Street roots., June 08, 2012, Page 9, Image 9

street roots
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ABUSE from page 9
expressway or take White Horse Pike or
Black Horse Pike, two major streets known
for concrete medians, used car lots and neon-
lit motels. Her father, a cop, thought the
roadways spelled trouble, but Karen felt
differently. The sight of them became etched
in her childhood memories, the same as
fireflies blinking across open fields.
After high school, Karen visited her sister
in the Greenwood neighborhood of Seattle.
When she ventured a few blocks west, she ran
into the seedy motels and used car lots of
Aurora Avenue North, a little bit of the East
Coast out on the West. She vowed to move to
the area, and, in 2003, she settled down in
Greenwood.
She joined a local church soon after. One
Sunday morning, the pastor delivered a
sermon on a core biblical tenet — love thy
neighbor — and challenged parishion-ers to
extend their circle to encompass people who
lived and worked on Aurora. Karen, moved by
his words, stopped at motels, introducing
herself to managers. She learned the
stereotype of the motels, that they served as
fronts for sex trafficking and rampant drug
use, wasn’t entirely accurate. True, she
couldn’t deny those things occurred there,
but families lived in the motels, too, for
weeks, sometimes months, on end. It was a
neighborhood — not like Mister Rogers’ — but
one all the same. The people were her
neighbors, ones she wanted to serve. And in
motels reminiscent of those back East, Karen,
with the green eyes and wavy ginger hair,
found her calling.
She also found an internship with
AmeriCorps, a community service program
created by the federal government. She would
weave together a network of care for her
neighbors in need. By the summer of 2009,
• she had a routine: Two or three times a week,
she’d conduct what she called a “motel tour.”
She’d start on Aurora Avenue North and
North 95th Street, walk south down the east
side of Aurora to North 80th, cross at the
light, then walk up the west side, back to
North 95th. She’d bring flowers to make the
managers smile. If someone living in the
motel needed help, she’d do what she could.
One round-trip tour might take hours.
Karen set off on one of her tours in mid-
August 2009. Walking past North 88th Street,
she turned into the parking lot of the
Georgian Motel. As she left the front office, a
woman caught her eye. A pregnant woman.
Karen knew she’d seen her before. But
where?
Hey, I know you, she said.
Brandy stopped.
You had that green handbag I liked,
remember? I met you at the food bank?
Yes, the woman who’d found the diapers.
They introduced themselves, chatting. Karen
asked what Brandy needed. More diapers,
Brandy said, maybe some baby clothes.
As Karen walked away, she realized she
wanted to do something more for Brandy. But
what? She mulled it over for a couple days
before it came to her: a baby shower.
She emailed a church group about her idea.
“Is this something that you would be
interested in doing?” A group spokesperson
replied, “Yes.”
As August wound down, an email thread
lengthened, with neighbors suggesting ideas
for the shower. “It wouldn’t need to be girls
only.” “Gift cards from Target.” “We can
arrange to have some meals brought to them
after the birth.” The Greenwood Senior
Center, five blocks from the Georgian, agreed
to host. Karen felt pride seeing the whole
community come together, and she finalized
the date of September 1 for the shower.
In late August, Karen’s phone rang. It was
the manager at the Georgian. Brandy was
taken to the hospital by ambulance a few days
before, but she was back. Karen rushed over.
She knocked at Room 16. Brandy opened
the door. And when Karen looked at Brandy’s
face, what she saw made her drop her eyes in
embarrassment.
Hands, fists, teeth, etc.
On Saturday, Aug. 22, about a week before
Karen walked into Room 16, Richard walked
out of it. Already loaded on Red Stripe beer,
he craved more, so he went to the Aurora
Grocery. It was sometime after 11 a.m.
June 8, 2012
A small corner market, the grocery offered,
along with canned tuna and beer, a computer
with a free Internet connection. Richard
opened a cold one, and he logged into his
email. A subject line read: You have an
important message from Sandra D. That was
Richard’s sister’s name, Sandra Duncan. “I
clicked it,” he remembers, “and it was one of
those dating sites.”
His click initiated a VIP tour. Richard never
entered any information but pored through
the site’s offerings. For roughly an hour he
sat, scrolled and drank. Then he meandered
toward the Georgian.
Brandy met him at the door. What the hell
is this? she asked. She showed him her cell
phone. Richard’s email account, with a
confirmation code from the dating site,
appeared on her screen.
Shut the fuck up, he said.
Eff you, Brandy said.
Richard picked up a box of doughnuts and
threw it at her. Brandy slapped him. He hit
her in the face. Fearful the baby might be
injured, Brandy grabbed Richard’s goatee in
hopes he’d stop. Richard kept hitting.
The fight escalated.
Richard struck Brandy’s face with his fist.
She yanked his goatee. Hairs came out in her
fingers. She yelled, Stop!
Richard smacked Brandy in the mouth. In
the melee, he knocked her down. Her right
fingers gouged his left cheek. A sharp pain
electrified Brandy’s foot.
