. Dodson's hopes were dashed in September 2000, when a judge decided to return Katelyn to her birth mother. She had been back in her mother's care only three months when she was killed. Levin later confessed to beating the toddler to death.
Unlike the Brianna case, in which a child seemed to fall through the cracks of a beleaguered child welfare system, the Katelyn case received an enormous amount of attention from city social workers—even after the child was reunited with her mother. The Washington Post reported that Katelyn was the subject of more than 15 court hearings to determine her placement, and social workers visited Pennee Frazier's home more than 30 times during the three months she had her daughter back. But somehow they missed what neighbors and friends later reported: Shortly after returning to her mother's apartment, Katelyn began showing bruises and other obvious signs of abuse.
Katelyn's death outraged community members. Residents have demanded that CPS be held accountable for what many believe was a mishandling of the case.
"[Katelyn] was too young to insist that the Alexandria [Department of Human Services] do its job...which was to make sure that whoever was entrusted with the care of this very vulnerable child did the right thing by her," said one angered community resident in an opinion piece published in the Fairfax Journal.
In July 2001, the city announced it would implement changes outlined in a review of Alexandria CPS conducted by the Child Welfare League of America (CWLA). The report, which criticized the department's handling of the Frazier case, offered recommendations to improve the agency's case monitoring.
The city was effective in its damage control until it was discovered that the CWLA's report had been edited, with portions unflattering to CPS removed, before City Manager Phil Sunderland distributed it to city councilmembers in June.
With its social-service agencies under intensified scrutiny, Alexandria was probably the worst possible jurisdiction for a family lobbying for the return of a child.
Sources who work closely with Alexandria CPS say that although de-emphasizing family reunification is not a formal policy reform, they have anecdotal evidence that it's happening all over the city. One source describes the agency as being in "crackdown" mode and says that employees are overcompensating, keeping families apart, because they are "very scared" of making another mistake.
Because of legal constraints, most of the people involved in the removal of Liliana Velasquez from her parents' care were unable to comment on the case for this story. "We have stringent confidentiality rules that apply to social-services work—we can't even acknowledge that we have any case under our care or anything attendant to that. We can actually be charged with a misdemeanor if we do so," explains Meg O'Reagan, director of Alexandria's Department of Human Services. Her department oversees the city's Family Services Division,which includes CPS.
Attorneys George McAndrews, who represents the city, and Russell Hatchell, who represents Liliana's interests in court proceedings, also declined to comment.
"The Frazier case had caused us more problems than we might have had otherwise," says Dorothy Isaacs, an attorney who agreed to represent Alice and Miguel Velasquez pro bono in February 2001. "[The] Alexandria [Department of Human Services] is sensitive right now, and I can't say I blame them. They really screwed up with [the Katelyn Frazier] case."
During their initial interview at the naval hospital, Alice tried to defend her husband to CPS social workers Jackie Lusk and Johnny Simancas. She explained how Miguel cared for their daughter during the day while she was at work. She told them how he drove from their home to her office at the Pentagon and back again twice each day because she hadn't wanted to stop breast-feeding after she returned to work. "Their response to me was 'Whose side are you on?'" says Alice.
"They asked me how much my husband drank and if he had been drinking that night," says Alice. "I told them that we're Mormons—we don't even drink sodas with caffeine."
The Velasquezes were puzzled by the social workers' immediate fingering of Miguel. "My husband couldn't hurt a flea! If anything, he's the one afraid of me! They just had it in their minds from the very beginning that it was him," says Alice.
"I don't even remember the walk from the hospital to the car—I just remember standing in the street and hearing Liliana crying as the car drove away," recalls Alice, crying. "Even after I couldn't see the car any longer, I could still hear her. I sat down on the curb and threw up."
The couple drove home through a snowstorm to an empty apartment. After hours of crying and worrying, they finally fell asleep. Alice would wake up a few hours later: "I heard her cry, and I got up to feed her. But when I went to the crib she wasn't there. I would turn on the lights and look everywhere for her until I realized. This went on for weeks and weeks."
During the course of the investigation, Miguel and Alice were told that if they could provide a reasonable explanation for their daughter's fractures, she would be returned to them. They immediately came up with a list of things that could have possibly happened to cause Liliana's injuries, some of which later came back to haunt them during court proceedings.
Perhaps one of them had rolled on her as she slept in their bed? Or maybe they had pressed on her belly too hard while trying to ease gas and constipation? Maybe her visiting older half-sister had somehow hurt her while they were playing? Miguel offered: "Maybe I hugged her too tight because I love her so much."
Despite their efforts to explain the origin of their daughter's fractures, Miguel was arrested on Feb. 17, 2000, for criminal child abuse and neglect. He says it was his first arrest and that his experience in jail was "very bad": "They just treat you like you're nothing in that place."
The Velasquezes were now faced with not only civil custody hearings and the CPS foster-care requirements but the possibility of a criminal trial as well.
Miguel remained in jail for only a few hours, but after Alice posted bail and he was released, he received the worst blow: Although CPS had granted both Miguel and Alice visitation time with their daughter, as a standard condition of his bond, Miguel was prohibited from seeing Liliana, meaning he could be jailed again if he came into contact with her.
Liliana stayed in foster care for the entire month of February. Alice regained custody of her daughter in March, but Miguel still wasn't allowed to see her. He moved in with his father temporarily, hoping that his court-appointed criminal attorney, Mary McGuire, would soon be able to successfully petition for an amendment to his bond, allowing him to move back home and see his daughter.
But being away from his family proved too much for Miguel to bear. At the beginning of May, he began visiting Liliana and Alice. However, on May 5, someone anonymously tipped off CPS that Miguel was spending time with his daughter. On May 12, Simancas, along with the Fairfax County police, came to the Velasquez home to take away Liliana and arrest Miguel.
Miguel and Alice both describe the scene as something "out of a movie." The cops came into the house in the middle of the night and found Miguel hiding in a bedroom closet. Alice was again left alone. The next morning, for the second time, Alice bailed her husband out of jail.
"We haven't been perfect in this process—it was a mistake," says Alice. "But I knew that if I was in [Miguel's] position and [Miguel] told me that I couldn't see our daughter, that I would hate him. His only crime was missing and wanting to see his daughter."
On May 1, 2000, Miguel was indicted by a City of Alexandria grand jury on the charge of felony child abuse and neglect. The crime typically carries a penalty of two to 10 years' imprisonment. A trial date was set for June.
One evening in February 2000, a few weeks after Liliana was first taken away, Miguel and Alice decided to watch television as a distraction. After a quiet dinner, they sat on the couch and idly flipped through the channels. There was a commercial for the news program 20/20 that mentioned a segment on a disease with a funny name—osteogenesis imperfecta.
A friend at church had mentioned the disease to them just that Sunday. "Have you heard of this?" the friend had asked, handing them some literature on the disease, which is characterized by bones that break easily. The couple decided to watch the prograó. They tuned in at 10 o'clock and learned about the hallmarks of "OI," as it is called—a bluish tint to the whites of the eyes, excessive perspiration, hyperflexibility, and inexplicable bone fractures—sometimes even before a child is born.
Miguel and Alice sat on the couch in silence throughout the entire program, not speaking even to express relief.
