Episode 2, Chapter 1: The Paper Trail Begins.

Two Boys Against the World

The world was a carousel of strangers’ houses, each one a temporary stop on a journey we never chose.

Eric, my shadow, was always there, his small hand tucked into mine and a silent question in his wide

eyes. He was fifteen months younger, a sliver of a boy who mirrored my fear but carried a resilience that

always surprised me. We learned the language of survival together a dialect of shared glances, hushed

whispers, and an unspoken promise that we would always look out for each other.

To understand how we ended up in the cold, institutional halls of juvenile court, you have to look at the long trail of instability and neglect that came before it.

Our mother, Robin, had run away from home at fourteen and never finished high school. By the time Eric

and I were small, her life was filled with drinking, motorcycles, changing relationships, and turmoil. My father, Craig, was almost a ghost in my life. I had little contact with him. Eric’s father died before Eric

was born. I know only what our mother later told me: he belonged to a motorcycle club, and while she

was pregnant with Eric, he arrived drunk on his motorcycle to pick her up from a doctor’s appointment.

She refused to ride with him. He left, crashed into a semi-truck, and died. That was the last time she saw

him alive.

Robin became a phantom in our lives, appearing and disappearing like smoke. My earliest world carried

the smell of biker leather, cigarettes, alcohol, and something always burning. Sometimes she left us with

anyone willing to watch us. Sometimes no one was watching at all.

The Trail of Neglect

By 1977, chaos had become ordinary. Police had reportedly responded to sixteen disturbances at our

home in less than a year. Robin entered the hospital, and Eric and I were voluntarily placed in foster care.

Even there, public-health nurses had to become involved to make sure we received proper care.

That fall, Eric became gravely ill. He was taken to Paradise Valley Hospital with a fever of about 105

degrees and was treated for suspected meningitis. He remained hospitalized for nearly two weeks.

According to the records, Robin visited him only twice and said she stayed away because she had the flu.

After his release, social workers urged her to obtain follow-up care. She dismissed their concern because, to her, he looked fine.

On November 11, 1977, everything reached a point the authorities could no longer ignore. I was found

wandering near Third Street and G Avenue. I had apparently crossed National Avenue. I was barefoot,

wearing only a shirt and a soiled diaper, and pushing a shopping cart. I was not yet three years old.

The state stepped in. At the detention hearing on November 16, Robin showed little emotion and did not ask how we were doing. Instead, she blamed the welfare department, saying her food stamps had not arrived on time.

The following day, November 17, Eric and I were sent to a licensed foster home with Mrs. Bute. We were

both sick with heavy colds and painful ear infections. Within about two days, she said she could not cope

with our illnesses, and we were returned to Hillcrest Receiving Home. We sat there with runny noses,

fevers, and aching ears. Our mother did not come to visit us.

Declared Dependents of the Court

On December 6, 1977, the San Diego County Juvenile Court declared Eric and me dependent children of

the court under Section 300(d) of the California Welfare and Institutions Code. The court found that our

home was unfit because our mother had failed to provide adequate supervision, care, food, and medical

attention, placing our lives in danger.

The probation officer’s social study was written in the cold, final language of government. Our

grandmother acknowledged that Robin was indifferent, refused help for her drinking, and was unable to

care for us. The recommendation asked the judge to remove us from our mother’s custody and keep us at

Hillcrest until a licensed placement could be found.

The system had officially stopped trusting our mother to protect us. Eric and I faced whatever came next

the only way we knew how: holding tightly to each other.

On December 21, just before Christmas, we were released from Hillcrest and placed with our maternal

grandparents, William and June Jones.

A Chance to Belong

For two little boys who had already experienced neglect, separation, and uncertainty, Grandma and Grandpa represented something different.

Family.

A chance, maybe, to belong somewhere. Their house was already full. Several of our aunts and uncles still lived at home Tina, Franky, Timmy,

Steven, and Pam and the whole family rallied around us. We were surrounded by people we knew. The court report said Eric and I had initially struggled with sleeping and showed signs of stress from everything we had endured, but those problems nearly disappeared in our grandparents’ home. We adjusted well because it was familiar, and because we were loved.

Other members of the family including Tammy, William ‘Bill,’ our mother Robin, and Uncle Bob had

homes of their own. For once, Eric and I were not simply two names attached to a case file. We were part

of a family.

