In Travis County, the painful process begins every Friday morning.

By Chuck Lindell
AMERICAN-STATESMAN STAFF
Sunday, September 07, 2008

The young mother stands before Judge Darlene Byrne, chewing gum and staring vacantly at the floor. If the hearing about her 5-year-old son interests her, it doesn't show.

The boy, recently seized by Child Protective Services, shows signs of physical abuse, an investigator tells the judge.

Byrne, reading ahead in the court report, raises a hand to interrupt. "At 5, he is diagnosed with PTSD?" the judge asks.

The courtroom goes silent. Post-traumatic stress disorder, an anxiety affliction linked to exposure to terrifying events, is common among war veterans — not kindergartners.

Prosecutor Ann Forman nods. "We think he has been through a whole lot for a 5-year-old," she says.

For misery and sorrow, nothing in the Travis County Courthouse compares to the always bustling CPS docket — hundreds of young lives marked by cruelty and violence, apathy and ignorance.

Parents arrive in court to fight the state for custody of their children, but many are fighting personal demons as well — drugs, alcohol, mental illness, maybe a lifetime of bad choices. The details are depressing and infuriating, yet every so often a moment of grace emerges — an unlikely hero or an astonishing act of selflessness — that helps balance the grief.

It all plays out one 20-minute hearing at a time, in courtrooms that are closed to the public unless a case is notorious enough to persuade a judge to part the curtain, as with the seizure of hundreds of children at the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints polygamist compound in Eldorado this year.

That case gave many Texans their first glimpse of the rigidly scheduled hearings that begin two weeks after a child is seized. But most cases proceed out of the public eye, making the CPS docket one of the least-known, if busiest, segments of Travis County's civil court system.

In a typical week last year, CPS removed 10 children from their Travis County homes.

Statistically, four of those 10 children can expect to return to admittedly problematic, but hopefully improved, homes. The rest will get new families or, if less lucky, become wards of the state until they turn 18, awaiting an adoption that might never come.

"These are the 'death penalty' cases in family law," said Jack Sampson, a University of Texas law professor and expert in family law. "It's the biggest stakes you can have. The civil court cannot do anything worse to you than taking your kid away."

Each child's fate is decided by a judge who has one year, or 18 months at the most, to choose — all the while knowing that a mistake can be devastating to the family and potentially lethal to the child.

The first hearing, held within 14 days of a child's removal, is a parent's first day in court after losing a child. The judge reviews allegations of abuse and neglect to determine if each child should remain in state custody or go home.

The process reminds Byrne of emergency room triage.

"Cops are there escorting inmates; parents could be drunk or high," she says. "It's dynamic, tragic, extremely emotional, erratic. It's a very raw and very sad time."

'How are the children?'

Some parents arrive at the 14-day hearing in tears, some in jail uniforms and chains. They shout in anger, or huddle in shame or meet questions with indifferent shrugs. Some fail on-the-spot drug tests ordered by Byrne. A few don't show up at all.

The grim parade begins every Friday about 8:30 a.m., and the 14-day hearings will grind on, at the rate of three or four an hour, until the CPS docket is done for the day.

After Byrne calls each case, a rough semicircle forms before her bench.

Standing to her left, representing CPS, is an assistant district attorney — five handle the CPS docket, though six could better handle the workload. Next are the agency representatives, a caseworker and supervisor, followed by the parents and their lawyers.

At the end of the arc stand two of the most influential people in the courtroom — the children's lawyer and the CASA, or court-appointed special advocate, a volunteer charged with watching for the child's best interest. Judges rely heavily on both when deciding where to place children in foster care and whether to return a child home.

The children are not present.

Proceedings are surprisingly informal. Nobody is sworn in, people speak where they stand and the judge questions parents directly, even those represented by a lawyer. (Parents who dispute CPS intervention can request an "adversarial hearing," with witnesses and cross examination, but these are rare in Travis County — about a half-dozen last year.)

Byrne, who has supervised Travis County's CPS docket since January 2007, typically begins with the same question: "How are the children doing?"

In the case of Z, the 5-year-old diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder, behavior problems are cropping up. Forman reveals that the boy has been removed from his home twice before, only to be returned after his mother appeared to make progress with her drug addiction.

It's a bad sign. Removing a child a second time can be damaging to youngsters, who need consistency in their lives, and re-expose them to potential danger. (Of 141 Travis Countychildren returned home in 2002, 12 percent were removed again, CPS data shows.)

But a third removal implies an unacceptable failure in the child-welfare system. Byrne delivers a blistering dose of reality to the mother — HIV-positive, bipolar and beset by kidney disease — who finally lifts her eyes to meet the judge's gaze.

"What that screams to me is (he) is very damaged, and at the hands of somebody," Byrne tells her. "Maybe it was you. Maybe it was somebody else. This is not something you are born with. Somebody inflicts this on you."

Byrne welcomes the father, fresh out of prison and eager to step forward to raise his son. But she wonders aloud how much time he can devote to parenting classes while looking for work, a car and a place to live.

After setting the next hearing, to take place 60 days following removal, Byrne tells the couple it might be time to find Z a "safe, forever family." The boy "needs a lot of love, stability and calm every minute of every day of the year — and somebody he can count on to give that to him. ... The question is, could you be that?" she asks.

"Because if it can't be you, get out of the way. It's that simple."

'The most horrific'

The 2-month-old boy was admitted to Dell Children's Hospital with a fractured skull. Further exams revealed broken bones all over his body — some healed, others healing — prompting doctors to conclude that he was the victim of chronic physical abuse.

CPS removed two siblings, ages 5 and 3, and police arrested the father on suspicion of injury to a child.

