New Memories, New Hope for a Frightened Young Woman

In a Compton courthouse in May, 1993, four people strained to understand a story being told by a young deaf woman I will call Alicia. A prosecutor, a police detective, a clinical social worker and a battered-women’s advocate fluent in sign language were trying to figure out how this tiny, frightened 22-year-old ended up in a hospital 10 weeks earlier.

The prosecutor, furiously taking notes, realized the tale was too complicated to absorb while writing. She turned on a tape recorder.

Alicia communicated through pantomime, pictures and rudimentary sign language. Her story was translated by Peggie Reyna, the battered-women’s advocate, who by then had spent many hours with the young woman, trying to teach her how to sign.

Alicia’s version of what happened on Feb. 23, 1993, was gleaned from accounts of the May meeting and from later interviews with Alicia, the prosecutor, the social worker and Reyna:

On the night in question, Alicia said, she and her family were at home in their Compton duplex. Alicia left the ground-floor bathroom and walked upstairs. At the top of the stairs, a door was ajar. Inside the room, her mother, father and two brothers sat with a stranger, who pulled an envelope out of his pocket and spilled something white onto a tray. Alicia realized she was seeing something she shouldn’t. She forced a tight smile as she walked past the door.

Too late.

Her parents, she told authorities, came after her. She ran, but her mother grabbed her by her waist-length brown hair and jerked her backward as her father slammed his fist into her face. Alicia said she grabbed for the phone and dialed 119, a number she thought she had learned from watching television. Her mother wrenched the phone away and hit Alicia with it. As Alicia fell to the floor, her father kicked her in the back. Alicia scrambled to her feet. In the struggle, she said, her father ripped her shirt off. She ran into her room, slammed the door, grabbed a sheet from her bed, tied it to the bedpost and lowered herself out the second-story window.

Such was the desperation of this woman, who also told authorities that she had been raped by her father, a brother and his friend--though they deny it--that when she ran out of sheet, she simply let go.

This was how Alicia ended up at King-Drew Medical Center nearly one year ago with blunt head trauma.

And this is how Peggie Reyna saved her.

*

Reyna was called as a last resort. Clinical social worker Sanjay Shah, employed by the county at King-Drew, contacted social service agencies and battered-women’s shelters on behalf of Alicia, but none was equipped to handle someone with her problems.

Reyna, a survivor of battering herself, works for the Los Angeles Commission on Assaults Against Women. She has a bachelor’s degree in special education, which she pursued after recovering from a vicious beating that left her deaf for two years. She is the commission’s specialist for women who are deaf, blind or physically disabled.

Though Reyna helped nearly 50 battered deaf women last year, Alicia’s was an unusual case.

Reyna was able to glean from Alicia’s miming and pictures that she had been isolated in her home after becoming deaf, probably around age 7 or 8, probably from illness. Alicia had since lost the ability to speak, and never learned formal sign language. She had no real living skills at all--couldn’t cook, couldn’t shop, couldn’t take a bus. All Alicia knew how to do was clean.

Shah confronted Alicia’s parents about the alleged abuse, and they admitted to him that they had indeed hit Alicia. Alicia’s brother, says Shah, also admitted hitting his sister, but denied raping her. And the brother’s friend told Shah that he had consensual sex with Alicia. Alicia’s parents explained to Shah that their daughter was a discipline problem. As required by law, however, Shah reported the suspected abuse to Adult Protective Services.

To police, the parents denied hitting their daughter and said there was never any sexual abuse. Alicia’s father told Compton police Det. Catherine Chavers that he had locked Alicia in her room the night she fell from the window because she wanted to go to a party.

Sindee Kain-Kerker, the prosecutor, considered filing rape charges against the father, brother and brother’s friend, and battery charges against the father and mother. She decided against it, though, because there was no corroboration. Also, Alicia’s inability to communicate in formal sign language made testifying impossible.

