Exceptional When my son was arrested Justice or Injustice? by Charlotte Morse True Story Contest contest entry

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.   Ben’s dreams were small, to have friends and for children to call round to play. But this never happened. He was, instead, the butt of their jokes and the innocent recipient of their brutal bullying. He was fourteen, with Downs Syndrome. As I stacked the final pieces of washing-up the doorbell rang and, quickly drying my hands, I opened the door and discovered a group of seven girls, aged ten or eleven, standing outside. I’d spotted Ben hovering at the top of the stairs, waiting to see who the caller was. “Is Ben ‘ere?” Asked one of the girls. “Um - why?” I didn’t trust them, I knew what these kids were like. “We was wondering if ‘e could come out ‘n play” Hearing these were words Ben shot down the stairs like a rocket, jumping the last four steps. “Oh please mum, please can I go.” I didn’t like it and, searching their faces, tried to ascertain what were they were up to, but they merely smiled innocently back at me. I knew that for many of the children on the estate ‘Ben baiting’ was a great game and had often witnessed them chasing him, close on his heals as he ran full pelt into the safety of home, their spittle still on his coat. But whether these children were part of the ‘Ben baiters’ I didn’t know, and felt disinclined to risk it. “Oh Ben, I don’t think it’s a good idea.” “Oh please,” A small girl with long dark hair weedled, “We’ll look after ‘im, we’ll make sure nuffin ‘appens to him, promise.” “Please mum! Ben be good!” Ben had his brand new football under one arm, “Can play football.” His entire body pleading with me, eyes shining with his dream of acceptance finally unfolding in front of him. “Yeah, we can play football,” Said the same girl. She shot a look at the others who nodded in unison. I couldn’t explain in front of them that it wasn’t his behavior I was worrying about, but theirs. Maybe they were okay, the exceptions to the ‘estate’s rules’. If I agreed could I be setting him up for more bullying, anguish and disappointment? But to see him witnessing his dream come true, wrenched at my heart, it seemed unfair to say no when they may be genuine. “Oh I don’t know Ben. I’m really not sure it’s a good idea.” I looked as his eyes, desperate, needy, began to well up, full of disappointment. I couldn’t fight that, it was everything he’d ever wanted. I felt my resolve waver, my barriers fall and my gut feeling overridden. “Well okay then,” I sighed, “Just for a little while. Don’t go too far and come straight home.” Ben screamed his excitement, “Yes! Promise! Ben come straight home.” And hugged me so tight I thought my back would break. “Come on girls, mum say yes! Whoopee.” And despite my misgivings I had to smile at his over-exuberant glee. As he walked up the street chattering away, giving a little whoop and a jump in-between his words, I prayed I’d made the right decision. …………….. He arrived home thirty minutes later. “Where’s your football?” “Girls stole it.” His slumped shoulders and hanging head revealed that my fears had been realized. Anger welled up inside me as I silently fumed, those bloody kids! “Didn’t go well then?” He shook his head and stared at the floor rubbing the toe of one foot against the other. “Wanna talk about it?” He shook his head again, still staring at the floor. “Well don’t worry, we can buy another football, and if you want and talk a bit later I’m here.” “I go upstairs now.” “Okay sweetie.” As he climbed the stairs, dejection seeping from every pore, I wanted to weep. Those scheming little brats! As my anger boiled I decided it was time I informed the police of their constant bullying, and the theft. The police were relatively understanding and promised to send an officer over to take a statement. Barely half an hour had passed before the doorbell rang – if that’s one of those bloody brats again I’ll kill her – but my murderous thoughts were thwarted, it was a policeman! “Gosh that was quick!” I exclaimed as I opened the door wider, smiling a welcome, “I wasn’t expecting someone so soon, it was only a football they stole! Come in.” “Thank you madam,” The police officer began, “But it’s on another matter that I’m here.” “Oh?” He took a step into the hallway, ducking his head as he entered, “Is this the home of Benjamin Morse?” “Yes, why?” Ben had heard the doorbell and was again hovering at the top of the stairs, fear and anger etched into his features, he too had anticipated the girls’ return. “You are his mother?” I nodded. “We’ve received a complaint about your son from a woman on the estate. Was he with a group of young girls?” “Err yes, they called round for him, he got back about forty minutes ago. Is everything alright?” I sounded relaxed, but my head was in turmoil. During our exchange I’d heard Ben return to his room before slowly descending the stairs, a carrier bag in one hand, a teddy in the other. He carefully placed the bag on the floor and the teddy under one arm, I noticed his pajamas poking out of the bag. “Is true,” Ben said, “I guilty.” He placed his wrists together and held them out towards the constable. “You better arrest me, take me prison. I ready,” He flicked his eyes to indicate the bag at his feet. The harsh look on the officer’s face softened at Ben’s words while I stood there stunned, no clue as to what was going on, but acutely aware it must be something serious. “No need to go to the station immediately,” He