Broken Treaty
By Steve Fenton
Copyright ©2011 by Steve Fenton
All rights reserved. This book,
or parts thereof, may not be
reproduced in any form without
permission from the publisher;
exceptions are made for brief
excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
PDX Printing
100 Porfirio Diaz ST
El Paso, TX 79902
ISBN: 978-0-9838268-1-1
Smashwords edition
Prologue
On October 1, 1991, Mexico joined the United States and many other countries as party to an international treaty providing for the speedy return of kidnapped children.
Known informally as “the Hague Convention,” the name actually dates back to 1899 and applies to a litany of documents covering a variety of international agreements. As used in this book, the Hague Convention refers to “The Hague Convention on the Civil Aspects of International Child Abduction.”
The treaty also provides for the speedy return of children held illegally in a country that is not their “country of habitual residence.”
In signing and ratifying the treaty, diplomats and politicians agreed and understood that to avoid added trauma to a child, kidnapped children need to be returned home as soon as possible.
The Hague Convention thus provides a legal mechanism for international enforcement of the child custody arrangements in force before an abduction or illegal retention.
Treaty proponents were hopeful it would deter parents from moving a child from one country to another in hopes of finding more sympathetic courts. As of the summer of 2011, some 85 countries had signed and ratified the Hague Convention.
Is the treaty effective?
No, it is not, according to David Goldman, the parent of an abducted child, who says signatory countries routinely thumb their noses at the treaty.
On May 24, 2011, Goldman appeared before the U.S. House Committee on Foreign Affairs Subcommittee on Africa, Global Health and Human Rights and offered the following testimony:
“The last three annual Hague compliance reports prepared by the State Department show that the total number of abducted American children for (the last three years) was 4,728.” He added that the same reports “also show that (only) about 1,200 children were returned.”
At the conclusion of his testimony, Goldman delivered to subcommittee members a letter addressed to Secretary of State Hillary Rodham Clinton. It was signed by 85 parents who were appealing to the secretary “for help as left-behind parents of 117 American children who have been abducted and remain unlawfully retained in 25 countries.
“We also represent a number of U.S. service members whose children were abducted while serving our country overseas,” the letter said.
Among the worst non-complying countries, according to the U.S. State Department, is the Republic of Mexico. In its 2011 report to Congress, the State Department reported 329 new cases in 2010 involving 524 children. It is expected that only a fraction of the children will be returned. In its 2010 report for fiscal 2009, the Department noted that “in at least two instances, six months elapsed between the time the case was assigned to a court and the date of the first hearing; in another, seven months elapsed. In five other cases, it took between 16 and 55 months before the court held the first hearing on the application for return.”
Such lengthy delays frequently lead to a court ruling that the children should not be returned because they have become “settled” in their new environment.
This book is the true story of an extraordinary effort by the father of one abducted child after he became convinced the Hague Convention was just a “Vague Convention,” and that he would never see his son again unless he took matters into his own hands.
This also is the hair-raising story of how he managed to spirit his son out of Mexico, the aftermath, and how he and his son dealt with the many issues that followed.
Two first names have been changed to protect the individual’s identity: Silvia and Alberto. All other names are real, as is the story.
Chapter 1 -- An alarming conversation
The telephone call that set off alarm bells came the evening of January 2, 1993, while I was at home in Los Altos, California. My wife Silvia had taken our 6-year-old son Stephen to visit her parents and family in southeastern Mexico. She was calling from Xalapa, in the state of Veracruz, to let me know that she would not be coming home as scheduled.
I had given her permission to take Stephen for a two-week visit over the Christmas holiday, while I stayed behind in California to continue my work as a contractor.
“We’re going to stay a couple more weeks, Steve. My father’s diabetes has gotten much worse, and I want to be with him,” she said.
My chest tightened and a lump formed in my throat.
“That’s not a good idea, Silvia. You did this last year but he missed only a few days of pre-school. Now you’re asking to have him miss two weeks of kindergarten when you know he’s behind in class.”
