Chapter 3: Kidnappings

Even in times of trauma, we try to maintain a sense of normality until we no longer can… We never become whole again… we are survivors. If you are here today… you are a survivor. But those of us who have made it through hell and are still standing? We bear a different name: warriors.

— Lori Goodwin

For the next couple of years, my living situation became a revolving door of constant change. Before the age of three, I lived with my mother, my father, my grandmother, my great aunt, a foster family, a welfare family, and spent many months in the hospital. There was no stability.

— the search begins —

My mother was desperate to find me. She immediately contacted the police, but was told to wait at least 24 hours before anything could be done. The following day she obtained an arrest warrant for my father, but it was only valid in New York State and he wasn’t at his residence. She went to the NY Bar Associationand Family Court for help, but was told that until she knew where I was, no legal action could be taken.

During the next two weeks I looked for them. With police accompaniment I went to his loft where the elevator man told me had been sublet to someone else. I called everyone I could think of including relatives of my husband but to no avail…

— Katherine Merrick, Case Chronology Notes, July 3, 1969

My father had taken me to Anne’s family home in Boston. Then he went to the Barnstable County Court to file for divorce and full custody. Back then, each state ruled about custody independently. Even though my mother had custody in New York, since she wasn’t present to defend herself, my father was granted custody of me in Massachusetts. 

No one in Anne’s family liked my father, especially Kit, Anne’s sister. When I arrived, she alerted my mother. Kit recounted that when I first saw her from behind, I became excited because she had the same long blonde hair as my mother, but when I realized she wasn’t, I got sad. Kit told her I had been admitted into the Children’s Hospital Medical Center (CHMC) of Boston. As soon as she discovered my location, my mother left for Boston with barely a goodbye. She abandoned most of her belongings in Al’s apartment.

[Kit], who saw Eliza in Boston before her admission [to Children’s Hospital] said the casts were filthy and smelly and she had a diaper rash with lesions.

— Katherine Merrick, Case Chronology Notes, July 8, 1969

When my father placed me in CHMC, he blamed my unkept condition on my mother. He told the doctors that she had ignored my medical treatment. He conveniently failed to mention my weekly cast-changing appointments at HSS that my mother never missed or the fact that my casts were clean the day he took me. The doctors believed him and I was promptly admitted. They removed my casts and scheduled me for immediate surgery. When I awoke I was strapped down to a metal frame with my legs in slings hooked up to ropes. There was an intravenous drip in one arm taped to a stiff board and the other hand was also restricted. I was tilted back with my legs higher than my head. Metal bars latticed above and ropes and pulleys intertwined. Weights hung at the end of the ropes holding my legs in place. I had a suffocating sensation of being trapped. I remember wanting to reach my toy penguin, my favorite companion at the time, but I couldn’t sit up. I tried so hard to move, but I could barely raise my head. All I could see were my bundled legs. 

I spent so much time in traction as a child, that my neck became curved slightly forward permanently from craning my head repeatedly to see what was going on around me.

— foiled plans —

When my mother arrived in Boston, she went directly to CHMC to see me. The staff confirmed that I was a patient there, but wouldn’t allow her to visit because she didn’t have custody in Massachusetts. Needing legal support, my mother found a lawyer from the Cape out of the yellow pages. The lawyer she hired just happened to be Frank Richards, the very same lawyer my father had retained for his family property case years before. My father blamed Richards for losing his inheritance. My mother was unaware of the connection. It was just a combination of bad luck and the fishbowl of a small town, that led her to hire him. 

My mother had no money to pay Richards, but she knew he had a child with special needs so suggested a trade for child care. Richards would’ve preferred a romantic exchange, but agreed to the arrangement. My father was surprised to learn that my mother had retained a lawyer. He was aware of her financial situation. When he realized who her lawyer was, his paranoia went into overdrive. My mother must have chosen Richards just to get back at him, he was convinced. Richards was disreputable, corrupt, and had criminal ties, according to my father. By association, my mother was a criminal too. She must be trading sexual favors for legal aid, he was convinced. The possibility that she entered into an honorable arrangement, he never considered.

As my mother’s legal representative, Richards contacted CHMC and requested that they honor her custody ruling from New York which predated that of my father’s. The hospital’s lawyer told them that unfortunately, they had no choice but to honor my father’s custody since my mother’s custody in New York was meaningless in the State of Massachusetts. Richards went to court to challenge the ruling. Meanwhile, my father concocted a plan to take me so far away my mother would never see me again.

There was a call from the hospital attorney who said that David was planning to remove Eliza from Children’s the following morning at 6am and fly to Hong Kong with her… Mr. Richards spoke to a judge who issued a restraining order to keep David from taking Eliza out of the hospital.

— Katherine Merrick, Case Chronology Notes, July 12, 1969

My father had an opportunity to direct a feature film in Singapore. He traveled to there several times “officially” for the film, but his ulterior motive was to lay the groundwork to bring me with him permanently. Richards got wind of the plan and filed an injunction to block my father from taking me out of the country. Although still free to direct the film, he quickly abandoned the project and blamed my mother for losing the “big break” he’d been waiting for.