told us, looking first at Ben and then at me, “But you will have to come down within the next few days to make a statement.” “Hang on! What’s going on here?” My panic lifting my voice an octave, “What’s he accused of?” He turned towards me, “Gross indecency madam. A woman called the station to report a man with Downs Syndrome exposing himself to a group of young girls.” “What?” I turned to Ben, “Ben, what’s he talking about?” “Said Ben could join gang if show my wiener. So Ben show. Know not allowed, but said was only way Ben can join.” Shame etched on his face, his eyes averted not daring to look at me. “I know Ben do wrong. Ben go prison now.” And he pushed his wrists closer towards the policeman. I looked up at the officer, I could see he was moved, “We’ll come down to the station tomorrow morning, would that be okay?” “Yes that’ll be fine madam.” He turned to leave, and then in a low voice he murmured, “As far as I’m concerned it’s them children what should be arrested for inciting a crime, not your son. But it’s not up to me.” Warmed by his reaction I thanked him for being so understanding, closing the door behind him. “Ben sorry mum.” “Oh sweetheart it wasn’t your fault, it was the girls who made you do it. I know how much you wanted them as friends, I understand. I’m cross with the girls, not you. Do you want a hug?” As his eyes began to fill he shuffled up to me and put his arms around my waist, “I so sorry mum. Ben know it wrong.” And his entire body heaved in rhythm with his inconsolable sobs, his tears flooding down his little round face at being duped yet again, his shame and loneliness biting and raw. I held him tightly against me, my arms wrapped around his small body, willing his life to improve and for all this to just go away, but I knew of course it wouldn’t, it couldn’t. By the next morning Ben had calmed down, I’d gathered together various documents that might be useful, including his ‘Statement’ from his special school and, both terrified, we left for the police station. We were led into a side room where they took Ben’s fingerprints, DNA and mug shots – experiences I’d only ever witnessed on TV, never anticipating that one day I’d be accompanying my precious son through the same procedure. On completion we were escorted out of the room and introduced to a man who would be Ben’s solicitor – his demeanor didn’t inspire confidence, with a weak chin, thinning hair and nervous eyes he certainly didn’t look like Ben’s rescuer. He led us into a small room adjacent to the cells where an officer was seated at an interview table tapping his pen impatiently on the hard plastic surface. There were no smiles to ease our fears and no kindly looks towards Ben whose vulnerability was evidently displayed, it appeared the sergeant had already found him guilty.  “Please sit down.” Still with no smile he indicated three empty chairs opposite and proceeded to leaf through the paperwork in front of him. “It’s an open and shut case,” The solicitor stated, “Your son already confirmed with the officer yesterday that he exposed himself and has therefore confessed to the offence.” His ‘rescuer’ had evidently also condemned him! I pulled Ben’s ‘Statement’ from my bag, “Would you look at this first please. It states that Ben has a mental age of eight. Surely a child of eight wouldn’t be arrested for exposing himself?” My hands were trembling. ‘Ah but he’s not eight madam, is he?” The officer replied immediately, his lips screwed in scorn. “He’s fourteen.” “Yes, but he has the mind of an eight year old. Surely he should be judged on that?” I replied looking hopefully at the solicitor. “Well, I suppose it should be taken into consideration.” Was the best our ‘savior’ could utter. …And for the next five long hours Ben squirmed in his chair, his eyes wide, his feet tapping nervously as he clutched the table. During the grilling by the sergeant he regularly glanced over his shoulder towards the cells shouldering their thick metal bars, threatening him with potential outcomes. I did a rubbish job of defending Ben, I was as scared as he was and, apart from his statement, I had no idea what other arguments I could use. Yes, of course I repeated what the nice policeman had said, that it was the girls who should be arrested for inciting a crime, but my plea was dismissed. The trauma ended with Ben being given a caution and told that if anything similar happened again it would be regarded more seriously and, following my question, that yes, he would now have a criminal record. As we slowly drove home, the traffic as heavy as our thoughts, I wondered at our legal system and their blindness to see that Ben’s actions weren’t sexual, merely a desperate need for acceptance. The drone of traffic was suddenly interrupted by a police siren and as I checked the mirror, Ben scrabbled with his seat belt and shot into the foot-well, where he curled into a fetal position, his hands over his head. “Don’t let them get me mum! Please don’t let them get me!” And I realized that the damage was far worse than I’d originally thought. I checked my mirror again relieved to see the police car had turned off and wouldn’t come blaring past. “It’s okay sweetheart, it’s gone.” I looked down at his white face, his trembling hands. “It’s over my love, finished. Don’t worry, they’re not coming for you, you told them what happened, it’s over.” I looked down at him again, I could see by the fear remaining in his eyes and his watery smile that he hoped I was right, but wasn’t overly