"We couldn't believe it—it all made sense. Liliana always sweated a lot and had a bluish tint to her eyes. When she was a baby, Miguel and I would argue about whether her eyes were brown or blue, because the tint was so strong," says Alice. "Even people at church and other family members noticed it. Then there is my family history of spinal problems and my hyperflexibility," she says, bending her elbow back into an impossible position.
"OI is 'brittle-bones' disease," explains Dr. Jay Shapiro of Baltimore's Kennedy Krieger Institute's Osteogenesis Imperfecta Clinic, which treats OI patients from around the world. "It's a disease where people are born with fragile bones—they can have fractures even while in the womb. Most continue to fracture throughout their lives. Some may have only three or four fractures over their lifetime and look fairly normal. Others, with more severe OI, can have growth problems and may be only 3 to 4 feet tall and have many fractures—20, 30, maybe even more."
There are an estimated 20,000 to 50,000 OI sufferers in the United States alone. In its mildest form, the disease may cause the bluish tint to the eyes, brittle teeth, and a slightly triangular face, but these indicators do not necessarily have to be present in a child with OI. Diagnosis is based on a combination of factors, including evaluation by doctors and geneticists, and, if necessary, lab testing. The disease may go undetected for years—or be misdiagnosed as child abuse.
Like OI, child abuse is often characterized by broken bones. Fractures in multiple stages of healing—especially rib fractures—are often present in both children with OI and children who are being battered. And, because these distinguishing characteristics are the same, children with OI are often suspected to be victims of abuse when they are first seen by doctors.
"You have a parent who walks in and presents exactly like someone who abuses their child," says Heller An Shapiro, director of the Osteogenesis Imperfecta Foundation. "They bring in a child with injuries—fractures, bruises, etc.—and when asked how the injuries occurred, say, 'I don't know.' Well, that is exactly how someone who is abusing their child would respond, so they fit the profile. I have empathy for social workers in this sort of situation who are trying to piece together what's going on."
And, Heller An Shapiro notes, the disease is unfamiliar to many doctors and social workers. "We've worked hard to educate doctors, emergency-room personnel, and social workers, but it's not something that people see often, and it is highly unlikely that it would be diagnosed in its mildest form. Most doctors can spot the more severe types of OI, where the child might be in a wheelchair or have visible deformities. But for a child who looks normal and happens to have OI, the disease is rarely identified right away."
Because the disease is indeed rare and most people are unaware of its existence, the Velasquezes had a difficult time getting authorities to take their claims seriously. After seeing the 20/20 segment, Alice gathered all of the information she could find about OI and presented it to caseworker Lusk, who she says blew it off. She also approached Capt. Craig, who she says told her, "Don't believe everything you see on the Internet."
The couple say that even their respective court-appointed civil attorneys didn't seem interested in the information. But McGuire, faced with a desperate client looking at a decade behind bars, finally agreed to push for an OI test for Liliana. In May 2000, a judge granted the test, to be paid for by the court.
Later that month, Liliana was examined by two physicians in the genetics department of Children's Hospital. She was given a painful skin biopsy, involving the removal of a plug of skin from her forearm about the size of a pencil eraser. "I had to hold her while they took the skin sample," says Alice. "She was just screaming and looking at me like 'Mommy, why are you letting them do this to me?' It was terrible."
The skin sample was sent to the University of Washington's Department of Pathology for analysis in its Collagen Diagnostic Laboratory. The doctors at Children's Hospital also decided to give Liliana another complete set of X-rays, to confirm the presence of the previously diagnosed fractures. These new X-rays showed only five rib fractures—the additional three suspected fractures were not confirmed.
The results of the skin test came back in September. Although such test results usually come back in three weeks, the lab had also performed other studies, including DNA work, along with the collagen skin test. Genetic counselor Melanie Pepin, who works at the lab, says that such additional tests are often conducted "especially with the question of nonaccidental injury." The results confirmed what her parents had suspected: Liliana had tested positive for OI Type I, a mild form of the disease.
The city's civil prosecutor attempted to discredit the test as experimental and unreliable, and argued that the diagnosis of OI didn't preclude the possibility that Miguel could have still abused his daughter. Capt. Craig became a key witness in both lines of argument.
Craig declined to comment for this article, citing confidentiality regulations affecting active-duty military personnel, but she has made her opinions on the case apparent throughout court proceedings. In a November 2000 e-mail to Alexandria Assistant Commonwealth's Attorney Roger Canaff, she wrote, "Do I think these parents cannot be trusted? Yes. Do I think Liliana will be further abused in their care? Yes? Can I prove this in court? No. Does she have OI? Maybe—probably....Will a judge or jury buy any of this? They will probably have sympathy on the poor parents who will cry and lie in telling about their ordeal against the mean doctors in the military. The OI, if present, is an extremely mild case and may not have anything to do with her fractures."
The prosecution also pointed out that Liliana had not experienced any new fractures during her year in foster care. Jay Shapiro says that when a child is removed from a home and does not experience new fractures, it often means that the child does not have OI and was being abused.
"Let's say you have someone who brings a child into the ER [with fractures]," Shapiro says. "The ER calls Social Services and the child is taken away. The child has another fracture while on his or her own. Then you have someone who brings a child into ER with many fractures, the child is put in foster home, and the child doesn't fracture again. Usually you can say with some degree of certainty that the first case is OI and the second is child abuse."
Shapiro adds, however, that there are exceptions to the rule. "That type of evaluation is probably good 96 percent of the time. In a couple of cases it may not be so clear. That is the loophole, where you're not 100 percent sure."
"It is true that even if a child has OI there could be real abuse going on," says Heller An Shapiro. "It makes all of the factors difficult to assess—especially in Virginia, where they are so anxious about making a mistake that they may make accusations even when clearly that isn't the case."
"Having OI doesn't mean a child can't be abused, but there is absolutely nothing in Miguel's history that could lead anyone to think he could possibly abuse his child," says Isaacs.
The prosecution also argued that the test for OI can be unreliable. Although the collagen skin test can yield a false negative result, a positive test is foolproof, says Heller An Shapiro: "They got it wrong when they argued about the OI test, calling it experimental. [Liliana] got a positive test. If an OI test is positive, it's positive. The positive success rate is 100 percent. The negative result is less reliable—an 85 to 90 percent success rate. But if someone tests positive, there is no question."
Pepin agrees the test, which has been in use since the early '80s, does not yield positives: "The issue in terms of the test's sensitivity isn't if a positive test confirms OI—a positive result confirms the presence of OI."
In December 2000, Miguel's felony charge was reduced to a misdemeanor in light of the new information pertaining to Liliana's OI. In January 2001, the Alexandria city attorney entered a nolle prosequi in the case—declining to prosecute for lack of evidence—after McGuire was successful in suppressing all of his pre-charge statements. His conversations with Reed, Craig, and even Lusk, prior to his arrest, were thrown out. Miguel says he wasn't read his Miranda rights before talking to doctors and social workers at Bethesda. Even though he wasn't being charged with a crime at the time, Miranda law applies to custodial investigations as well. All criminal charges against him were dismissed.
Miguel and Alice thought their daughter was finally coming home.
But the nolle prosequi in Miguel's criminal case had no bearing on either the civil custody proceedings or CPS's monitoring of the family. Instead of reinstating Liliana, the agency was able to keep her in the foster-care system on a technicality: It sustained an internal administrative finding against the parents—an action that affects civil custody.
McGuire had seen to it that all pertinent OI information went into Miguel's file in the criminal case. The court-appointed civil attorneys representing the couple at the time, however, had not done the same for the civil custody case.