“She was extremely credible,” said Kain-Kerker. “I definitely believed her. It’s just that how are you going to present this to a jury? . . . She could not articulate in court, she did not know official sign language. She was just learning how to sign. Sometimes criminal prosecution is not the best decision in the situation.”

Despite Alicia’s communication problems, however, one thing was as clear as the fear in her eyes: The young woman did not want to go home. In fact, she did not want any contact with her family at all.

“They never let her out of the house,” said Shah, reading from his file on the case. “She was used as a maid. She needed to get out of that family to be safe.”

*

After numerous phone calls, Peggie Reyna found a spot for Alicia at a Los Angeles shelter for battered women. The shelter allows residents stays of 30 days while the system of government aid available to them is put into motion.

The system, however, is not set up for women like Alicia. Because she is not a legal resident, she cannot qualify for government aid. Because she is no longer a minor, she cannot qualify for help available to children.

Reyna was outraged. In a perfect world, I asked Reyna: What would you have happen to Alicia?

“Forget a perfect world!” she sputtered. “How about a reasonable world? A young woman, who, for all intents and purposes, is a child, absolutely innocent of any wrongdoing, who has not (been) allowed to develop language skills, living skills, decision skills, has an inalienable right to have that given to her . . . and it doesn’t matter a damn how old she is.

“I think she has a right to the very basic needs that we should provide to every child in America: an education, a place to live, warm clothes and regular hugs. I will take care of the hugs, but I cannot afford financially to adopt Alicia.”

After Alicia’s month was up at the shelter, Reyna called her roommate, Sharon Hamilton, to announce she was bringing Alicia home. There was no alternative.

Had Reyna not offered a room, Alicia would have had only two places to go: a homeless shelter or back to her family.

After four days, Reyna found an Orange County battered-women’s shelter willing to take Alicia for up to a year. After fewer than four months, though, the shelter lost its funding and was forced to close. Alicia moved back in with Reyna and Hamilton for a couple of days until the Dayle McIntosh Center for the Disabled in Garden Grove gave Alicia a home over the summer.

Last September, Alicia returned once more to Reyna’s, and after a month, Reyna finally located the group home for deaf adults where Alicia now lives.

Many people have helped Alicia in the last year, from social workers to shelter staffers to teachers. But Reyna has given Alicia something precious, something Alicia will have no matter where she goes: a commitment.

“The fact is, I have fallen in love with Alicia,” said Reyna. “I will be involved with her as a support system for the rest of her life.”

*

Alicia has two parakeets. They perch in a cage of golden wire, chirping away in the sunlight. She cannot hear them, but you can guess what draws her to them. Like Alicia, they are tiny and fragile and need loving care.

Her bedroom is filled with stuffed animals she has been given since she escaped from her family. Reyna took her shopping recently for new clothes and Alicia proudly shows off her wardrobe. Alicia opens her photo albums. She smiles in every picture. All of them have been taken since she was hospitalized at King-Drew.

“We have tried to give her new memories,” says Reyna.

Alicia’s financial situation continues to be precarious. A television and VCR with closed-caption capabilities would be a great help to Alicia while she is learning to read, but such luxuries are out of the question. Alicia is in counseling, and in April, she will start school.

Alicia’s parents have tried to contact their daughter, but she refuses to see them. She told Reyna recently that she is “divorced” from her family. Reyna and Shah, the clinical social worker, say the family is upset and confused about Alicia’s continuing refusal to see them.

Three weeks ago, Alicia’s mother visited Shah to ask about seeing Alicia.

“The mother does not understand,” said Shah. “I tell her, ‘I don’t know where she is. She is safe.’ ”

Alicia will not talk about her parents. So I ask her, through Reyna, what she wants of life.

Her eyes widen. She signs energetically: “I am learning, learning, learning. I want to learn to drive. Practice. Practice. A job. I can make my own money.”

Reyna smiles.

“In my work,” she says, “I feel like I make a difference in someone’s life every day. But when it’s a life like Alicia’s, it is the difference.”