The Locked Room

It all started with a trip to Mexico. Sue and I had been married for 10 years at the time and we decided to re-visit Cancun, where we had spent our first honeymoon. So, leaving Sarah, our daughter, who was about 9 years old, with her grandparents, we set off; confident in the ability of our teenage sons to act responsibly in our absence. We were half right in our judgment.

What we had forgotten to take into account was that the period of time we would be gone was also the week of “homecoming” for 3 area high schools. Now, for those who don’t know what homecoming is, I’ll explain. For some reason; maybe related to football, or the prom; each year high school students have a weekend of absolute insanity to celebrate. And if your house is the scene of an unsupervised homecoming party while you are away, my advice is to not go home.

Simply put, our youngest son, who shall remain nameless here because he knows who he is, decided to hand out fliers announcing an “open house” at our home. I never saw one of these alleged fliers personally, but I imagine that they said something along the lines of “Come wreck my parent’s house and steal stuff like furniture.” And, friends being friends, the masses happily complied with the request implied by the invitation.

On Sunday morning; early Sunday morning; and I mean very early Sunday morning; Sue and I were awakened in our hotel room overlooking the Gulf of Mexico by a phone call from the Maryland State Police barracks in Westminster, which was located several miles from our house. I immediately declined to make a statement; out of habit; before realizing what I was hearing.

The gist of the matter was that there had been some sort of party at our house the night before; actually I think the State Trooper said for 2 nights before; and that we should come home. We were scheduled to depart the next day for Baltimore and seeing that the event had passed, we decided to wait for our scheduled flight.

Arriving home late the next day we were shocked at two things; the damage that was inflicted upon our humble abode; and the fact that no-one had been arrested. Some furniture was gone, most notably the little Louis XIV end table which my parents had purchased in 1966. We found it by accident several days later, smashed in a roadside ditch. There was not a light fixture in our house that was undamaged, and our neighbors windows had been shot out. But nobody was in jail.

Later descriptions recounted that the police were throwing the partiers out of the front door, only to have the kids going back inside through the back door. And, the fact that the police actually thought that one of the kids had brought a Louis XIV end table to the party, and allowed that person to leave with it; well, that really took the cake.

While cleaning up this unholy mess; that’s right, the kid didn't even try to clean it up; I was livid. And, since I was due back at work at 7:30 AM in the morning and was clearly going to get no sleep, as I cannot sleep in squalor, about every 10 or 15 minutes I was at the door of the younger boy’s bedroom, cursing and generally acting insane. In my defense I would have to say that at the time, and in those circumstances, I was not in a normal state of mind.

The next morning saw me back at work, exhausted from cleaning up. And, to my surprise, everyone at work had heard about the party and the destruction at my house. So, I had to put up with quite a bit of ribbing about leaving teenagers home alone. And to make matters worse, by the time I got home from work, our son had run away. This began a 5 day odyssey which would rival the exploits of Homer’s “Odyssey” as I went in search of him. In addition to feeling guilty about yelling at him; which was absurd, since he needed to be yelled at; I was worried for his safety. And watching Sue live in torment at his absence only made me angrier at him. But clearly he needed to be found.

Though I looked everywhere, I never did locate him and he returned to school unbeknownst to us, on the 5^th day. This is the point at which the school authorities got involved and notified DSS. It’s also where this story begins to get interesting, and funny.

I was sitting in my office at Soil Safe, a company I was working for at the time, when I got a call from the State Police, again. The trooper on the phone was extremely courteous and nice, which raised my suspicions immediately. He wanted to know if I could come down to the barracks in Westminster to sign some papers concerning my son’s return home. I asked what kind of papers, and could they be faxed. He fell silent for a moment and then said that I needed to come in or they would have to come get me.

Realizing that our son had been in a locked principal’s office with 2 State Troopers interviewing him; without the presence of his parents or legal counsel; I recalled Hamlet and I, too, smelled a rat.

At the time I used to carry a small handgun with me everywhere. And of course there were always some left handed "cigarettes" to be considered as well. I agreed to meet the trooper at the barracks in about an hour, and then left the office.