“I’ve already taken care of that. I found an English-speaking school he can attend, so he won’t miss anything,” she explained.
The dialog had just taken a strange and abrupt turn. I turned the receiver over in my hand as though it might help me make sense of what I was hearing.
She had enrolled him in school in Mexico?
“You only had permission to take him for two weeks, not four. I want you to get him back home by the original return date,” I demanded.
“It’s okay. We’ll be home in two weeks,” she said, showing no intention of backing down.
I knew that losing my cool over the phone would come back to bite me, so I held my tongue.
“Well, I guess I’ll have to talk to the school and let them know. But if he’s not back here in two weeks I’m coming down myself to bring him home!”
Having nothing more to say, she put Stephen on the phone.
“Hi, Dad,” he said. I was relieved to hear him, but the usual cheer was gone from his voice. He began to express concern that his Mom was putting him into a strange school.
“I want to come home,” he pleaded in a tone that was unusual. He always thought I could do anything. But at that moment I felt vulnerable. I couldn’t offer a solution short of getting on a flight the next day to bring him home.
“Stephen, it’s just going to be a couple more weeks. Mom is worried about her dad and wants to help out. I’ll be waiting for you at the airport when you get off the plane. Just have a fun time for the rest of your visit, enjoy the food and let the family spoil you a little longer. I’ll talk to Mrs. Picarello, when school starts on Monday,” I said.
We talked small talk about his visit and he asked about Grandma and Grandpa, but I sensed that he remained apprehensive and alarmed.
“We’ll talk again in a few days, Son,” I said, offering what reassurance I could from nearly 2,000 miles away. I didn’t feel good about the call. The thought that Silvia might try to keep him in Mexico crossed my mind, but I dismissed it thinking she couldn’t possibly want to jerk Stephen out of school and pull him away from his friends and family in California.
Three days later I stopped by my parents’ house in the evening. My father met me at the door with a worried look.
“Listen Steve, I have some bad news about Stephen. Silvia called Jerry at work (her boss, who also is an in-law) to say that she had made a difficult decision. She has decided to stay in Mexico and will not be returning to work. Jerry said he told her that he didn’t understand what she was doing.”
My father seemed to understand the implications of what he was telling me. I knew instantly what it all meant—Stephen wasn’t coming home.
My heart sank like a lost anchor. Silvia could be pig-headed, and once she made up her mind to do something nothing could change it.
A scenario flashed through my head of me busting into the fortress-like compound of Silvia’s family in Mexico to rescue Stephen. I realized how dire the situation was and that I had virtually no hope of convincing Silvia that this was a bad decision for everybody, especially our son.
I had a bad feeling about where this was headed. I couldn’t help but think that Silvia’s father Alberto had influenced her decision. My son’s maternal grandfather had never completely come to terms with the fact that his favorite daughter had fallen in love with an American, gotten married and moved to California.
When I got on the phone to Xalapa, Silvia’s mother answered and told me Silvia was out. I tried to be calm and explained to her that international laws wouldn’t permit Stephen to remain in Mexico, reminding her that Stephen was an American citizen. She was unimpressed and asked me to call back later.
Later that same evening Silvia took my call. I played ignorant and acted as though there was some confusion about her intentions.
“I’ve decided to stay in Xalapa with Stephen,” she stated.
I chose my next words carefully. If she saw a blanket of threats, it would only get worse.
“You realize, don’t you, that what you are doing is completely against the law? Stephen is an American citizen. I only gave you permission to take him for two weeks. Right now you are in violation of that agreement. I want you to book the next flight back to San Francisco with Stephen.” It was a gamble but I hoped she would reconsider.
“I know a lot of mothers down here who have done this same thing with no problems,” she countered. “Here the courts always order that the children go with the mother. We’ll work something out in court so that you can spend some time with Stephen.”