The fight ended.
In the mirror, Brandy saw her face, then
hobbled to the front office. “And I told the
manager to call the cops,” she recalls,
“because I didn’t want to lose my son.”
After their fights, Brandy didn’t usually
leave the room, so Richard found it a little
odd. Then he heard what sounded like a semi
pulling into the parking lot. He looked. A fire
truck. “And I’m thinking, ‘Oh, fucking great.’”
Richard slipped out and hid in another open
room.
At 12:33 p.m., when a Seattle Police
Department cruiser pulled up to the motel,
Richard slunk away. Motel neighbors milled in
the parking lot. One of them pointed and told
an officer the man — bald head, white T-shirt
— had gone south. The officer intercepted
Richard two blocks away.
He noticed Richard’s left cheek. How’d you
get scratched? he asked.
I did it myself, Richard said.
Police escorted Richard back to the
Georgian, where he was arrested for domestic
violence assault and read his Miranda rights.
In the police report, the officer described the
weapons used: hands, fists, teeth, etc.
Seattle Fire Department staff examined
Brandy’s bruised and swollen face. Because of
her pregnancy, an ambulance shuttled her to
Harborview Medical Center, where she
learned that though she was six weeks from
her due date, her cervix had dilated two
centimeters. But the baby was fine. An X-ray
revealed a fracture in her left foot, so hospital
staff fitted her with a cast. She hobbled on
crutches to a cab for the ride back to the
Georgian. The room was quiet. The doughnut
box lay on the floor. For the first time in six
months, she spent the night alone.
Motion denied
A week later, Brandy still sported a huge
black eye. She couldn’t attend the baby
shower, not the way she looked. Karen didn’t
argue.
Without Richard, Brandy had to cover the
Georgian’s $245 weekly rate alone. A
manager took money out of his own pocket to
help her out. Brandy’s caseworker at a social
service agency found a program that offered
up to $750 for emergency housing needs.
That way, Brandy could cover rent for three
weeks. The baby was due in less than four.
Brandy scrambled to find long-term shelter,
but eight months pregnant and wearing an
orthopedic boot, the scramble turned into a
slow7 shuffle. Karen ferried her to almost a
dozen housing agencies, where they spent
hours with numerous intake personnel, only
to hear, after filling out paperwork, Brandy
would be put on a waiting list. One agency’s
staff member told her they could help after
the baby was born. At the end of it, Brandy
was back where she started: the Georgian.
As the due date approached, the stress
exhausted her. Raising a baby alone felt
impossible. If only Richard ... Richard. She
knew people would judge her, but she still
cared for him. She loved him. They’d dreamed
of a family together. But the violence. Maybe
prison would change him.
But a change had already taken place, at
least legally. On Sept.14, 2009, Richard
pleaded guilty to domestic violence assault in
the fourth degree, a misdemeanor. A judge
sentenced him to 120 days and initiated a
no-contact order. Richard couldn’t come
within 500 feet of Brandy for two years, and
he was barred from any type of
communication. Only a judge could change
that. So on Sept. 24, Brandy, desperate for
help to raise a child, had Karen drive her to
the courthouse.
She and Karen sat in Courtroom 1102 in
the Seattle Municipal Courthouse, as a
prosecutor for the city addressed Judge Adam
Eisenberg.
“The first matter is going to be Richard
Duncan,” the prosecutor said. “In this case,
Brandy Sweeney is present to address the
court.”
Judge Eisenberg flipped through the case
file. “He’s serving a substantial — Oh, my
goodness. These are photos of the injuries?
And the alleged victim was taken away by
ambulance?”
“She was substantially pregnant at the
time,” the prosecutor said.
Judge Eisenberg read papers detailing
Richard’s prison history from the bench.
“Assault with a deadly weapon charge that
occurred in 2005. That’s a conviction, that’s a
felony, and it’s out of the state of Nevada.” He
turned a page. “He also has a DUI from 2004.
That’s a conviction, so that would suggest he
has alcohol issues underlying. He has
possession of a stolen vehicle, which is a
felony from 2002.” The judge’s tone was
no-nonsense. “He had a domestic violence
battery charge from ’98; it’s not clear what
happened in that case. All right,” Judge
Eisenberg said. “Ma’am, would you like to
identify yourself for the record?”
“My name is Brandy Sweeney.”
The judge replaced his no-nonsense tone
with fatherly compassion. “And Ms. Sweeney,
what did you want to tell the court?”
“He’s the only person I have right now.
And obviously, I’m pregnant with his baby, so
I feel that he should be able to be part of the
baby’s life,” Brandy said. “Obviously we have
problems, and we probably shouldn’t be in a
relationship, but I feel that I should be able to
contact him and address him as just, as the
father of my baby.”
“So, Ms. Sweeney,” Judge Eisenberg said,
“I don’t know if you were aware of all those
convictions —”
“I was aware.”
“But that makes it seem substantially likely
that he is a very dangerous person,
particularly for you. If he consumes alcohol,
you and your baby will be at risk,” Judge
Eisenberg said.