Now, I am not the cleverest of individuals, but, having smelled a rat, I proceeded with caution. At the time I owned no vehicle or even property in my name. The vehicle I did drive was registered to Soil Safe. So, I decided not to go the police barracks, electing instead to park at a McDonald's located about ¼ of a mile down the road. I placed my pistol and cigarettes in the vehicle, locked it, and then left the key under the tire. Then I walked to the barracks.

Entering the barracks I approached the little glass window which separated the troopers from the reception area. I gave my name and was invited inside. As the door closed behind me I was thrust against the wall with my arms wrenched behind me and my jacket pulled up over my head, completely immobilized. The questions came fast and furious; “Where’s your gun Mr. Williams?”; followed by “Where’s the pipe and marijuana?”; and, “ Can we search your vehicle?”

Immediately I realized that they had pumped my kid for every bit of info about me that they could get from him. I was not at all angry with him; he was about 15 and definitely at a disadvantage without some sort of counsel during their interrogation of him. So, it was easy for me to look them in the eye; after they let me down off the wall; and inform them that I had no gun, no drugs and moreover, no vehicle. Of course they did not believe me and frog marched me to the parking lot demanding to search my vehicle. I showed them my keys and there was no vehicle key on the key ring. I also invited them to search the DMV database so as to satisfy them that I did not, in fact, even own a vehicle. Likewise with the gun, as it was not registered in my name, but to one Bob Wilson in Florida, where I had purchased it several years prior.

With these formalities out of the way, I was taken to the top floor of the barracks, placed in a locked room with a Trooper Sergeant and a woman from DSS. I was told that I was not under arrest and this was just a routine questioning about my son’s safety at home. I asked why the door was locked if I was not under arrest and was told that this was for my own safety. Then I was handed a form and told that my signature was an acknowledgment of my rights and I was required to sign it. I refused, as it was actually a waiver of my rights, allowing me to be questioned without counsel.

There was a tape recorder present and when it was switched on the DSS lady said, “This is an informal hearing with Mr. Williams and we have requested him to sign an acknowledgement of his rights. Mr. Williams, do you agree to this interview?” I replied, “That is a waiver of my Miranda rights, and if I am not under arrest, why is the door locked?” The DSS lady hit the stop button on the recorder. Take 1.

The Sergeant got tough and informed that I was to answer all questions and if I got wise with the DSS lady he was going to deal with me. The tape player was restarted anew with the same preamble by the DSS lady, to which I now replied, “Please note that this is the second attempt to interview me against my wishes and the first tape has been taped over.” This went on for about another 30 minutes, during which time I was asked where my vehicle was and how, if I did not have one, I was able to get from Baltimore to Carroll County in time for the interview. My reply; “I hitched.”

For the next three hours we parried back and forth; I wish I had a copy of that tape. I was like Clarence Darrow, fending off each question with a question of my own. I even found out that the DSS lady was a single mom and that she herself sometimes hit her son, even though that was not an issue  that was ever raised with me. She then threatened to take my children away from me, placing them in the custody of the county. My reply; "Go ahead, they're a pain in the ass; even you hit your own kid. So, you want 'em; they're yours. Where do I sign?" I do believe, that in the 15 years she had been doing this for a living, this was the first time that offer ever came her way.

During the 3 hours, a different officer would come into the room and ask things like, “Whose car is blocking the fuel truck?”, and “What color is your car Mr. Williams?” This only made me tap the microphone in an effort to see if it worked as I had already answered that question several times and now stated that I would not answer that question again.  In fact, I began to ask questions about the actions of the State Police on the night of the party. Things like, “Why were no trespassers arrested at my home?” and “Why were people allowed to leave with my furniture under the eyes of the officers present at the scene?”

After 3 hours I was released from the locked room and followed as I left the barracks on foot. I went to a Burger King nearby the McDonalds where I had left my car, got a hamburger, and waited until my “tail” was gone before walking back to the McDonalds to retrieve my vehicle. Sitting in the driver’s seat I reached down, feeling the reassuring weight of my pistol. Then I smoked a “cigarette” and went home.

"Oranges and Sunshine" with Emily Watson and David Wenham (2010)

Emily Watson stars as Margaret Humphreys, a social worker in Nottingham, England who becomes involved in solving the disappearance of thousands of boys and girls who were illegally deported to Australia. This is a true story.