Forty-Nine Dollars a Month

In February 1978, Grandpa received a job transfer to become an immigration inspector in Douglas,

Arizona. His new position was scheduled to begin February 21, and Grandma and Grandpa asked the

court for permission to take us with them.

Social worker Tim Farley, working under Homer E. Detrich, reported that we were thriving. Robin

admitted she had made little progress toward changing her life or working with welfare staff so that we

could return to her. Although letting us go was difficult, she acknowledged that she was not able to care

for us and believed we would be happier, safer, and properly loved in her parents’ home. She said she

intended to remain in contact through letters, telephone calls, and occasional visits.

At the February 7 hearing, the court considered ending California’s authority over our case because we would be living safely with relatives in another state. The Department of Public Welfare asked for ninety

more days before closing the case. The court agreed. Even hundreds of miles away, California continued

watching us.

With the court’s permission, Grandma and Grandpa took us to Douglas. They had believed financial

assistance would follow us, but after arriving in Arizona, they learned the state would provide only fortynine dollars per child each month.

Forty-nine dollars was supposed to help feed us, clothe us, house us, and provide for two little boys who had arrived carrying almost nothing except the consequences of everything that had already happened to them. Grandma and Grandpa told the social worker they could not make it work. Douglas was a small town with limited shopping, and the report said prices were extremely high. They already had children to

support. They could not take food, clothing, and necessities away from the children living at home to

provide for two more without adequate help. But an important truth was buried inside that report: they did not say they did not want us. They said they

wanted to keep us, but they needed help. For a child who would spend years wrestling with abandonment, that difference deserves to be remembered.

My grandparents asked San Diego County for assistance. The social worker recommended one hundred

fifty dollars a month for each of us and urged the court to keep us under its protection while we remained

with our grandparents. On April 13, 1978, the referee reluctantly approved ninety dollars per child each

month, with the understanding that extraordinary expenses could be brought back before the court.

Ninety dollars.

That was the number written beside my childhood. I knew nothing about hearings, jurisdiction, or financial assistance. I was three. Eric was even younger. We were simply trying to understand where we would sleep and whether the adults around us would still be there when we woke up.

My First Memories ever,

Douglas, Arizona, is where my own memories begin. I remember arriving and seeing enormous tumbleweeds rolling everywhere. I remember how hard the wind blew. One day an emergency siren warned the town that a tornado was coming. Aunt Pam grabbed

me and rushed me into the house. The power went out. Everything became dark and loud. The tornado passed us, and only pieces of that day remain in my mind. I also remember Aunt Pam taking Eric and me up the street to see horses. I was excited and ran away from her because I wanted to pet one. The horse kicked me in the head. Somehow, I was all right or at least that is how the memory ends. Those are my first memories: tumbleweeds, darkness, a warning siren, Aunt Pam’s arms, and a horse I could not wait to touch. Meanwhile, somewhere in San Diego County, there was a file with my name on it:

BENJAMIN RAYMOND JONES

AGE: 3 YEARS

PETITION NO. 105289

Page by page, adults were writing the story of my childhood before I was old enough to write my own.

Years later, when I finally read those pages, I found something buried beneath the statutes, hearings,

recommendations, and dollar amounts something I needed to know. Someone had fought to keep us.

My grandparents did not have much, but they wanted my brother and me anyway. In a childhood filled with people leaving, failing us, or treating us like a responsibility that could simply be handed to someone else, knowing my grandparents wanted us reminds me that not every goodbye meant we were not loved.

It mean a lot.

They Were Sending Us Back. By October 1978, I was still only three years old. Eric and I were living hundreds of miles from San Diego with Grandma and Grandpa in Douglas. For a while, their home had been our refuge.

They had tried. But by October, something had changed. Another report was written. Another group of adults began deciding what would happen to us. This time, the words were painful: our grandparents were asking that Eric and I be removed from their home as soon as possible. They had believed our mother would get herself together sooner and that eventually we would be able to return to her. But that had not happened. With serious problems developing among their own children, Grandma and Grandpa reached a point where they believed they could no longer care for two additional little boys. They did not put us onto the street. They agreed to keep us until transportation could be arranged. But our time with them was ending. Once again, Eric and I were going somewhere else. Once again, we were not the ones making the decision. Our Mother Wanted Us Back

While our grandparents were telling the county they could no longer keep us, Robin was saying something very different. She wanted her boys back. Her life appeared to be changing. She had moved into a two-bedroom house in Chula Vista with her boyfriend, Ray Petrosky. He owned the house, had a job, and supported her request to have us returned.

