House of Secrets (9 page)
Her fears. The talk with police. The continuing nightmares. “I just couldn’t take it anymore,” she said. Now, in some ways, she seemed enamored with the attention she was receiving. “Pixie and Joel were in to visit,” Machelle said. “Pixie told me she’d testify against Dad.
Joel said the more he learned the more sick he was about it all.”
She’d also been in contact with her older brother, Eddie Jr., she said.
He’d called her on the phone, she said. “He told me if I talked about what went on at home, he d shut me up,” she said. Machelle said,“Oh Anne, I only want to live with you.” Anne couldn’t believe Machelle was so oblivious to the potential danger she’d put herself in by revealing to family members where she was. Move in? Now, that was just out of the question, Anne thought. It wasn’t the first hospital call he’d ever received or the first troubled voice he’d heard asking for help. For nearly 20 years Otis Lee Sexton had ministered, first to his small flock in Canton, then across nearly 10 years of revivals, on the road six days a week in Ohio, Kentucky, Tennessee, then back to Canton to preach Sunday in his church.. Now his niece Machelle was on the phone, calling from Timken Mercy. She was being discharged from the hospital, she said. She’d left home. Now she had no place to stay.
Otis Sexton hadn’t spoken with his younger brother Eddie Lee since they’d argued on his porch last summer. He hadn’t seen Machelle, or spoke with any of his brother’s children, since that day. But it didn’t surprise him that one of Eddie’s children was calling him now from a psychiatric ward. Otis waited until evening visiting hours, then made the 15-minute drive in his 84 Buick Skylark to Timken Mercy, picking up his older sister Nellie on the way. They talked in the visitors’ room. Machelle looked as if she wanted to tell him something.
Already, Otis had a good guess as to what it was. “Honey, listen,” he said quietly. “Nothing you say is going to put me back on my heels.”
Machelle told him about the rape “Honey,” he said. “I’ve got to be honest with you. I’ve been suspecting it for years.” Machelle pulled a gnarled business card out of her pocket. He saw the name Wayne Welsh, the Department of Human Services. “Uncle Otie,” she said. “I think you should call this man.” The next morning, Otis Sexton reached the social worker “What did she tell you?” Welsh asked. Otis relayed the story about the rape.
“Mr. Sexton,” he said. “You’ve just made my day.” On April 2, the Department of Human Services received an anonymous telephone tip, someone identifying themselves as a female relative of the Sexton family. The woman said that Sherri Sexton had been sexually abused by her father. The tipster feared the younger children were next. It was 14 days after Machelle Sexton had disclosed to Jackson police about possible incest in the family. Why the agency waited until the anonymous tip to investigate again would remain unclear in records released later. But the call had prompted officials to put Vlayne Welsh back on the case. On April 3, he interviewed young Lana and Kimberly Sexton at school. It was the same old Sexton story. Both denied there were any problems at home. But the day held one more interview. Machelle Sexton was waiting for him at her uncle Otis Sexton’s house. The interior of Otis Sexton’s home bared little resemblance to the house on Caroline. It was a well-kept two-story in an aging neighborhood on Canton’s east side. Family pictures of Otis Sexton’s six grown daughters, three son-in-laws, 14 grandchildren and other relatives covered the walls, television and bookshelves. There were proclamations from the city and state legislature for his community volunteer work. Otis Sexton organized Little League teams and poured hours into maintaining and improving a neighborhood ball field where a young Thurmond Munson once played. At 52, Otis Sexton was two years older than his brother. They both had receding hairlines and high cheekbones. But unlike the wiry Eddie, Otis was built more like a retired linebacker for the NFL teams he followed on his small console TV. “He seemed like a really decent individual,” Welsh later would recall Welsh and Machelle talked alone. She went a little further than the account she’d given Detective Glenn Goe. Her father tried to molest her when she was 12, she said, “but he couldn’t get it in. She detailed the rape in the van. Then she told Welsh her sisters Pixie and Sherri had been having sex with their father since they were 12. She revealed that she and her younger brother Matt saw her father having sex with Sherri in the family van. Welsh wondered about punishment in the home. “You get the belt until you’re 16,” she said. “Then you graduate to the fist.” For the next two weeks, Welsh tried to find more information. If Ed Sexton molested his older daughters and routinely beat his children, that put the minor kids in the home at risk, grounds for a dependency case. He talked with Glenn Goe, then to Otis Sexton Welsh tried talking with more Sexton children at school, but he could only arrange interviews with James and Charles. Like the others, they said nothing was amiss at home. There was a certain passive quality about the children’s denials. 60 Lotvell Caufjiel They responded with one-word answers and stared, emotionless. In time, DHS