Brandy nodded.
“I think you should really take a step back
and decide what’s in the best interest of you
and your baby in the long term, because any
person who would cause the kind of injuries
that I’ve seen on a woman who’s expecting
their child, is extremely potentially
dangerous,” Judge Eisenberg said.
Listening to him, part of Brandy agreed.
Another part felt overwhelmed by the
prospect of raising a child alone.
“I understand you’re going to have a baby,
which is a great thing. But I’m very, very
concerned for your welfare, because if he
drinks and gets violent, you know, you and the
baby are in risk, so,” Judge Eisenberg said,
“the no-contact order is going to remain in
effect.”
Brandy felt dejected. Not only did she need
an affordable place to live, but her hopes for a
family were falling apart.
The seven-minute hearing highlighted
Karen’s internal struggle. She wanted Brandy
to be safe, but Karen felt reluctant to tell her
how to live. Instead, she decided to support
Brandy. A ride to and from the courthouse
was nothing big.
Their next ride together carried a little
more importance.
Twilight zone
Four days after the hearing, Brandy and
Karen sat at a coffee shop. Brandy felt a slight
pain arc across her lower stomach and
thought: menstrual cramp. Except it couldn’t
be, because she was pregnant. Karen asked if
they should go the hospital. Brandy told her
no. Instead, Karen drove her back to the
Georgian.
Every few minutes the pain would return.
“Then I knew: Oh, my gosh, I’ve been having
contractions all day.” She phoned Karen, who
jumped in her boyfriend’s oversized truck. At
the motel, she helped Brandy up into the
seat.
Karen thought she’d memorized the
directions, but behind the wheel, she got lost.
Left turns, right turns, stop signs: They
created a maze in her head. Finally, she
pulled up to the University of Washington
Medical Center. Forgoing a wheelchair,
Brandy duck-walked to the reception desk.
Her contractions were four minutes apart.
Brandy expected the contractions to
become stronger, but as she walked the
hallways with Karen, her contractions stalled
at two minutes apart. One hour passed,
another, a third.
She lay on a gurney in her light blue gown
while Karen dozed on a couch. Another hour
passed. Karen started awake. The
contractions were still coming every two
minutes.
Three hours, four hours, five, six. No
change. A doctor ordered an epidural, a
medical procedure to administer an
anesthetic to the base of the spinal column.
An anesthesiologist inserted a needle through
the skin above Brandy’s cervical column,
hoping to see spinal fluid in the syringe. He
punctured her skin a second time. A third
time, a fourth, a fifth. Nothing. Before he
could try again, Brandy told him to stop.
A doctor examined Brandy. With his hand
on her stomach, the doctor shifted the
position of the fetus. The baby inside her
stirred. The labor progressed.
Brandy pushed. Karen squeezed her hand.
Nurses coached them both. Brandy pushed
harder. Then it happened: Brandy gave birth.
A boy. Her son. Eight pounds, 14 ounces.
Endorphins flooded her bloodstream. She
cried. “To just see this perfect baby,” Brandy
remembers. “It made me feel very good.”
At that same moment four miles away,
Richard sat in the King County Jail. He didn’t
know he’d become a father.
During the pregnancy, she and Richard had
discussed baby names. Richard chose the first
name, and for a middle name, Brandy invoked
her brother. Ian Robert Duncan. She cradled
her son on her chest.
Karen found the birth powerful — and
relieving. It signaled a new start for Brandy, a
new life for Ian. Then Karen looked around.
The room was empty. Sure, she was there.
The staff, too. But what about the balloons
and flowers and visitors? People should have
been there to celebrate with Brandy. “I just
remember feeling so lonely and lost,” Karen
recalls. The moment felt both happy and sad
to Karen, like being in another dimension.
Like “The Twilight Zone.”
Brandy was indeed about to cross a
boundary. Shortly after the birth, Brandy
received a call: The Eastside Domestic
Violence Program had a room for her in one
of its confidential shelters. But the shelter, a
safe house, existed in a nebulous world, its
whereabouts a secret. Brandy couldn’t have
visitors. No one would know where to find
her.
When Ian was three days old, Brandy
checked out of the hospital. She slid into a
waiting cab. In her past lay Tent City 3, the
Georgian, the last six weeks with Karen. In
her future, her son, an opportunity for
change. Woven through it all was Richard.
Ian screamed his head off as she held him
in the back seat. The cab driver shot her a
dirty look. Brandy rocked the infant to soothe
him while she tried to tamp down her own
fear of going to a strange place and the
likelihood of a reconnection with Richard.
Nothing she did worked. So the fear rode
with her, an unwelcome passenger, as Brandy
and her wailing, newborn child journeyed out
of the city and into the unknown.
You can read pa rt one o f The gravity o f abuse
on our website, www.streetroots.org. Look fo r
the third p a rt o f the series in the next Street
Roots. Republished from Real Change News
Seattle, Wash.