"The administrative finding was sustained because they were supposed to submit the results of the OI test and didn't," says Isaacs. "Alice and Miguel rightfully thought that the OI finding was on record, so they didn't submit the doctors' reports. They said that Johnny Simancas told them that it was in the record. Because the parents were supposed to give additional info and didn't, the [administrative] finding was sustained."
CPS also argued that Miguel and Alice had failed to complete a key requirement of their foster-care plan—admitting their guilt.
"They said that they wanted us to stipulate our roles in her abuse and move beyond a victimization posture. We would have lied and said that we did it in a minute, just to get our child back, but it was a Catch-22," says Alice.
"They wanted us to say we were abusing our baby," says Miguel.
If the Velasquezes had admitted guilt, under the nolle prosequi, the misdemeanor case against Miguel could have been reopened, and the criminal charges could have been reinstated. If new evidence is introduced within one year in a nolle prosequi case, charges can be re-entered.
"In September, when the skin biopsy came back, if they would've apologized, I would've understood," says Alice.
"We want our names cleared," continues Alice. "Even when all of this is over, it will follow us. Whenever Liliana starts a new school, it's something that will be on record, something that everyone will know about. We just want an apology. We want them to admit they were wrong."
The Velasquezes believe that CPS focused on Miguel because of his race. "I think I was targeted because I am a Latino man," he says.
In addition to caring for Liliana, Miguel also has an older daughter, 7-year-old Cassandra, from a previous marriage. While married to his ex-wife, Roxanna Garay, and still living with Cassandra full time, he served as her primary caregiver. Cassandra has congenital heart disease, and Garay has testified that when her daughter's illness was at its most severe and she herself couldn't cope, it was her husband who stepped in and cared for the child.
"Miguel's ex-wife testified that he was a loving father—never abused her or their daughter," says Isaacs. "You know, I handle a lot of divorces, and the glowing testimony of an ex-spouse says a lot."
In a March 2000 hearing, Dr. Reed testified that Miguel had been "very flattened in his affect" and "emotionless" as Reed described Liliana's fractures to him.
"Miguel doesn't know what 'fractures' are," counters Alice. Miguel came to America from El Salvador in 1990, and although he speaks English quite well, she argues, medical terminology isn't something that even most native speakers are very familiar with, let alone someone who is still learning the nuances of the language.
"Miguel has language issues, and Alice isn't a lawyer, so there was some confusion," says Isaacs.
One statement that was brought out repeatedly by prosecutors during hearings was Craig's recollection that Miguel had confessed to lifting Liliana with one hand and "throwing" her to her mother "like a football" during his interview with her the day Liliana was brought to Bethesda.
"It's ridiculous. They don't even have football in Miguel's country—he would've never made that comparison!" says Alice.
Heller An Shapiro says that poor families of color are especially vulnerable to charges of child abuse, because social-service agencies often target such families. "That seems to be the profile that social workers and child-abuse experts have in mind. The other piece to that puzzle is young or inexperienced parents."
"There is no doubt in my mind that it is a class issue, but I wouldn't be surprised by racial motivations, either," says Isaacs. "People who can afford counsel, who are familiar with the legal system, and who know when to keep their mouths closed to avoid incriminating themselves—they're treated differently."
In addition to the agony of being separated from their daughter, Miguel and Alice also faced fears that Liliana was being neglected in her foster home. "[CPS] didn't think we were good parents, but they allowed her to be treated poorly in foster care," says Alice.
According to INOVA Alexandria Hospital records, Liliana was hospitalized seven times while under the care of foster mother Willie Mae Gray. Liliana was seen at INOVA Alexandria on May 26, May 27, July 5, Aug. 3, Nov. 12, Dec. 14, and, finally, on Dec. 19, 2000. Usually, she was brought in for malnutrition and diarrhea. Her parents were not notified by social workers of Liliana's trips to the emergency room.
But Alice had begun to notice worrisome changes in her daughter's demeanor. Whenever Liliana was brought to the CPS offices for visitation, she was always "dirty and exhausted," says her mother. Liliana's long hair was often matted to her head and was falling out in small patches. She usually wasn't dressed properly for the weather, adds Alice.
"She was always dirty. She stunk, had terrible diaper rash to the point of open, bloody lesions. I later found out she had several vaginal infections because she was not being cleaned properly," says Alice.
Alice and Miguel found out that their daughter was a frequent visitor to the emergency room only after she contracted pneumonia in December 2000 and was retained for nine days. A hospital employee told Alice that Liliana was a "frequent" visitor, and urged her to seek out a copy of her daughter's medical file. She was able to obtain the records and was shocked at what she found.
Alice became desperate to transfer her daughter from Gray's care and into another foster home. She frantically tried to contact her court-appointed civil attorney, to no avail: "He wouldn't return my calls."
It was at this point that Alice began contacting the media: "Fox 5, Eyewitness News—everybody but Jerry Springer." She was successful in gaining public attention. Both Channel 9 and the Spanish-language cable channel Univision planned spots profiling the family, which were aired in March 2001. The increase in visibility also brought them to Isaacs, whose firm was recommended to the family by an acquaintance.
"People treated us a lot differently after they found out our story was going to be on TV," says Alice. Liliana was placed in another foster home at the end of February. The family believes that Isaacs' involvement and the media attention they received were instrumental in their daughter's transfer.
Previously, CPS intervened in illnesses and injuries of children in foster care only if a caseworker reported a child as possibly being abused or neglected. But in June 2001, the city announced a "new-eyes approach" that requires investigation into any injuries sustained by a child in foster care. Currently the Velasquezes have physical, but not legal, custody of their daughter. Although she was finally returned to her parents' home in July 2001, the city still effectively has control over all decisions regarding her health, education, and welfare.
The Velasquezes moved to Maryland in late 2001. Alice, who remained on active duty during most of their ordeal, had left the Army that September. Because the couple could no longer pay Alexandria rent without military assistance, the decided to search for an apartment in the more affordable suburbs of Prince George's County. "Of course, that was another whole big issue," says Alice. "They tried to say that we were running away."
Although the Velasquezes moved only 20 minutes from their former home, because they left Virginia, they unknowingly invoked the Interstate Compact to Protect Children (ICPC). This legislation was designed to protect children placed across state lines for foster care and adoption, to ensure that they couldn't slip through the cracks. Under the ICPC, any adopted or foster child remains in the legal custody of the state for six months after any out-of-state move.
After completing all of Alexandria CPS's requirements, Miguel and Alice were devastated to learn that the agency would remain a part of their lives for an additional half-year. The ICPC monitoring period will expire in March, at which time they expect to regain full legal custody of their daughter.
In the meantime, the Velasquezes are attempting to move on with their lives. They are ecstatic to have Liliana back home, and they have a new addition to their family: baby Tahlia, born in October 2001. They are in the process of saving money to have Tahlia tested for OI. Currently, Alice is staying home with both children, and Miguel is supporting the family with contract construction work.
Miguel and Alice must constantly try to protect Liliana from activities that may cause additional fractures, while still trying to ensure that she has as normal a childhood as possible. "We watch her very carefully," says Alice. "We don't let her climb stairs or play on the playground by herself, and we have to watch her when she's around other kids. We also have a list from her doctor of activities she will never be able to do—like horseback riding and gymnastics."