workers would coin a phrase about the look. They called it “The Sexton Stare.” The offices of the legal department for the Stark County Department of Human Services were located in the Renkert Building, an aging 11-story office building. The imposing red-brick structure was classic downtown Canton. Save for a new Hilton and a few other buildings, most of downtown looked as if it hadn’t changed since World War II. Just north on Market Avenue was an adult bookstore with a vintage, neon Playboy bunny head in the window. A boarded-up boxing gym was due east on Tuscarawas. Law firms filled small buildings near the county courthouse. Other storefronts stood vacant. The name Timken showed up on schools and foundations and medical agencies. Some locals believed if the Timken bearing company ever pulled out of greater Canton, the entire town would close up shop. Judee L. Genetin, the director of legal services, worked halfway up the Renkert Building in a cramped office with a window. She was not listed in the lobby directory. Transcripts and case files covered her small desk. A small, round conference table held more paperwork, a bowl of candy and often carry-out food. Judee Genetin was an attorney, but her job rarely afforded the luxury of a legal power lunch, even if there was a suitable restaurant nearby. Genetin was the gatekeeper, the attorney who ultimately decided which child protection cases warranted decisive legal action, such as removing children from homes and placing them in foster care. Among abusive and neglectful parents, Genetin and her staff of a half dozen attorneys had enemies. That’s why she did not advertise her location. That’s why the doors of the office were often kept locked. On the morning of April 16, staff attorney Dave Rudebock showed up in Genetin’s office. He was working on the wording for a dependency complaint and pick-up order, based on Wayne Welsh’s investigation. If signed by a judge, the papers would allow DHS to pick up all the minor Sexton children. That would be followed by an emergency shelter care hearing to determine whether there was probable cause to put the children in custody of the DHS. This is a weak one, Rudebock said. Genetin agreed. The complaint was based entirely on Machelle Sexton’s allegations. But Genetin had also talked to Welsh.
The social worker believed that once the children were removed, they d begin talking. “He thinks we’ll be able to prove all this stuff,” she said. Genetin had learned much since joining the DHS five years before.
A former public defender and divorce attorney, the 38-year-old woman was the social services division’s first lawyer, originally serving as a liaison between social workers and prosecuting attorneys who used to handle cases of abuse and neglect. By 1990, she was running her own staff of attorneys who now prosecuted the cases. It was a daunting workload. In 1992, the social services division would generate nearly 4,000 cases in Stark County. Most would involve physical abuse and neglect. Less than 20 percent involved sexual abuse. Genetin had heard about the Sextons before. “I had one social worker describe the family as a birthday cake that looked good on the outside, but on the inside it was all rotten, she would later recall. “They would say, My gut tells me something is wrong.” Now what am I supposed to do with that? As an attorney, I need evidence. I can’t put somebody on the stand to testify about their gut. “But after working here awhile, I learned to listen to that. I learned that it’s more than their gut.
It’s their observations, it’s all these little things that click for them with interactions and body language. And what they are saying is that if you really delve into this, you can get the information out of them.”
However, Genetin also knew that in 30 days her staff would have to show up with evidence in court, or a judge would give the children back to the parents. To her way of thinking, that made the Sexton case a very risky complaint.” It was risky because if there was indeed something going on in that house and DHS gave the children back, they would be the ones who would suffer, not the DHS staff. At the very least, no Sexton child would ever come forward again. Judy Genetin decided to trust Wayne Welsh’s instincts. “Let’s get it before a judge,” she said.