By now she had moved from defensive to defiant. I couldn’t believe her brazenness. I asked to speak to Stephen and she handed the phone to him. He had apparently been listening to our conversation and had obviously just realized his mother’s intention. During his six years of life I had never heard him sound scared, but now he had a tremble in his voice. As he began to speak I could tell he was near tears.
“Dad, I want you to come and get me now. I want to go home. I miss school and my friends. I want to finish the submarine with you. I need you to come and get me now,” he pleaded.
I could picture Stephen holding the phone with both hands at the small, decorative marble-top table where the household phone was located. He would be in a passageway between the living room and the bedrooms on the lower floor of Silvia’s father’s house. I could picture him discreetly looking away from Silvia while he urged me to come and get him.
I was going to bring my son home somehow; I just had to figure out what my options were and the most effective approach.
“Stephen, it’s going to take a little while but I promise I will bring you home. Please, just know that I will come for you as soon as I straighten out some things here,” I assured him. Silvia decided our conversation was over, took the phone from Stephen and hung up.
I took the rest of the week off from my business and pursued every recourse I could turn up. The next morning, a Tuesday, I was referred by the local police to the Santa Clara County District Attorney’s office to file a report with the Child Abduction Unit.
My call was directed to a female investigator, Melanie Headrick. I told her what had happened and she responded with a series of direct questions, probing to determine if there had been any kind of abuse toward Silvia, Stephen or even myself.
My responses were prompt and emphatic.
“No abuse of any kind, whatsoever,” I responded.
“Mr. Fenton, I highly recommend that you give your wife a chance to reconsider her position. In most cases the abducting parent soon realizes that it was not a good decision and ends up returning with the child,” she offered.
“Ms. Headrick, my wife has made her decision. She has called her boss and quit her job. She’s not coming back!”
My revelation seemed to trigger a more serious tone from Ms. Headrick.
“Then I think you need to come down to my office and file a statement. We can have one of our Spanish speaking investigators call the home in Mexico and put some pressure on her to return with the threat of a warrant if she doesn’t comply. That sometimes is all it takes to get results,” she said.
I felt good about the direction the conversation had gone and that I had made it through an initial screening. An appointment was set for the next day. But before our call ended, she also suggested I contact a non-profit organization called The Vanished Children’s Alliance.
I called immediately and Gail Wood, a caseworker with the VCA, took my call. She listened sympathetically to my situation, and then offered some initial advice. Mexico, only the previous year, had become a signatory to the Hague Convention, an international accord stipulating the return of internationally abducted children back to their home country.
She recommended a number of attorneys including a world-renowned Hague Treaty specialist, Bill Hilton. I learned that Hilton was the best known expert in the field of international child abduction. In the space of one morning I received an education on international child abduction, while clinging to the hope that it was all unnecessary.
When I got to the Santa Clara County Child Abduction Unit the next day, I was seated in the reception area for only a few moments when Melanie Headrick came out to greet me with a smile. She wore her light-brown hair short, had gentle hazel eyes and a button-nose. I felt comfortable with her.
She escorted me through a secured door and into her office. I assumed she had run a background check on me to see if there was any history of violence or abuse.
“Have you had any further contact with your wife or son since we spoke yesterday?” she asked.
“No, I’ve been trying to figure what my options are before I try to talk with her and Stephen again,” I responded.
She seemed receptive to my dilemma and began to offer some insight. I listened carefully to every word that left her lips. I had an odd feeling that there was going to be a lengthy involvement on her part in trying to bring Stephen home.
“The first thing you need to do is establish in court that you are going to be the sole custodial parent. This will do two things: It will tell your wife that she will lose custody if she does not appear for the custody hearing; second, it will give you leverage in your Hague Convention case should it go that way. : “I suggest that you consult an attorney who specializes in international child abduction,” she told me. I thought about the name of the attorney, Bill Hilton, whom the girl at the VCA had mentioned.
Melanie said she would arrange to have one of the bilingual investigators in the department call the home in Mexico and demand that Silvia immediately return Stephen or face a warrant for her arrest attached to a substantial bail.