Alice is writing a book about their experiences, not only to help her and her husband process it all, but also so that their daughter will have a record of the ordeal. "I don't want her to hate us. I want her, when she's old enough, to understand exactly what happened—to know how much we love her and that we never gave up on her. We never stopped fighting."
Miguel and Alice communicate with other parents of children with OI who have had similar experiences. At first, they sought out other families and support groups for counsel. Now, they say, they are beginning to give guidance themselves. "It's so incredibly sad. I've done a lot of research on OI, and other families, in almost every single case, have their child taken away, and it is sometimes years before the child is tested," says Alice.
"There was one family where the father served five years in prison before his child tested positive for OI," Alice continues. "After five years in jail, the father is scared to death to touch the kid, the mother is alienated from her husband after spending years wondering if he really did it, and the child doesn't really know his parents. You can't even tell that they're a family anymore. When I think about it, we're one of the lucky ones."
It is easy to see why Alice and Miguel feel lucky, despite their travails, upon seeing Liliana in action. The now-2-year-old girl is beautiful and bright. Although, like many toddlers she is initially reluctant around new people, once she warms up, she is lively. She runs around the house laughing and tries to draw on anything that will stand still. She talks and talks and talks to no one in particular and loves to give demonstrations of her many toys.
While Alice recounts the story of the fight for Liliana, Miguel tries to occupy his daughter in the living room. He plies her with ice cream, Powerpuff Girls cartoons, and games of peek-a-boo. Then he takes her for a quick bath and puts her in pink pajamas. Inevitably, however, the toddler decides she wants to be where the action is.
Liliana comes back into the room, crying with no tears, and climbs into her mother's lap. "Aww, was Daddy trying to make you go to sleep? Oh no, what a mean daddy!" says Alice playfully. Liliana mimics her mother and manages a garbled "mean daddy" of her own. Alice falls over in peals of laughter, stopping only when she notices Miguel grimacing. "Please, Alice," he says. "Don't teach her to say that." CP
Copyright © 2002 Washington Free Weekly Inc.
Alice and Miguel Velasquez couldn't explain the bump on their daughter's rib cage to themselves or to their doctor. How, then, could they explain it to Alexandria's Child Protective Services?
by
Sarah Godfrey
On Feb. 3, 2000, Alice and Miguel Velasquez took their daughter Liliana for a routine well-baby visit at the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda. They were concerned about a lump on the left side of their 4-month-old's rib cage.
Alice, 22, an Army medical-lab technician, had discovered a slight protrusion while handling Liliana a few days earlier. The lump was not visible to the eye but could be felt by running a hand across the child's ribs. She thought of calling Liliana's pediatrician, but the child didn't seem to be in pain when the spot was touched.
Alice's husband, Miguel, 30, a flooring contractor from El Salvador, wasn't home at the time, so she called her grandmother in Indiana to ask for advice. "Liliana is just fine," the older woman assured her. When Miguel returned, he also felt the lump. Unconvinced that it was nothing, he told his wife that they should definitely show it to the doctor when Liliana went for her checkup.
When the couple brought the lump to the attention of the intern who examined Liliana, they say, he dismissed their worries at first. "He said it was probably a calcium deposit, and that she appeared happy and healthy," says Alice. Still, she pressed him. With a history of spinal disorders such as scoliosis and spina bifida in her family, Alice wanted to be sure that the bump wasn't an early indicator of one. "I was hoping if an X-ray caught the signs early, that it could be corrected."
When the couple persisted in their concern, the intern brought in staff pediatrician Dr. Paul Reed, who consented to X-rays for Liliana. Radiologist Donald Flemming performed the X-rays and detected five rib fractures in various stages of healing, as well as three additional suspected rib fractures.
The extent of the baby's injuries prompted Reed to immediately contact Capt. Barbara Craig, a doctor and the director of the Armed Forces Center for Child Protection, as well as Child Protective Services (CPS) in Alexandria, Va., where the Velasquezes were living. Social workers immediately came to the hospital to interview Miguel and Alice.
Liliana was transferred from Bethesda and kept overnight at the Walter Reed Army Medical Center. The next evening, after the social workers obtained a court order, Liliana was taken into city custody and placed in a foster home.
The Velasquezes claim they had no idea what had happened to cause their daughter's injuries, and were adamant that they had done nothing to cause them. They never imagined that for the next year and a half they would be faced with the impossible task of convincing the city that their daughter's injuries were caused by a rare bone disease they had never even heard of.
Nor could the Velasquezes foresee that another family's experience with Alexandria social services would affect their battle to regain custody of their daughter after the disease was identified. Alice and Miguel had no idea that they would be seen as an opportunity for a city agency under scrutiny to redeem itself.
"While we were going through all of this, the Katelyn Frazier case happened," says Alice. "That made everything a lot harder."
Doctors who discover injuries that appear to be nonaccidental in children are required to notify the proper authorities, usually the jurisdiction's child-welfare agency and/or law enforcement officials. Any doctor who fails to make such a report can face steep fines and possibly imprisonment, depending on state statutes.
Once social workers become involved, they, too, must adhere to specific regulations, in their case dictating how they investigate reports of suspected child abuse or neglect. Virginia receives more than 33,000 reports of possible abuse or neglect each year; its city and county social workers are required to investigate each and every one.
The social workers must decide whether long-term intervention is warranted and whether the child should be taken into protective custody. The investigation process includes talking with the parents—and child, if the child is old enough—face to face, making home visits, and checking for past reports of abuse against any adult members of the household. If social workers find that a report of abuse is founded, they devise a long-term foster-care plan with the family and continue to monitor both parents and child. Parents must meet certain conditions before they are able to regain custody. Usually, they are required to take parenting classes and undergo individual therapy. If they are cooperative and complete the requirements, the family can be reunited.
On its Web site, the Virginia Department of Social Services, which oversees local jurisdictions, states its goal as reuniting families: "Even if the child must be temporarily removed for safety, the goal is to return the child to the home as soon as possible."
Miguel and Alice Velasquez agree that in the beginning stages of their involvement with the social safety net, both the military doctors and the Alexandria social workers who placed their daughter in foster care were doing their jobs correctly. "I've worked in a hospital," says Alice. "If I'd found a child with even one rib fracture, I would've acted the same way."
Two high-profile local cases of child abuse, however, have shifted the goals of child-welfare agencies in both Alexandria and the District of Columbia. Area social-service agencies' traditional emphasis on family reunification has come into question following the deaths of two little girls who might still be alive had they not been returned to their birth mothers.
Twenty-three-month-old Brianna Blackmond was killed on Jan. 6, 2000, two weeks after D.C. child-welfare workers restored legal custody to her mother, Charrisise Blackmond. Brianna had been taken away from her mother in June 1998 after a social worker discovered her and seven siblings living in filth and rummaging through trash trying to find food. She was immediately placed in foster care.
The events that led to Brianna's return to her mother were a series of egregious oversights. The social worker handling Brianna's case failed to complete her recommendation that Brianna not be returned in time for a court hearing. While both the social worker and the attorney representing the city were on vacation, a D.C. Superior Court judge approved a motion entered by Charrisise Blackmond's lawyer to return Brianna to her mother—without a hearing. No one made a home visit before the child was returned. Anyone who had would have discovered that Charrisise Blackmond and several of her children were illegal tenants in the public-housing unit inhabited by Angela O'Brien, the woman who would later kill Brianna with a blow to the head.