Robin told the county she was ready and willing to care for us. She did not want us sent into another foster home because she believed another move would be too difficult for us. For once, the adults involved seemed to recognize that another placement might actually hurt us. But wanting us back was not enough. The county had heard promises before.

Robin had been asked to participate in counseling. She initially said no therapist was available near the

conservation camp where she had been staying. By October, she had completed an intake interview and

attended one session at the Family Stress Center. She had housing, had begun counseling, was communicating with the social worker, and was asking for her children.

The social worker acknowledged her progress but concluded that her efforts had begun too recently to show whether the changes would last.

The county was not ready to trust her. Not yet. Grandma and Grandpa could not keep us. The county would not return us to our mother.

That left one painfully familiar answer: Hillcrest Receiving Home.

We Did Not Understand

One sentence in the October 13, 1978 report stops me every time I read it:

‘Both boys miss their mother but have no concept of what is going on.’

There it is my entire three-year-old world in one sentence.

We missed our mom. And we did not understand.

We did not understand dependency court, social workers, reunification plans, or why Grandma and

Grandpa had taken us hundreds of miles away. We did not know why they could not keep us anymore. We

did not know our mother was in California telling people she wanted us back. We did not know adults

were questioning whether she had changed enough.

We understood only what children understand.

Someone was there. Then they were not.

A house became familiar. Then we left it.

Someone tucked us into bed. Then one day somebody else did.

We learned a room. Then we were taken to another one.

We learned a face. Then that face disappeared.

Every time it happened, we were expected to adjust.

Bring the Boys Back

The recommendation was official. I would remain a dependent child of the San Diego County Juvenile

Court. Custody would remain removed from my parent. Eric and I would be transported from Douglas to

San Diego, then detained at Hillcrest until another hearing decided what happened next. The county

would pay for a social worker to travel to Arizona and bring us back.

It was all there numbered, typed, filed, and approved.

To the court, it was a placement decision. To the welfare department, it was transportation to be arranged.

To a social worker, it was another assigned responsibility.

To Eric and me, it was our lives being packed again.

Everybody seemed to have a reason. Our grandparents had reached their limit. Our mother said she

wanted us. The social worker wanted proof that her changes would last. The court said it wanted to

protect us.

On paper, everyone had a reason. Eric and I were the ones who had to live with the consequences.

Back to San Diego

A social worker from San Diego met us at the airport in Arizona. We boarded a plane and flew back

toward the ocean and the city where our case had begun.

When we landed at San Diego International Airport, we were handed over to county child-protection

staff. They drove us directly back to Hillcrest Receiving Home.

We remained there for about two months before another family came to take us home. Their names were

Mr. and Mrs. Winterberg.

I remember that the Winterbergs fought a lot, often about us children. Then one morning we woke up and

Mrs. Winterberg was gone. We did not understand why. We knew only that she had left.

For a couple of weeks, a babysitter helped Mr. Winterberg care for Eric and me. Then one day, a

caseworker arrived. Once again, we were taken back to Hillcrest.

The official paperwork describes the Winterberg marriage breaking apart, Mrs. Winterberg leaving the

state, and Mr. Winterberg being unable to manage the home. To an adult reading the file, it was a change

of foster placement caused by a marital breakup.

To a four-year-old, it was another woman disappearing and another home vanishing beneath his feet.

From This Age On, I Remember

The paperwork says I was four years old cold ink trying to summarize the shifting ground beneath my

feet. But when I look back at those pages now, the ink begins to fade and my own memories take over.

From this age on, I remember.

The world I knew at four was not built on a stable foundation. It was built on packed bags, strange

bedrooms, changing addresses, and adults who made promises they did not always keep.

Robin was away working at a Forestry Conservation Corps camp in the Laguna Mountains, trying to find

her own footing. She said she wanted us back and was saving enough money for an apartment, but the

county did not believe she was ready. While adults shuffled papers and signed new orders in January 1979, Eric and I were packed up again.

This time, the system pointed us toward the licensed foster home of Mr. and Mrs. Moanale, a house with a

large yard and another promise of temporary stability.

Reading the formal recommendation now ‘said minor be placed in the licensed foster home’ I can still

feel the echo of what it meant to be a little boy whose entire life was decided by strangers meeting behind

closed doors.

By then, childhood had already taught Eric and me a lesson we would come to know far too well:

Do not get too comfortable.

Do not assume you are staying.

Because at any moment, somebody might decide it is time for you to go.