As I sat giving details, my eyes drifted around her small office, noticing the faces of so many missing children. It could have been wallpaper.
“How many of these kids have you found,” I asked.
“Every face you see is a child still missing. They only come down when one is recovered,” she confided.
I stopped asking questions. When we finished, I left with a glimmer of hope that Silvia might see her decision as a bad one, returning with Stephen or at least releasing him to let me bring him home. It was distressing to think that I might see him in the “sea of missing faces.”
Bill Hilton is a white-haired, mustached, tall man who doesn’t own a car but operates his practice from his home, an old Victorian house near Santa Clara University campus, convenient to the Santa Clara County Superior Courthouse. I was advised that he was eccentric; he didn’t really care what other people thought and that he made his own clothes. He was also reportedly estranged from the Hilton Empire, but most important to me: he was revered by the courts for his expertise in the civil aspects of international child abduction.
Although his rates seemed reasonable, his $2,000 retainer cleaned me out, and I was informed I now had to prepare for a landslide of legal costs on both sides of the border. At his office I prepared a declaration describing Silvia’s decision to keep Stephen in Mexico, now considered by authorities a “clear case of child abduction.” His initial remarks were reassuring.
“The Hague Convention Treaty is a relatively new agreement between the U.S. and Mexico. I know quite well the Mexican counterparts in the Foreign Ministry that will be on the other end of this. The results have been somewhat discouraging regarding the return of abducted children out of Mexico. One thing you have in your favor is that your son has always lived in California and that will establish his ‘habitual residence,’ which is paramount in any case of this type. You have a very strong position no matter what your wife might try to claim,” he explained.
I now had to ask a burning question.
“How long do you think it will take to get the authorities in Mexico to recover my son?”
“I’ll begin working on the petition immediately. We could have cooperation from the Mexicans as soon as six weeks after filing the petition but there is no set timeline. Just know this: The worst thing you could do would be to go into Mexico and get involved in a custodial battle in the courts. If you did get involved, the Hague Convention Treaty would drop your case and consider it a local matter as you will have been inducted into the Family Court system in Mexico.”
It was one thing to have the support of the court, but I saw the potential for the whole case turning into a long, international, open-ended legal test. My thoughts turned to the desperate voice of my son pleading to come get him. Not a moment passed that I didn’t worry that he was thinking his Dad had forgotten him. There was no way he could know how complicated the whole scenario had become. I would bring him home, but it would take time and careful legal maneuvering both in the U.S. and Mexico.
I had intended to eventually travel to Xalapa to try and see Stephen once all the legal strategies were in place. But now I had to consider that a harmful move. Another consideration was money. I had used up valuable time from my job to get things moving. I needed to get back to work to start bringing in as much money as I could.
The Vanished Children’s Alliance was the place I dreaded visiting most. I was reluctant to spend my time in a place where I was a “regular” with the other parents in this tragedy. I privately felt like a parental “loser,” consumed with guilt that my son had seen no action from me.
The Vanished Children’s Alliance operates through donations and grants with most of the staff made up of volunteers, organizing flyers, working with local police agencies and the FBI to help find and recover children domestically and abroad.
Gail Wood, the woman I had talked with on the phone, greeted and introduced me to some of the staff and volunteers. Their eyes were kind; in them I saw that they wanted to somehow share my loss. They met only a small percentage of the “left-behind parents.” They helped many of their cases by combining resources with the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.
The founder of the agency, Georgia Hilgeman, had her own daughter abducted to Mexico at the age of 18 months. Georgia is a forthright brunette with little patience for complacency. Her ex-husband had staged a phony kidnapping and sent their daughter to live with his parents in Mexico. Through her own relentless campaign and the help of a private investigator, she eventually discovered that her daughter was alive and living in the mountains of a small town in southwestern Mexico. She enlisted the help of some Spanish speaking contacts and paid a local policeman to assist in the rescue of her daughter. The husband was eventually convicted of felony child abduction, but served only 18 months in a California jail.