Three-year-old Katelyn Frazier was fatally injured two days after Christmas 2000 while in the custody of her mother, Pennee Frazier. Their Alexandria apartment was shared with Frazier's boyfriend, Asher Levin, and three siblings. Katelyn had spent the majority of her life in a foster home under the care of Lesley Dodson, who had sought to adopt the child. Dodson's hopes were dashed in September 2000, when a judge decided to return Katelyn to her birth mother. She had been back in her mother's care only three months when she was killed. Levin later confessed to beating the toddler to death.
Unlike the Brianna case, in which a child seemed to fall through the cracks of a beleaguered child welfare system, the Katelyn case received an enormous amount of attention from city social workers—even after the child was reunited with her mother. The Washington Post reported that Katelyn was the subject of more than 15 court hearings to determine her placement, and social workers visited Pennee Frazier's home more than 30 times during the three months she had her daughter back. But somehow they missed what neighbors and friends later reported: Shortly after returning to her mother's apartment, Katelyn began showing bruises and other obvious signs of abuse.
Katelyn's death outraged community members. Residents have demanded that CPS be held accountable for what many believe was a mishandling of the case.
"[Katelyn] was too young to insist that the Alexandria [Department of Human Services] do its job...which was to make sure that whoever was entrusted with the care of this very vulnerable child did the right thing by her," said one angered community resident in an opinion piece published in the Fairfax Journal.
In July 2001, the city announced it would implement changes outlined in a review of Alexandria CPS conducted by the Child Welfare League of America (CWLA). The report, which criticized the department's handling of the Frazier case, offered recommendations to improve the agency's case monitoring.
The city was effective in its damage control until it was discovered that the CWLA's report had been edited, with portions unflattering to CPS removed, before City Manager Phil Sunderland distributed it to city councilmembers in June.
With its social-service agencies under intensified scrutiny, Alexandria was probably the worst possible jurisdiction for a family lobbying for the return of a child.
Sources who work closely with Alexandria CPS say that although de-emphasizing family reunification is not a formal policy reform, they have anecdotal evidence that it's happening all over the city. One source describes the agency as being in "crackdown" mode and says that employees are overcompensating, keeping families apart, because they are "very scared" of making another mistake.
Because of legal constraints, most of the people involved in the removal of Liliana Velasquez from her parents' care were unable to comment on the case for this story. "We have stringent confidentiality rules that apply to social-services work—we can't even acknowledge that we have any case under our care or anything attendant to that. We can actually be charged with a misdemeanor if we do so," explains Meg O'Reagan, director of Alexandria's Department of Human Services. Her department oversees the city's Family Services Division,which includes CPS.
Attorneys George McAndrews, who represents the city, and Russell Hatchell, who represents Liliana's interests in court proceedings, also declined to comment.
"The Frazier case had caused us more problems than we might have had otherwise," says Dorothy Isaacs, an attorney who agreed to represent Alice and Miguel Velasquez pro bono in February 2001. "[The] Alexandria [Department of Human Services] is sensitive right now, and I can't say I blame them. They really screwed up with [the Katelyn Frazier] case."
During their initial interview at the naval hospital, Alice tried to defend her husband to CPS social workers Jackie Lusk and Johnny Simancas. She explained how Miguel cared for their daughter during the day while she was at work. She told them how he drove from their home to her office at the Pentagon and back again twice each day because she hadn't wanted to stop breast-feeding after she returned to work. "Their response to me was 'Whose side are you on?'" says Alice.
"They asked me how much my husband drank and if he had been drinking that night," says Alice. "I told them that we're Mormons—we don't even drink sodas with caffeine."
The Velasquezes were puzzled by the social workers' immediate fingering of Miguel. "My husband couldn't hurt a flea! If anything, he's the one afraid of me! They just had it in their minds from the very beginning that it was him," says Alice.
"I don't even remember the walk from the hospital to the car—I just remember standing in the street and hearing Liliana crying as the car drove away," recalls Alice, crying. "Even after I couldn't see the car any longer, I could still hear her. I sat down on the curb and threw up."
The couple drove home through a snowstorm to an empty apartment. After hours of crying and worrying, they finally fell asleep. Alice would wake up a few hours later: "I heard her cry, and I got up to feed her. But when I went to the crib she wasn't there. I would turn on the lights and look everywhere for her until I realized. This went on for weeks and weeks."
During the course of the investigation, Miguel and Alice were told that if they could provide a reasonable explanation for their daughter's fractures, she would be returned to them. They immediately came up with a list of things that could have possibly happened to cause Liliana's injuries, some of which later came back to haunt them during court proceedings.
Perhaps one of them had rolled on her as she slept in their bed? Or maybe they had pressed on her belly too hard while trying to ease gas and constipation? Maybe her visiting older half-sister had somehow hurt her while they were playing? Miguel offered: "Maybe I hugged her too tight because I love her so much."
Despite their efforts to explain the origin of their daughter's fractures, Miguel was arrested on Feb. 17, 2000, for criminal child abuse and neglect. He says it was his first arrest and that his experience in jail was "very bad": "They just treat you like you're nothing in that place."
The Velasquezes were now faced with not only civil custody hearings and the CPS foster-care requirements but the possibility of a criminal trial as well.
Miguel remained in jail for only a few hours, but after Alice posted bail and he was released, he received the worst blow: Although CPS had granted both Miguel and Alice visitation time with their daughter, as a standard condition of his bond, Miguel was prohibited from seeing Liliana, meaning he could be jailed again if he came into contact with her.
Liliana stayed in foster care for the entire month of February. Alice regained custody of her daughter in March, but Miguel still wasn't allowed to see her. He moved in with his father temporarily, hoping that his court-appointed criminal attorney, Mary McGuire, would soon be able to successfully petition for an amendment to his bond, allowing him to move back home and see his daughter.
But being away from his family proved too much for Miguel to bear. At the beginning of May, he began visiting Liliana and Alice. However, on May 5, someone anonymously tipped off CPS that Miguel was spending time with his daughter. On May 12, Simancas, along with the Fairfax County police, came to the Velasquez home to take away Liliana and arrest Miguel.
Miguel and Alice both describe the scene as something "out of a movie." The cops came into the house in the middle of the night and found Miguel hiding in a bedroom closet. Alice was again left alone. The next morning, for the second time, Alice bailed her husband out of jail.
"We haven't been perfect in this process—it was a mistake," says Alice. "But I knew that if I was in [Miguel's] position and [Miguel] told me that I couldn't see our daughter, that I would hate him. His only crime was missing and wanting to see his daughter."
On May 1, 2000, Miguel was indicted by a City of Alexandria grand jury on the charge of felony child abuse and neglect. The crime typically carries a penalty of two to 10 years' imprisonment. A trial date was set for June.
One evening in February 2000, a few weeks after Liliana was first taken away, Miguel and Alice decided to watch television as a distraction. After a quiet dinner, they sat on the couch and idly flipped through the channels. There was a commercial for the news program 20/20 that mentioned a segment on a disease with a funny name—osteogenesis imperfecta.
A friend at church had mentioned the disease to them just that Sunday. "Have you heard of this?" the friend had asked, handing them some literature on the disease, which is characterized by bones that break easily. The couple decided to watch the prograó. They tuned in at 10 o'clock and learned about the hallmarks of "OI," as it is called—a bluish tint to the whites of the eyes, excessive perspiration, hyperflexibility, and inexplicable bone fractures—sometimes even before a child is born.