That afternoon, armed with a pick-up order signed by a Stark County Family Court judge, Wayne Welsh, other social workers, and Jackson Township police showed up at the Jackson schools. They picked up Kimberly, 7, Lana, 12, and Matthe 14. Welsh later recalled, “What we said to the kids was something along the lines that your parents have some problems that they need to work on at this point and we believe for now you need to be in a home where you’re going to be safe. Then, hopefully we’ll be able to get these problems resolved so you’ll be able to go back home at some time with your parents, if that’s what you want.” They went without protest. Christopher, 13, wasn’t at his middle school, and James, 16, wasn’t at Jackson High. At Jackson, Welsh found Charles, the 17year-old called “Skipper.” When Welsh approached him, he became belligerent. He was a sinewy teen with intense eyes. He’d competed in the lower weight classes on the school wrestling team. “I’m not going with you,” he snapped. “And you can’t make me go.” It took Welsh a few minutes to talk him into the car.
After they left, Estella May Sexton arrived at the high school, looking for her son, but was told by school officials that they’d been picked up by the Department of Human Services. She raced home and told her husband. Not long after, at 4:30 p. m., police and social workers arrived at the house on Caroline Street to execute the rest of the pick-up order. Inside, police found Christopher and James. As they came out of the house with the two teenagers in the car, the parents followed them out to the driveway. Ed Sexton calmly told everyone he’d done nothing wrong. “This is all a big misunderstanding,” he said in a soft West Virginian drawl.
Estella May Sexton’s eyes were full of fire. She gestured wildly. “He doesn’t molest anybody,” she shouted. “He doesn’t hurt none of these kids.” Officials took all the children to the home of Otis Sexton.
He’d said his daughters would help him care for his nieces and nephews until a shelter care hearing scheduled for the following day. “The agency always tries to place kids with an appropriate relative when we can because the kids are less discombobulated,” Welsh later explained.
“It’s less traumatic that way. It was Holy Thursday, the day before Good Friday, 1992. Sixtysix days had passed since Machelle Sexton had walked into Ruth Killion’s office at Jackson High School and complained about her father. Forty-six days had passed since she’d disclosed to Anne Greene about the rape and 28 since she’d revealed the assault to “I’m so very proud of you,” Anne Greene told Machelle. “You’re the only one of 12 who was finally strong enough to try to break the chain of abuse.” But the Sexton saga was just beginning. Later, Anne Green would come up with a more appropriate metaphor for the teenager with the mysterious blue eyes. “She was the girl with her finger in the dike,”
she said. Ijttle did anyone know that when she removed it, all hell was going to break loose.” Nearly three years after her children were removed, Estella May Sexton sat at a small table, sipping on a cup of machine coffee and explaining how she met the young West Virginian who called himself Eddie. People said she had an exotic beauty when they met in 1967. Now bolts of grey streaked her raven hair and her dark eyes drooped with lack of affect. “It’s unbelievable, really,” she said. “Real unbelievable what eventually happened. My dad was a thirty-three-year career soldier. I was strictly raised on military bases from a good family. Fort Knox. Fort Meade. Fort Devons. Fort Hayes. In Albuquerque, he was stationed at White Sands. Nothing went on in my family. Arguing. Fighting and that. “I was born in Willing, West Virginia, while my father was in the service. My mom’s from Ohio, my dad from Willing, right across the boarder. My dad was almost one hundred percent Wyandotte. My mom was Cherokee and French. When he first went in the service he was a Ranger. He was in the Second World War and Korea and Vietnam. He retired a master sergeant. There were ten kids in all I’m the fifth oldest. It was hard hauling a big family around to those bases and towns, but he did it. “Growing up was a normal childhood. Nothing like my marriage. My parents weren’t harsh disciplinarians. Punishment was getting restricted from the telephone and school things. I think my mom smacked me in the face twice, but I honestly deserved it. Girls just didnxt talk bad and she heard me call one of my brothers a name. They always called me the rebel in the family. “I began dating at age fifteen or sixteen. You could go to movies vnith other couples. And I liked going to school dances I went to high school in Toledo and finished in Farmington, Ohio. I was a cheerleader. I belonged to the Future Nurses of America. “In Farmington, my father had left the Army and became a sheriff. But the service called him back in 1967 to be an advisor in Vietnam. I was working at a nursing home and became really close to patients. But it would hurt me when they would pass away, and I got out of that. Then I thought I was going to make a lot of money being a cosmetologist. I started doing people’s hair out of my mother’s home. “Marriage never entered my mind until we moved to Farmington. Back then, it was a big thing to be a go-go dancer, and I was also interested in that. I loved to dance. Still do. My parents let me go to dances every weekend.