Almost in the same moment we exchanged greetings, she led me by the arm away from the other staff members in the group, out of earshot. Georgia was as serious as a heart attack.
“You are going to have to go down there yourself and bring your son home. The State Department isn’t going to help you and the Mexicans have been terribly ineffective at sending any children back to the U.S. The Hague Treaty is nothing more than a good idea.”
Georgia’s words were like spurs into a tethered horse. I had tried to put the idea of pulling off some kind of rescue out of my mind in light of the diplomatic angles and the treaty. I had, in fact, in the last few days, developed some confidence in the local and international judicial systems. I believed I’d have to give the legal remedy a shot and had enlisted some devoted people in the short time since this all happened. It was clear to everyone that what Silvia was doing was immoral as well as criminal, but Georgia’s echoing words stayed in my head. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was well intentioned but simply misinformed and jumping the gun. I wanted to be my son’s hero, with an unwrinkled cape and fresh dry-cleaned tights. I would first have to see what legal pursuits on both sides of the border could do, if anything at all.
I walked away from my first encounter with the Vanished Children’s Alliance with mixed feelings, now even more uncertain of what it would take to get Stephen home.
Chapter 2 -- Diplomacy and legalities
Some months prior to Stephen’s disappearance I left what once had been a lucrative real estate market as a Realtor. The market was in a slump and commission checks were becoming few and far between. I fell back on my first trade as a contractor. My business had supported Silvia and me before Stephen came along. But Hilton’s retainer had cleaned me out, and I knew I’d just scratched the surface on the financial demands to come. I had new energy and drive to produce like never before. I wasn’t quite sure what good the money I had allocated so far would do, but money seems to create activity in any quest.
The Vanished Children’s Alliance had a volunteer named Sonya Wedin, a single mother in her late 40s pursuing a law degree. She learned about my plight and contacted me to offer her help. We arranged to meet and discuss my case at the VCA between her classes on a rainy Friday afternoon, only four days after Silvia’s grim revelation. This was the last day I had free to talk to involved officials and support members during their regular work hours. Sonya explained to me that she couldn’t represent me outright while still only a student, but offered to help with the court documents needed for court proceedings.
She knew all about Bill Hilton and considered him a legend in the civil aspects of international child recovery. She guided me in a declaration describing the chronological events since the day I drove Stephen and Silvia to the San Francisco International Airport for what was supposed to be a two-week visit. Within a week we were filing the appropriate papers in Superior Court.
Sonya became personally interested in my case and compassionate about Stephen’s return. She expressed frustration at not yet being licensed to do more for me in the legal arena. I secretly believed that the onslaught of private interest in seeing Stephen home was a signal that it would eventually happen.
Meanwhile, I had been trying to reason with Silvia over the phone for several nights in a row after discovering her intention. I had gambled on taking a hard line, telling her I was going to the authorities here in California if she didn’t return with our son immediately. In response, the line went dead and no one answered the phone in Xalapa the rest of that evening. Then, one night Stephen answered. Realizing his mother was not with him, I started to reassure him that I was working very hard to get him home as soon as possible, but before I could ask anything he began talking in whispers.
“Dad, Mom says we’re not coming home, but I don’t want to stay here. When are you coming to get me? You promised you’d come and get me. Remember?” he pleaded. His words opened new emotional wounds, but I could not let him hear the desperation in my voice.
“Don’t worry Son, I’m coming for you, I just have to take care of a few things here in California before that happens,” I replied.
I heard some commotion in the background and then Silvia’s fury…“God damn it, Stephen!” she screamed.
Then the phone went dead. That was the last time I would ever talk to my son on the phone while he was in Mexico. His obvious disappointment hit me like open-heart surgery without anesthesia.
My feelings alternated from being furious on the one hand to being helpless on the other. In the calls to Mexico that followed, anyone who answered the phone – whether servants or family members – said only that Silvia and Stephen “had left town.” I just couldn’t get my head around the concept of another human concealing a child from a parent.