convinced. “Really Ben, I’m telling you the truth, it’s over,” I smiled widely at him, using every effort to rearrange my facial muscles to look convincing, despite my own fears. “Once we get through this awful traffic we’ll be home, then we can do something nice. Shall we get something to eat and watch a happy film together?” It was mid-afternoon, we’d not eaten at lunchtime and were both hungry. As I’d hoped, it worked. “Watch film?” He began to unfurl from his fetal position in the foot well, “Mum watch film with Ben?” “Yes, I’ll watch it with you, today has been so horrid. What would you like to watch?” He slowly slid upwards, twisting his body as he retook his seat and scratched his head, picturing his vast collection of DVDs and no doubt food, glorious food. “Pop your seatbelt on again lovey.” The last thing we needed was to be stopped by the police for not wearing a seatbelt! He turned to clasp the belt from behind his shoulder, “Flubber. Ben want watch Flubber. Mum want watch Flubber? And……and eat pizza?” He smacked his lips. “Yes my little love I think Flubber and pizza is the perfect choice.” And for the first time that day he smiled a real smile. …………… Despite my attempts, Ben’s terror continued to haunt him for months. He refused to go outside without me, and even with me his eyes flitted in every direction seeking out potential dangers. Within the house, if he heard children’s voice outside he would crouch and huddle in a corner begging me to keep him safe, his eyes wide searching any possible crack the children might enter to infiltrate what had now become his sanctuary. “Don’t let them get me mum, please.” His eyes full of that fear I’d grown too used to seeing. Whenever we heard a police siren, his terror would grip him with such force that he’d find wherever he could to hide, be it a cupboard in the house or, if in the car, again the foot-well. If we saw a policeman in the street he’d huddle close to me making sure I was between him and the object of his fear, whimpering quietly. I didn’t know what to tell him or how to help him. I felt useless and inadequate but determined never to be fooled again by the innocent faces of scheming girls. Eventually I found a children’s counsellor, and as it was Ben’s first appointment, I was allowed to accompany him during the session, I hoped I might learn a few tips to help Ben at home. The room was filled with shelves of toys, teddy bears, dolls, action figures, and cars. On the floor were two small sandpits, some larger sit-on vehicles and a blackboard set on an easel. I sat on a child’s chair to one side of the room trying to remain invisible. Ben, wide-eyed, surveyed all the wonderful playthings, I could see he was itching to touch them all and laughed inwardly as I watched him immediately place his hands behind his back - something I’d previously taught him when shopping, as a reminder not to touch.  Ben always tried so hard to be good bless him. Impressed, I saw the counsellor had also noticed, “It’s okay Ben, you can touch anything you like, they’re all here for you to play with.” Ben looked towards me for confirmation and I smiled back and nodded. He looked back at the counsellor and took a few tentative steps towards the row of action figures. “Ah you like the action figures do you?” He smiled at Ben, “Why don’t you have a close look and tell me which one you think looks the most like a bully.” Ben’s eyebrows shot up, he flicked a glance at the man and then looked back to the figurines. His eyes alighted on a particularly evil looking one with long black hair, a club in his hand and a large scar running down his face. “That one,” He said pointing towards it, “That one look mean, scary bully.” The counselor took the figure from the shelf and handed it to Ben, “Let’s take him over to the sandpit shall we, then we can bury him in the sand.” Ben’s face lit up at that idea and, grasping the toy tightly, raised it to his face, “I get you back now! You’ll see! You nasty bully!” He threatened through clenched teeth. Then took it to the sandpit, re-checking with a glance to the counsellor that he was doing everything correctly. The man nodded confirmation, “Excellent.” He said as he smiled down at Ben, “Now let’s bury him together shall we? Then, when he’s buried you won’t ever have to see him again, he’ll be gone.” And they dug a deep hole in the sand and placed the figure inside it, “There! Do you want to cover him with sand on your own or would you like me to help you?” “Ben do it. Ben hate bullies.” And he scooped great handfuls of sand, patting down hard, until he’d achieved a huge mound, totally obliterating any indications of what lay below.  The satisfaction of destroying the bully shone from Ben’s face as he smiled widely and wiped his sandy hands down his trousers. “Fell a bit better?” The counsellor asked and I knew he could see what I saw, the very first seeds of recovery. Ben nodded his head vigorously, that wonderful wicked grin that I’d not seen for a long time was back on his face, “Ben got rid of bully. Ben hero.” And tears welled in my eyes as I watched a little spark of that old Ben reveal itself again, that lovely, beautiful, mischievous child that I had thought gone began to crack through his defensive armor, and I knew then, that eventually he would recover. ……………………….. At sixteen Ben was sexually abused by his only ever ‘friend’. Due to his criminal record the CPS refused to take it to court, his abuser is still free today.

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