After a month, Winky oriented well to life at Cedarcrest. His trust in staff grew; his interaction with other patients was uneventful. There are no secrets at Cedarcrest. Patients knew what Winky was accused of: TV news reports, staff gossip, and the acute ability of some patients to listen in on Winky’s counseling sessions, made confidentiality moot.

The court appointed psychologist tested Winky. She concurred with Cedarcrest clinicians that Winky was unable to comprehend his crime beyond the “I did something wrong… Am I in trouble?” rational Winky employed. Probing for understanding with a person whose IQ score is less than 75, or with adaptive skills less than the norm for a man 44 years of age, is an exercise in futility. The term "adaptive skills" is a catchall phrase for how well a person can deal with the tasks of everyday life. These tasks include the ability to speak and understand; home-living skills; use of community resources; leisure, self-care, and social skills; self-direction; basic academic skills (reading, writing, and arithmetic); and work skills. A person is regarded as mentally retarded if he or she is unable to dress, feed, wash, or otherwise care for him or herself; to hold a job; or to carry out most of the other tasks needed to get through an ordinary day. Winky was this and more. His 90-day commitment passed quickly.

Winky didn’t want to leave Cedarcrest. He feared what he didn’t understand—most of us do, I told him this as I helped him dress for court. I didn’t want to be part of the entourage of clinicians, Departments of Mental Health and Mental Retardation officials eager to expunge their blame. I didn’t want to ride with the Agency Police responsible for Winky’s transportation and safety, but I was his care coordinator, my observations were written in his chart; my allegations concerning Winky’s strip club and massage parlor excursions certainly required my testimony; the private group homes continued lies concerning Winky’s unsupervised care, inspired their recantation. Winky was handcuffed (cuffs attached to a leather waist restraint) and ankle-shackled. I sat with him in the back of the police cruiser. I was sick to my stomach; Winky’s confusion, his robotic voice restricted by handcuffs and fear ripped at me. I thought of my own son and his mental retardation, and the “what if” something like this would ever happen to him. I wore my dark-lensed glasses to hide my indignation, my tears.

To say that the media awaited Winky’s arrival at the back entrance to the courthouse doesn’t do justice to the scene. A swarm of reporters tethered to microphones; camera operators hoisting their video intrusions, and satellite trucks feeding the news anchors’ and producers’ lust, began the chaos on that warm summer morning. Winky’s ankles were unshackled so he could quickly make his way through the crowd. I placed a towel over his handcuffs. The two Agency Police officers ran interference. I walked behind Winky, pushing at cameras and reporters. Some reporters pushed back. Others later reported I was an undercover State Police officer hurrying Winky through the crowd to face his judgment.

Inside the jail area, police officers—some local, others from the surrounding area, greeted Winky with taunts and promises to mace his trach-hole, or shove their PR-24 side handle batons up his rectum. The Marshals laughed; the homeboys awaiting processing snickered. The Agency Police officers told everyone to relax; one Agency officer refused to let Winky be placed in the holding pen. Winky was given his own cell—consistent threats and orders to behave echoed along with the clanging-shut of the bars. I sat inside that cell with Winky. I too was afraid.

Winky was scheduled to face the judge at eleven. His handcuffs were removed, and he was moved to a private waiting area where he could meet with his lawyer or any visitor that had relevant business concerning Winky’s case. The Cedarcrest clinicians visited to reiterate the importance of the situation—in other words, to make sure I act appropriately. The Agency Police officers, also warned, comforted Winky by telling him he was not going to jail—they too had a different take on Winky; they abhorred his crime, but they understood his inability to comprehend beyond consequence. I complained to Winky’s lawyer that no one from his group home should be allowed to meet with him before his hearing. The young woman lawyer, not familiar with Winky’s temperament –which was escalating towards a physical outburst, agreed with me, or so I thought. His advocate, a group home employee, was allowed to see him. That visit was cut short, when he asked Winky if he understood he could be sentenced at the hearing. The advocate used the word prison; Winky pushed over a small table; The Agency Police officers and I had to restrain him: the marshals informed the judge.

The courtroom seated close to a 120 people. It was packed: media reporters, the victim’s family, clinicians, and the curious lucky to be seated, filled the gallery. Six marshals surrounded a reshackled Winky as he sat at the defendant’s table. The Agency Police officers were told to stand in the gallery; I was ordered to sit next to Winky. The judge’s disgust towards Winky was obvious, even Winky figured it out, his legs were shaking. The marshals were instructed to restrain him should he (Winky) even think about acting out. I placed my hands on Winky’s thigh and whispered “everything’s fine.”  But everything wasn’t fine. The judge asked the court appointed psychologist about Winky’s competency. She answered, the judge exploded in rage, the media exited the courtroom to report, and State Agency officials huddled with Cedarcrest clinicians to discuss their confusion. The judge ordered Winky to be confined to another Connecticut State Mental facility for six months, when upon the completion of this six month commitment, another competency hearing would be held in another court—another jurisdiction. Simply put, that day in June of 1996, Winky was abused by the judicial system. The Agency Police officers and I transported him to his new surroundings. During the ride, Winky kept on asking me, “Am I going to jail? Are you going to stay with me? “Don’t you like me?” I was crushed. I questioned my ability to continue in my chosen profession. I questioned God’s insanity. I couldn’t deal with Winky’s fear and confusion during a 30-minute ride. I told him it was against the law to ask questions in a police cruiser. How I regret saying that.

 Postscript: Winky was sentenced to prison in 2000, the year I retired. I’ve thought of Winky on and off throughout the years, but therapy, counseling, care giving, whatever you call what I did for Winky, requires a professional distance. Until I retired, he was still a patient. My Winky job was finished once the transfer papers were signed and I wished him well.

In 2007, Winky was paroled, registered as a sex offender, and again placed in the system that failed him. When I googled his name, I clicked on the Connecticut Sex Offender registry, clicked on his name, and looked at his picture. There he was staring at me with the same confused look, the same beaded jewelry he loved to make in art class placed around his neck. I cried. Hopefully by writing this, I do some karmic justice to his story.

part one

part two