I was convinced that Stephen was still at his maternal grandfather Alberto’s house. The home was too convenient for Silvia – built like a fortress with heavy-gauge steel doors at the street entrance, and 10-foot-high concrete walls with broken glass imbedded at the top to discourage intruders. Homes in Mexico are built like that – something I found out the hard way while I was courting Silvia in Mexico. Unable to get anyone to come to the large steel doors at the street entry, I climbed over the wall, slicing my hands on the perpendicular glass shards.
Inside the home, Alberto had a small arsenal of handguns that he sometimes foolishly showed off. He once waved his pistol around inside a night club only to be jumped and pistol whipped with his own gun before being robbed. The attacker then took off with the gun. Alberto missed the weapon but bought another to replace it soon after.
I did get through to the home one last time, however. I insisted to a servant that I must speak to Alberto. This time he didn’t duck the call. Along with his painfully raspy voice, he usually had a smirk on his face suggesting he knew something no one else did. I knew he would answer the phone with his smirk.
I was fluent in Spanish and at home with the smooth, clear Veracruzan dialect. There was no need for pleasantries. He spoke:
“Why do you continue to harass this family when we tell you repeatedly that we don’t know where your son and Silvia are?” Alberto insisted.
I took a second to compose myself before responding.
“Alberto, do you realize that what Silvia is doing is against the law not only in the United States but in Mexico as well? If Silvia does not return Stephen immediately, there will be legal issues including an arrest warrant for her.” I waited for his reply.
“You can go to any authority you like but the fact is that the boy is the son of a Mexican mother and no laws will interfere with that,” he said. “Silvia has decided to raise the boy here in Mexico.” I didn’t get a chance to respond before Alberto hung up.
Clearly, the man behind the raspy voice had established his position and announced his intentions. It was obvious to me that Alberto was behind the abduction of my son. Any reasoning that might have penetrated Silvia’s defense of her actions would now be rebutted by a man who would help his daughter keep me from my son at any cost.
A Spanish-speaking investigator from Melanie Headrick’s office followed up the next week and telephoned Alberto personally. Alberto claimed that neither he nor anyone else in the home had any knowledge of Stephen or Silvia’s whereabouts. I considered that my hard line and the authorities’ intervention had driven Silvia underground with Stephen.
With the necessary paperwork slowly coming together, my court proceedings on two fronts began to take shape: the local case in Santa Clara County Superior Family Court to establish that I would have legal custody; and The Hague Convention petition to establish on an international level that Stephen’s habitual residence was California. The legal and international diplomacy process was in its sixth week now and my contact with Stephen was long gone.
In late February of 1993, 45 days since Silvia’s announcement, with three supportive sisters, my Dad, and Sonya Wedin looking on, I represented myself in Family Court as the petitioner and was awarded full custody of Stephen. The presiding judge asked whether I could represent that there was no abuse involved in Silvia’s refusal to return to California. I looked the judge squarely in the eyes and in a firm voice responded.
“I represent to this court, that there has never been any abuse of any kind toward my wife or son.” The clear intention in my voice left no room for doubt.
Under instructions I reluctantly requested a bench warrant for Silvia’s arrest which he granted with no hesitation. The bench warrant was a formality to give greater power for authority involvement. I realized I had reached the “point of no return” as far as hoping for any reconciliation with Silvia. The judge also granted the District Attorney’s office the right to use “any means at their disposal” to effect the recovery of Stephen. A significant step, but I realized that I was depending on paperwork to bring my son home. A custody order returns no hug.
We moved on to the filing of the Hague Treaty Petition. Bill Hilton went to work. He could now clearly establish that California was Stephen’s “habitual residence” and although sole custody was never my intention, it gave greater leverage in the international aspect of the case with Mexico.