The father's abuse charge will proceed through the criminal court system, but the fate of his children will be decided, like all CPS cases, in civil court. The 14-day hearing gets off to a rocky start for both parents.

"Of all the cases I've had in front of me in months, this has been the most horrific," Byrne says in disgust. "I just want the parents to know. This is incredibly tragic."

The father is in a black-and-white striped jail uniform, handcuffs and leg chains. Flanked by two armed deputies, he doesn't react.

The mother, 22, looks down, her face turning red. "I will do anything to get my kids back," she says through tears. "My kids are the reason I get up in the morning."

Byrne isn't buying it — not yet.

"How is it that we have an infant with old injuries that were not seen or noticed by you?" she asks. "That's a huge concern. How could that happen?"

Byrne suggests that the mother produce a list of relatives who can take care of the children while the case proceeds. Relatives who can pass a home study — conducted by a social worker who assesses their ability to care for children — are the preferred placement for children, particularly if parental rights get terminated.

Byrne's parting message is meant for the mother: "I'm hopeful it will turn out that you will prove to all parties here that you are a safe person, but it's time to plan for all possibilities."

'There are some angels'

Legally, CPS is required to work toward reuniting families, except in cases of horrific or repeated abuse.

But to get their children back, parents must complete a challenging menu of self-help programs that can include counseling, parenting classes, drug and alcohol therapy and mental health treatment. Parents can be ordered to get a high school diploma, take anger-management courses or attend Alcoholics Anonymous.

The process typically takes a year to play out in court. Sometimes the outcome is already clear at the 14-day hearing.

There is the crack addict who delivered her seventh drug-positive baby, then skipped out of the hospital, leaving the child behind.

And there's the overwhelmed mother faced with a heartbreaking decision. K, an AIDS patient who recently became a widow, also has a drug problem that prompted CPS to remove her 2-month-old daughter. She was set to fight for the girl but woke up this morning not so sure.

After hearing glowing reports about the foster family who has been raising her daughter, she agrees to let her baby be placed for adoption.

"I've decided," she says, her voice breaking. "It would be selfish of me to take her, get her to love me and I may not be here forever."

Byrne tells the lawyers to help K with documents to voluntarily relinquish her parental rights.

"Ma'am, I wish you all the luck," she says. "You take care of yourself."

Moments like these keep the horror stories from being overwhelming, Byrne says later.

There are grandfathers who return to work and aunts who sacrifice their savings to take care of children seized by CPS. Byrne recalls a mother who lost eight kids to drug use, but turned her life around in time to keep the ninth, and a father who adopted his child's three siblings, each fathered by a different man, because he couldn't bear to split them up.

"It's incredible courage, incredible sacrifice, tons of selflessness," Byrne says. "There are some angels on this planet."

'I'm the hammer'

M's parents struggle with drug use, but until now, CPS has opted to keep his family together while the adults participate in agency-mandated parenting classes, therapy and drug treatment. The tactic is used with a growing segment of the agency's caseload, to help avoid the trauma of forced separation.

The threat of removal is always there, however, and today that threat becomes real.

Last month, M's mom tested positive for cocaine. Then CPS discovered that the fourth-grader frequently falls asleep in class because he spends so much time taking care of his year-old sister.

Byrne orders M's mother and father into the jury room, where there's a bathroom and a cabinet full of urinalysis kits that rapidly test for six different drugs. Drug use is the most common factor in CPS removals, playing a main or contributing factor in 50 to 60 percent of child seizures.

Thirty minutes later, everyone reassembles in court.

M's mother is clean, but her husband's test revealed cocaine and marijuana.

Byrne allows M to stay home but orders the father out of the house until he completes in-patient drug treatment, provided at taxpayer expense. He cannot telephone or even return to pack his belongings. His lawyer pleads for leniency. The judge refuses.

When threats from CPS fall short, Byrne says, an ultimatum delivered by a stern judge can turn a case around: "We're looking for a hammer, and I'm the hammer."

'Most selfless thing'

Shocking cases are routine in Byrne's court — the pregnant 11-year-old with a sexually transmitted disease, the filthy infant with rotted teeth, teen sisters sexually abused by their father.

Not every CPS case, however, involves abuse or neglect. Some of the most poignant involve people who voluntarily give up custody of children they can no longer provide for.

Such a couple, in their late 30s or early 40s, stands tensely in the courtroom. Tears slowly roll down the mother's cheeks. Her husband locks eyes with Byrne, rarely blinking.

Their teen son, D, diagnosed with mood disorders and needing inpatient psychiatric treatment they can't afford, has turned their home upside down, threatening the safety of their three other children. Desperate, they called CPS and agreed to give the agency custody of the boy so he can receive state-paid therapy. Now, both are having second thoughts.

"I do not want my son out of our house permanently. I did not come to Texas to give up custody of my son," the mother says, her voice gaining strength as the words spill out.

Byrne gently cuts to the chase.

"Do you want (D) to come home today? Is that in his best interest?" she asks. "Can you afford residential treatment? Are the other children safe with (D) home?"

Each question is met with a no or a silent shake of the head.

"Mom and Dad, you are not the first parents to do this, regrettably, because of the state of this country's mental health services," Byrne says. "But often this is the most selfless thing you can do. My goal is to get (D) home to you once we get him stabilized."

It is the father who finally decides. As his wife dabs her eyes, he asks the court to help his son.

Byrne orders the boy into temporary CPS custody. "We'll come back in two months to make sure the state follows through on their promises," she says.

The hearing over, Byrne calls the couple forward for a prolonged handshake.

"I will be there for you," the judge promises, not letting go. "We are very successful at reunifying families."

clindell@statesman.com, 912-2569

http://www.statesman.com/news/content/news/stories/local/09/07/
0907taken.html

Emphasis added by H4K Editor