Miguel and Alice sat on the couch in silence throughout the entire program, not speaking even to express relief.
"We couldn't believe it—it all made sense. Liliana always sweated a lot and had a bluish tint to her eyes. When she was a baby, Miguel and I would argue about whether her eyes were brown or blue, because the tint was so strong," says Alice. "Even people at church and other family members noticed it. Then there is my family history of spinal problems and my hyperflexibility," she says, bending her elbow back into an impossible position.
"OI is 'brittle-bones' disease," explains Dr. Jay Shapiro of Baltimore's Kennedy Krieger Institute's Osteogenesis Imperfecta Clinic, which treats OI patients from around the world. "It's a disease where people are born with fragile bones—they can have fractures even while in the womb. Most continue to fracture throughout their lives. Some may have only three or four fractures over their lifetime and look fairly normal. Others, with more severe OI, can have growth problems and may be only 3 to 4 feet tall and have many fractures—20, 30, maybe even more."
There are an estimated 20,000 to 50,000 OI sufferers in the United States alone. In its mildest form, the disease may cause the bluish tint to the eyes, brittle teeth, and a slightly triangular face, but these indicators do not necessarily have to be present in a child with OI. Diagnosis is based on a combination of factors, including evaluation by doctors and geneticists, and, if necessary, lab testing. The disease may go undetected for years—or be misdiagnosed as child abuse.
Like OI, child abuse is often characterized by broken bones. Fractures in multiple stages of healing—especially rib fractures—are often present in both children with OI and children who are being battered. And, because these distinguishing characteristics are the same, children with OI are often suspected to be victims of abuse when they are first seen by doctors.
"You have a parent who walks in and presents exactly like someone who abuses their child," says Heller An Shapiro, director of the Osteogenesis Imperfecta Foundation. "They bring in a child with injuries—fractures, bruises, etc.—and when asked how the injuries occurred, say, 'I don't know.' Well, that is exactly how someone who is abusing their child would respond, so they fit the profile. I have empathy for social workers in this sort of situation who are trying to piece together what's going on."
And, Heller An Shapiro notes, the disease is unfamiliar to many doctors and social workers. "We've worked hard to educate doctors, emergency-room personnel, and social workers, but it's not something that people see often, and it is highly unlikely that it would be diagnosed in its mildest form. Most doctors can spot the more severe types of OI, where the child might be in a wheelchair or have visible deformities. But for a child who looks normal and happens to have OI, the disease is rarely identified right away."
Because the disease is indeed rare and most people are unaware of its existence, the Velasquezes had a difficult time getting authorities to take their claims seriously. After seeing the 20/20 segment, Alice gathered all of the information she could find about OI and presented it to caseworker Lusk, who she says blew it off. She also approached Capt. Craig, who she says told her, "Don't believe everything you see on the Internet."
The couple say that even their respective court-appointed civil attorneys didn't seem interested in the information. But McGuire, faced with a desperate client looking at a decade behind bars, finally agreed to push for an OI test for Liliana. In May 2000, a judge granted the test, to be paid for by the court.
Later that month, Liliana was examined by two physicians in the genetics department of Children's Hospital. She was given a painful skin biopsy, involving the removal of a plug of skin from her forearm about the size of a pencil eraser. "I had to hold her while they took the skin sample," says Alice. "She was just screaming and looking at me like 'Mommy, why are you letting them do this to me?' It was terrible."
The skin sample was sent to the University of Washington's Department of Pathology for analysis in its Collagen Diagnostic Laboratory. The doctors at Children's Hospital also decided to give Liliana another complete set of X-rays, to confirm the presence of the previously diagnosed fractures. These new X-rays showed only five rib fractures—the additional three suspected fractures were not confirmed.
The results of the skin test came back in September. Although such test results usually come back in three weeks, the lab had also performed other studies, including DNA work, along with the collagen skin test. Genetic counselor Melanie Pepin, who works at the lab, says that such additional tests are often conducted "especially with the question of nonaccidental injury." The results confirmed what her parents had suspected: Liliana had tested positive for OI Type I, a mild form of the disease.
The city's civil prosecutor attempted to discredit the test as experimental and unreliable, and argued that the diagnosis of OI didn't preclude the possibility that Miguel could have still abused his daughter. Capt. Craig became a key witness in both lines of argument.
Craig declined to comment for this article, citing confidentiality regulations affecting active-duty military personnel, but she has made her opinions on the case apparent throughout court proceedings. In a November 2000 e-mail to Alexandria Assistant Commonwealth's Attorney Roger Canaff, she wrote, "Do I think these parents cannot be trusted? Yes. Do I think Liliana will be further abused in their care? Yes? Can I prove this in court? No. Does she have OI? Maybe—probably....Will a judge or jury buy any of this? They will probably have sympathy on the poor parents who will cry and lie in telling about their ordeal against the mean doctors in the military. The OI, if present, is an extremely mild case and may not have anything to do with her fractures."
The prosecution also pointed out that Liliana had not experienced any new fractures during her year in foster care. Jay Shapiro says that when a child is removed from a home and does not experience new fractures, it often means that the child does not have OI and was being abused.
"Let's say you have someone who brings a child into the ER [with fractures]," Shapiro says. "The ER calls Social Services and the child is taken away. The child has another fracture while on his or her own. Then you have someone who brings a child into ER with many fractures, the child is put in foster home, and the child doesn't fracture again. Usually you can say with some degree of certainty that the first case is OI and the second is child abuse."
Shapiro adds, however, that there are exceptions to the rule. "That type of evaluation is probably good 96 percent of the time. In a couple of cases it may not be so clear. That is the loophole, where you're not 100 percent sure."
"It is true that even if a child has OI there could be real abuse going on," says Heller An Shapiro. "It makes all of the factors difficult to assess—especially in Virginia, where they are so anxious about making a mistake that they may make accusations even when clearly that isn't the case."
"Having OI doesn't mean a child can't be abused, but there is absolutely nothing in Miguel's history that could lead anyone to think he could possibly abuse his child," says Isaacs.
The prosecution also argued that the test for OI can be unreliable. Although the collagen skin test can yield a false negative result, a positive test is foolproof, says Heller An Shapiro: "They got it wrong when they argued about the OI test, calling it experimental. [Liliana] got a positive test. If an OI test is positive, it's positive. The positive success rate is 100 percent. The negative result is less reliable—an 85 to 90 percent success rate. But if someone tests positive, there is no question."
Pepin agrees the test, which has been in use since the early '80s, does not yield positives: "The issue in terms of the test's sensitivity isn't if a positive test confirms OI—a positive result confirms the presence of OI."
In December 2000, Miguel's felony charge was reduced to a misdemeanor in light of the new information pertaining to Liliana's OI. In January 2001, the Alexandria city attorney entered a nolle prosequi in the case—declining to prosecute for lack of evidence—after McGuire was successful in suppressing all of his pre-charge statements. His conversations with Reed, Craig, and even Lusk, prior to his arrest, were thrown out. Miguel says he wasn't read his Miranda rights before talking to doctors and social workers at Bethesda. Even though he wasn't being charged with a crime at the time, Miranda law applies to custodial investigations as well. All criminal charges against him were dismissed.
Miguel and Alice thought their daughter was finally coming home.