Much more had to be done; including pouring a small fortune into a certified document translator. The charge was by the word and costs piled up quickly. I had, through a contact in Xalapa, paid a retainer to an attorney to legally serve Silvia according to California’s “due process,” and also to act as an “agent for information” only. (This move would later jeopardize the entire Hague petition.) I was getting used to seeing my income evaporate as fast as I could generate it, but knowing that every dime I made brought me that much closer to seeing Stephen again made it worthwhile. I had taken on a side project working weekends now as well. I never grew tired though, since time spent working was much more constructive than the nervous pacing I’d have done otherwise.
D.A. investigator Melanie Headrick filed a criminal complaint charging parental kidnapping, a felony, and obtained an arrest warrant with a $500,000 bail. The Vanished Children’s Alliance produced “Wanted” posters in both Spanish and English.
The VCA also offered weekly support meetings for parents of abducted children. I expressed my hesitation to Gail Wood, my support counselor, explaining that it would probably make me even more depressed to be surrounded by parents who were going through the same thing I was. She urged me to attend at least one meeting to see if I couldn’t get something from it. I reluctantly agreed.
We all met around a large conference table at the VCA office on a wet Monday evening in late February. I was asked to give my story. For the first time I felt ashamed at losing my son, not knowing exactly how or when I would recover him, but certain that I would if it took my last breath. I listened to the others as they talked about their lost children. One man, whose wife took the kids to Ireland, had been trying to get them back for four years. Another had his daughters taken to Iran. Although he was able to trick his wife back to the U.S. to sign some legal paperwork, she did not bring the daughters. The wife was thrown in jail for contempt and sat for years unwilling to divulge the daughters’ whereabouts. One woman had miraculously recovered her daughter from the Philippines when she finally got the State Department’s attention. Another man by the name of Dave, approximately my age of 35, had his son taken to the Dutch West Indies in the Carribean. Dave had a powerful desire to be reunited with his 3-year-old son. I had the feeling that of all the parents at this meeting, he was most likely to see his child again. This was the case most similar to mine. I hadn’t realized that fathers were so commonly the victims.
I absorbed a lot that night. I saw desperation as well as uncommon strength and hope in the faces of some traumatized parents. We had a common dilemma, and all of us were victims of extremely narcissistic and perhaps unstable spouses, but none had given up hope of seeing their child again. I took some comfort home that night, investing in persistence as a key to reunion.
“It’s a matter of not losing hope,” I told myself.
In mid March 1993, Melanie Headrick called my dad to explain that the Mexican Central Authority was expecting a local judge to recover Stephen at the home of Silvia’s father in Xalapa. I was ecstatic. I had a euphoric surge of hope, grasping at the first forward movement to bring Stephen home.
It was painful to enter Stephen’s room from the beginning, although I walked past his bedroom door countless times a day. His absence haunted me and demons taunted me with dreams of being reunited with Stephen. I would awaken feeling helpless and self-loathing. This went on night after night. I also became convinced that Alberto and Silvia were systematically turning Stephen against me. Imagining what hateful things they might be telling him would plunge me into dark fits of depression.
The room where he had spent his last night in the United States had been left untouched. Now I started to think about what was necessary for his return. I took the comforter and sheets from his bed and ran them through the wash. Two of my sisters, Mary and Karen, hearing news of the impending recovery, came over to help put his room in order and offer support.
One thing that had been explained to me by the Vanished Children’s Alliance counselors was that parents of abducted children feel a “forever” loss as long as the children are gone. Conversely, parents who learned that their child had been killed suffered anguish and grief but, ironically, in these cases parents would find some degree of closure over time.
I went to bed on a Sunday night in early April of 1993 anticipating a call in the next day or two from the Mexican Central Authority authorizing Melanie Headrick to go immediately to Mexico City to bring my Son home. Protocol wouldn’t permit me to bring Stephen home myself, nor could I be present. He could only be released to an official in California connected with the case. I wasn’t happy about that. The two and a half months waiting for action seemed an eternity, but I could wait a few more days for the “diplomatic resolution” that would be returning Stephen home to California.