Most of the children were removed from their homes due to the inability of the parents to either provide adequately for them, or for any number of other reasons deemed appropriate by the social workers. There was no offer of counseling to help these people learn how to better care for their kids. There was no offer of financial assistance. There was just the arbitrary removal of the children from their parents. In many cases siblings were separated, never to see one another again.

Some of the children went to other abusive families in Australia, meaning that the child’s world did not change at all. There were just the lingering, faded memories of a past that would never fully go away. These children had been promised a life of “oranges and sunshine”. Instead they got abused, worked half to death and starved. The lucky ones went to state sponsored institutions where they were abused in a more regimental fashion.

As Margaret Humphreys digs deeper into this case, she comes to realize the full extent of this misguided and evil program. And then she sets out to make it right. Assembling all of the children that she can find who were deported, she begins to reunite them with the siblings they have almost forgotten, and restore their memories of the parents from whom they were so cruelly wrenched.

This is a very moving, and disturbing film. It highlights the problems of government sponsored social engineering; a process by which people who presumably “know better” get to launch whatever harebrained scheme they come up with. This is not a problem isolated to Great Britain.

Expertly directed and acted by all the players; and with an exceptional performance by Emily Watson; this film will affect you long after the credits have rolled off the screen.

"that bird has my wings" by jarvis jay masters

The small letters at the top of the page are no accident. No typo. They are indicative of the humility with which Mr. Masters writes of his life.

Dealt an awful hand at birth, he details his early years vividly. Raised for the first 4 or 5 years in a drug house in Long Beach, California his recollections there are of playing with the multi colored ballons which were popular in the late 1960's for dealing heroin. After being taken from his mother by the Department of Social Services, he is placed in a foster home. He speaks lovingly of Mr. and Mrs. Procks, two elderly Christian folks who never had a child of their own. Theirs may have been the only unconditional love that he has ever known. But this respite from misery doesn't last too long.

He is taken from Mr. and Mrs. Procks and sent to live with the Duponts, as villianous a couple as ever invented by Charles Dickens. Deprivations and beatings are the norm in this house. This is the point where you start to see the system fail the author. His innocence becomes a casualty of the very people who are supposed to protect him.

Running away to Los Angeles he meets and is befriended by "Rags", an elderly black shoeshine man, at the Greyhound Station. After about a week of living at the terminal "Rags" convinces him to be placed in Juvenile Hall.

The juvenile hall is where he first becomes “institutionalized.” He sees the fence surrounding him as being protective rather than restrictive. Having had all the love and it’s attendant experiences snatched from him twice already and with the experience of his last foster parents still fresh in his mind, he is comfortable in the predictability of his life at Juvenile Hall.

Being surrounded by kids whose lives have been as troubled as his own makes him feel “normal.” But he cannot stay there forever and his caseworker tries for a year to find him a home. But everywhere he is taken he can see the signs of abuse in the other childrens eyes, all the while wondering why the caseworker cannot.

After searching unsuccessfully for a year he is transferred, at his own request, to “Boys Town of the Desert.” This is an institution for troubled kids, ones who have been sent there by the courts. They eagerly count down the days until their release, which confuses Jarvis. After all, this is the first place he has been in since the first foster home that seems safe to him. He soon discovers the truth.

The place is run along the lines of a prison, with the inmates organized into rival gangs. At this point his life takes it’s first wrong turns. While the others use the point system to have their sentences shortened so they can go home, he begins to “act out” in order to remain incarcerated. After all, he has no where to go if they release him early. This would mean going back to a foster home, which, given his last experience, is not an option for him.

He is now in the grips of the system and it will have terrible ramifications for him in the years to come. This is the point at which the system truly fails him. All the warning signs are there and yet his case worker remains blind- concerned only with "placing him" somewhere.

After running away and getting caught several times he finally comes to live with his Aunt and Uncle and his cousins. They're into dealing pot and eventually he falls into a pattern of crime and spends most of his life incacerated. Finally he is charged with conspiracy to murder a guard and is sentenced to death. He is currently appealing that sentence based on a technicality, though he still maintains his innocence.

The book is well written and reads quickly. It is astonishing to me how so many people could have failed this kid so badly. His sense of self worth still intact, Mr. Jarvis has written a superb account of one of the most neglected groups in our country- juvenile offenders.

They are locked in a wasteland from which someone must rescue them now or pay the larger bill later. This is an exceptional read.