But the nolle prosequi in Miguel's criminal case had no bearing on either the civil custody proceedings or CPS's monitoring of the family. Instead of reinstating Liliana, the agency was able to keep her in the foster-care system on a technicality: It sustained an internal administrative finding against the parents—an action that affects civil custody.
McGuire had seen to it that all pertinent OI information went into Miguel's file in the criminal case. The court-appointed civil attorneys representing the couple at the time, however, had not done the same for the civil custody case.
"The administrative finding was sustained because they were supposed to submit the results of the OI test and didn't," says Isaacs. "Alice and Miguel rightfully thought that the OI finding was on record, so they didn't submit the doctors' reports. They said that Johnny Simancas told them that it was in the record. Because the parents were supposed to give additional info and didn't, the [administrative] finding was sustained."
CPS also argued that Miguel and Alice had failed to complete a key requirement of their foster-care plan—admitting their guilt.
"They said that they wanted us to stipulate our roles in her abuse and move beyond a victimization posture. We would have lied and said that we did it in a minute, just to get our child back, but it was a Catch-22," says Alice.
"They wanted us to say we were abusing our baby," says Miguel.
If the Velasquezes had admitted guilt, under the nolle prosequi, the misdemeanor case against Miguel could have been reopened, and the criminal charges could have been reinstated. If new evidence is introduced within one year in a nolle prosequi case, charges can be re-entered.
"In September, when the skin biopsy came back, if they would've apologized, I would've understood," says Alice.
"We want our names cleared," continues Alice. "Even when all of this is over, it will follow us. Whenever Liliana starts a new school, it's something that will be on record, something that everyone will know about. We just want an apology. We want them to admit they were wrong."
The Velasquezes believe that CPS focused on Miguel because of his race. "I think I was targeted because I am a Latino man," he says.
In addition to caring for Liliana, Miguel also has an older daughter, 7-year-old Cassandra, from a previous marriage. While married to his ex-wife, Roxanna Garay, and still living with Cassandra full time, he served as her primary caregiver. Cassandra has congenital heart disease, and Garay has testified that when her daughter's illness was at its most severe and she herself couldn't cope, it was her husband who stepped in and cared for the child.
"Miguel's ex-wife testified that he was a loving father—never abused her or their daughter," says Isaacs. "You know, I handle a lot of divorces, and the glowing testimony of an ex-spouse says a lot."
In a March 2000 hearing, Dr. Reed testified that Miguel had been "very flattened in his affect" and "emotionless" as Reed described Liliana's fractures to him.
"Miguel doesn't know what 'fractures' are," counters Alice. Miguel came to America from El Salvador in 1990, and although he speaks English quite well, she argues, medical terminology isn't something that even most native speakers are very familiar with, let alone someone who is still learning the nuances of the language.
"Miguel has language issues, and Alice isn't a lawyer, so there was some confusion," says Isaacs.
One statement that was brought out repeatedly by prosecutors during hearings was Craig's recollection that Miguel had confessed to lifting Liliana with one hand and "throwing" her to her mother "like a football" during his interview with her the day Liliana was brought to Bethesda.
"It's ridiculous. They don't even have football in Miguel's country—he would've never made that comparison!" says Alice.
Heller An Shapiro says that poor families of color are especially vulnerable to charges of child abuse, because social-service agencies often target such families. "That seems to be the profile that social workers and child-abuse experts have in mind. The other piece to that puzzle is young or inexperienced parents."
"There is no doubt in my mind that it is a class issue, but I wouldn't be surprised by racial motivations, either," says Isaacs. "People who can afford counsel, who are familiar with the legal system, and who know when to keep their mouths closed to avoid incriminating themselves—they're treated differently."
In addition to the agony of being separated from their daughter, Miguel and Alice also faced fears that Liliana was being neglected in her foster home. "[CPS] didn't think we were good parents, but they allowed her to be treated poorly in foster care," says Alice.
According to INOVA Alexandria Hospital records, Liliana was hospitalized seven times while under the care of foster mother Willie Mae Gray. Liliana was seen at INOVA Alexandria on May 26, May 27, July 5, Aug. 3, Nov. 12, Dec. 14, and, finally, on Dec. 19, 2000. Usually, she was brought in for malnutrition and diarrhea. Her parents were not notified by social workers of Liliana's trips to the emergency room.
But Alice had begun to notice worrisome changes in her daughter's demeanor. Whenever Liliana was brought to the CPS offices for visitation, she was always "dirty and exhausted," says her mother. Liliana's long hair was often matted to her head and was falling out in small patches. She usually wasn't dressed properly for the weather, adds Alice.
"She was always dirty. She stunk, had terrible diaper rash to the point of open, bloody lesions. I later found out she had several vaginal infections because she was not being cleaned properly," says Alice.
Alice and Miguel found out that their daughter was a frequent visitor to the emergency room only after she contracted pneumonia in December 2000 and was retained for nine days. A hospital employee told Alice that Liliana was a "frequent" visitor, and urged her to seek out a copy of her daughter's medical file. She was able to obtain the records and was shocked at what she found.
Alice became desperate to transfer her daughter from Gray's care and into another foster home. She frantically tried to contact her court-appointed civil attorney, to no avail: "He wouldn't return my calls."
It was at this point that Alice began contacting the media: "Fox 5, Eyewitness News—everybody but Jerry Springer." She was successful in gaining public attention. Both Channel 9 and the Spanish-language cable channel Univision planned spots profiling the family, which were aired in March 2001. The increase in visibility also brought them to Isaacs, whose firm was recommended to the family by an acquaintance.
"People treated us a lot differently after they found out our story was going to be on TV," says Alice. Liliana was placed in another foster home at the end of February. The family believes that Isaacs' involvement and the media attention they received were instrumental in their daughter's transfer.
Previously, CPS intervened in illnesses and injuries of children in foster care only if a caseworker reported a child as possibly being abused or neglected. But in June 2001, the city announced a "new-eyes approach" that requires investigation into any injuries sustained by a child in foster care. Currently the Velasquezes have physical, but not legal, custody of their daughter. Although she was finally returned to her parents' home in July 2001, the city still effectively has control over all decisions regarding her health, education, and welfare.
The Velasquezes moved to Maryland in late 2001. Alice, who remained on active duty during most of their ordeal, had left the Army that September. Because the couple could no longer pay Alexandria rent without military assistance, the decided to search for an apartment in the more affordable suburbs of Prince George's County. "Of course, that was another whole big issue," says Alice. "They tried to say that we were running away."
Although the Velasquezes moved only 20 minutes from their former home, because they left Virginia, they unknowingly invoked the Interstate Compact to Protect Children (ICPC). This legislation was designed to protect children placed across state lines for foster care and adoption, to ensure that they couldn't slip through the cracks. Under the ICPC, any adopted or foster child remains in the legal custody of the state for six months after any out-of-state move.
After completing all of Alexandria CPS's requirements, Miguel and Alice were devastated to learn that the agency would remain a part of their lives for an additional half-year. The ICPC monitoring period will expire in March, at which time they expect to regain full legal custody of their daughter.
In the meantime, the Velasquezes are attempting to move on with their lives. They are ecstatic to have Liliana back home, and they have a new addition to their family: baby Tahlia, born in October 2001. They are in the process of saving money to have Tahlia tested for OI. Currently, Alice is staying home with both children, and Miguel is supporting the family with contract construction work.
Miguel and Alice must constantly try to protect Liliana from activities that may cause additional fractures, while still trying to ensure that she has as normal a childhood as possible. "We watch her very carefully," says Alice. "We don't let her climb stairs or play on the playground by herself, and we have to watch her when she's around other kids. We also have a list from her doctor of activities she will never be able to do—like horseback riding and gymnastics."
Alice is writing a book about their experiences, not only to help her and her husband process it all, but also so that their daughter will have a record of the ordeal. "I don't want her to hate us. I want her, when she's old enough, to understand exactly what happened—to know how much we love her and that we never gave up on her. We never stopped fighting."
Miguel and Alice communicate with other parents of children with OI who have had similar experiences. At first, they sought out other families and support groups for counsel. Now, they say, they are beginning to give guidance themselves. "It's so incredibly sad. I've done a lot of research on OI, and other families, in almost every single case, have their child taken away, and it is sometimes years before the child is tested," says Alice.
"There was one family where the father served five years in prison before his child tested positive for OI," Alice continues. "After five years in jail, the father is scared to death to touch the kid, the mother is alienated from her husband after spending years wondering if he really did it, and the child doesn't really know his parents. You can't even tell that they're a family anymore. When I think about it, we're one of the lucky ones."
It is easy to see why Alice and Miguel feel lucky, despite their travails, upon seeing Liliana in action. The now-2-year-old girl is beautiful and bright. Although, like many toddlers she is initially reluctant around new people, once she warms up, she is lively. She runs around the house laughing and tries to draw on anything that will stand still. She talks and talks and talks to no one in particular and loves to give demonstrations of her many toys.
While Alice recounts the story of the fight for Liliana, Miguel tries to occupy his daughter in the living room. He plies her with ice cream, Powerpuff Girls cartoons, and games of peek-a-boo. Then he takes her for a quick bath and puts her in pink pajamas. Inevitably, however, the toddler decides she wants to be where the action is.
Liliana comes back into the room, crying with no tears, and climbs into her mother's lap. "Aww, was Daddy trying to make you go to sleep? Oh no, what a mean daddy!" says Alice playfully. Liliana mimics her mother and manages a garbled "mean daddy" of her own. Alice falls over in peals of laughter, stopping only when she notices Miguel grimacing. "Please, Alice," he says. "Don't teach her to say that." CP
Copyright © 2002 Washington Free Weekly Inc.
The 'experts' who made parents into criminals
The 'experts' who made parents into criminals
Allison Pearson, Evening Standard
"The greatest medical scandal of our times," is what Dr James Le Fanu calls it. He is referring to Shaken Baby Syndrome. Thousands of parents have been wrongly accused of abusing their children because the medical profession, in its arrogance, has taken a certain set of symptoms to be evidence of severe battering, rather than accepting an explanation that a child may have simply fallen.
Paul and Joanne, a lovely London couple I know, recently lived through the hell of being accused of harming their baby daughter. Taking the baby to casualty after she rolled off a sofa, they found themselves in a Kafkaesque nightmare, with every protestation of innocence treated as further proof of guilt.
"Denial is highly indicative of abuse," says one smug paediatrician cited by Dr Le Fanu. In other words, unless parents confess, they must have done it.
For years, doctors have insisted that severe injuries, such as haemorrhages in the eye, could not be caused by the trivial accidents parents claimed had taken place. The drawback to this position was obvious: no one had ever pushed an infant off the sitting-room sofa in an experiment to see what damage would result.
Instead of proceeding with caution, however, "experts" gave damning evidence of Shaken Baby Syndrome to the Family Court, while bewildered parents, numb with shock and grief, saw their children removed to foster homes. Some of the accused were jailed.
Paul and Joanne were not trusted to take their daughter home. Only the promise that they would never be alone with her - that there would always be a third person present - saved their ninemonthold from being taken to the fearful place we call "care". Any protest was impossible because, if the family went public, the court would seize the child.
In a bitter irony, this family was going through hell in one part of our city at the same time that medical and social services were failing to notice that Victoria Climbie was being tortured in another.
How much easier and more satisfying to torment an innocent middle-class family, who had taken their child to hospital in good faith, than to confront some evil brutes who went to every length to keep the little girl in their charge from proper treatment and diagnosis.
Well, now it has become clear that there is no such thing as Shaken Baby Syndrome. A pathologist has proved that in 18 independently witnessed accidents, trivial falls produced exactly those injuries which were meant to be consistent with violent abuse. And what do we hear from the experts? A thunderous silence. And from the secretive and draconian Family Court? An apologetic cough.
The Shaken Baby Scandal could be the source of some of the most grotesque miscarriages of justice this country has seen. There is an urgent need for a public inquiry. Each case will need to be re-examined. The jailed must be freed.
Then decent, loving people like Paul and Joanne, who live in fear of their toddler falling off her tricycle lest the cuts and bruises be deemed to have a sinister origin, can be taken off the legal blacklist.
At long last, the cries of shaken parents can be heard.
Allison Pearson, Evening Standard
"The greatest medical scandal of our times," is what Dr James Le Fanu calls it. He is referring to Shaken Baby Syndrome. Thousands of parents have been wrongly accused of abusing their children because the medical profession, in its arrogance, has taken a certain set of symptoms to be evidence of severe battering, rather than accepting an explanation that a child may have simply fallen.
Paul and Joanne, a lovely London couple I know, recently lived through the hell of being accused of harming their baby daughter. Taking the baby to casualty after she rolled off a sofa, they found themselves in a Kafkaesque nightmare, with every protestation of innocence treated as further proof of guilt.
"Denial is highly indicative of abuse," says one smug paediatrician cited by Dr Le Fanu. In other words, unless parents confess, they must have done it.
For years, doctors have insisted that severe injuries, such as haemorrhages in the eye, could not be caused by the trivial accidents parents claimed had taken place. The drawback to this position was obvious: no one had ever pushed an infant off the sitting-room sofa in an experiment to see what damage would result.
Instead of proceeding with caution, however, "experts" gave damning evidence of Shaken Baby Syndrome to the Family Court, while bewildered parents, numb with shock and grief, saw their children removed to foster homes. Some of the accused were jailed.
Paul and Joanne were not trusted to take their daughter home. Only the promise that they would never be alone with her - that there would always be a third person present - saved their ninemonthold from being taken to the fearful place we call "care". Any protest was impossible because, if the family went public, the court would seize the child.
In a bitter irony, this family was going through hell in one part of our city at the same time that medical and social services were failing to notice that Victoria Climbie was being tortured in another.
How much easier and more satisfying to torment an innocent middle-class family, who had taken their child to hospital in good faith, than to confront some evil brutes who went to every length to keep the little girl in their charge from proper treatment and diagnosis.
Well, now it has become clear that there is no such thing as Shaken Baby Syndrome. A pathologist has proved that in 18 independently witnessed accidents, trivial falls produced exactly those injuries which were meant to be consistent with violent abuse. And what do we hear from the experts? A thunderous silence. And from the secretive and draconian Family Court? An apologetic cough.
The Shaken Baby Scandal could be the source of some of the most grotesque miscarriages of justice this country has seen. There is an urgent need for a public inquiry. Each case will need to be re-examined. The jailed must be freed.
Then decent, loving people like Paul and Joanne, who live in fear of their toddler falling off her tricycle lest the cuts and bruises be deemed to have a sinister origin, can be taken off the legal blacklist.
At long last, the cries of shaken parents can be heard.
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