1969: I took [Eliza] to CHMC for full examination. Judge Knight had given verbal permission for me to take her to Hong Kong… Eliza was placed as an inpatient at CHMC until my ticket came. I had signed a contract with Farkas Film Studios to writ and direct a spy thriller in Singapore…

— David X Young, History: 1963-1973, Jan. 25, 1973

Around the same time, in August 1969, my father was offered a gig to film a rock music festival in upstate New York. He turned that job down because he despised popular music. The festival, which became known as Woodstock, became an international symbol of the counterculture movement for decades to come. Years later, my father would boast about how he could’ve done a much better job filming Woodstock if only my mother hadn’t been so problematic.

— legal recourse —

At the time, custody of a child was almost always granted to the mother. My father knew this, which is why he portrayed her in such extreme terms. In Massachusetts Family Court, he repeated and embellished the same wild, slanderous accusations that he’d made in New York. My mother endured his verbal brutality with as much composure as possible.

Mr. Young claimed that the mother was disturbed, sadomasochistic, and involved in drug use… Upon evaluating the nature of this case, it seemed apparent that the father… [was] unable to accept the mother’s decision to leave Mr. Young. This seemed to be a Separation (Divorce) Custody issue rather than abuse or neglect.

— Child Protective Services, Letter to Children’s Hospital, Aug. 28, 1969

When they went to court, the judge who had granted custody to my father was on vacation. The current judge was torn on how to rule. He struggled to resolve how this quiet, beautiful woman could’ve done the awful things my father accused her of. Not wanting to fully reverse the original ruling, the judge temporarily changed the custody from my father, to Christine, who was the closest relative and legal resident of Massachusetts.

I went to Children’s Hospital to see Eliza for the first time in two weeks. David was standing by her crib and there was no nurse in the room. I was so happy to see Eliza I was trembling. David muttered every conceivable obscenity to me from the opposite side of the crib…

— Katherine Merrick, Case Chronology Notes, July 14, 1969

My mother was granted the right to see me from 10 am to 5 pm each day. If my parents encountered each other in the hospital, my father would become verbally abusive and I’d become inconsolable. My mother spoke to the hospital director to arrange for separate visiting hours and Richards obtained a protection order to keep my father from harassing my mother outside the hospital. 

I remained hospitalized several months. My mother visited me every day she could. She told me how torturous it was for her to see me strapped down unable to move around, and barely able to play. She remembered the day that Sesame Street came on the air: November 10, 1969. For the first time, there was fun and educational programming specifically for children. Seeing me giggle as I watched brought tears to her eyes. Finally, there was something I could enjoy while in traction.

— foster care —

In January 1970, I was discharged from CHMC. My mother wasn’t notified. She came to the hospital to visit and I was gone. The nurses had seen how devoted she was to me, so they told her I’d gone to live with an “impartial” family from Wellfleet. As it turns out, Christine didn’t want to take care of me.

With the help of Richards, my mother found out where I was.I’d been placed with a foster family called the Ryders. They were not an impartial family, but one hired by my father. At first, the Ryders were scared of my mother because of all the lies they’d been told. They even commented when they met her that they “expected her to arrive on a broom.” They developed a rapport and my mother felt comfortable letting me living there.

I was worried from the first when you talked so unconcernedly of chatting with her – Kathie – over coffee, even lunch, listening with obvious fascination to her blatant lies. I spoke to you about this more than once and begged you to be careful. You were hired by — and paid by — us not her. And she was — and still is — the enemy.

— Christine Young, Letter to Pam Ryder, Apr.14, 1970

Once my father learned that the Ryders were friendly with my mother, he accused them of “treason,” became extremely rude. He wielded his words with sheer rage as a manipulative form of power. He always knew exactly what to say to get what he wanted. 

I stayed with the Ryders for about five months. One day in the summer of 1970, they alerted my mother that my father hadn’t returned me after his designated visit. He had defied the court and removed me from the very family he’d petitioned for me to be placed with He now claimed that the Ryders were not good guardians for me since they “didn’t have a college education.” 

David Young… began to insult and threaten our family. We were very afraid of what they might do to our own children… [He] came to our home late one night returning Eliza to us [after] drinking heavily… yelled and screamed obscenities at us… Eliza cried and was considerably upset by this incident and we had quite a time adjusting her.

— Pam Ryder, Affidavit, Mar. 1971

After returning to court, an agreement was reached where I’d live with my father four days a week and my mother for three. The arrangement worked for a little while, but my father remained angry. He would say horrible things to her every time she dropped me off. She’d beg him not to yell in front of me. I’d cry and cling to her.

One time, my mother gave me a new haircut called a pixie cut, which had been made popular by the supermodel Twiggy. It was short with longish, jagged bangs framing the face. When my father saw my hair, he unleashed a slew of obscenities. She tried to explain it was a popular hairstyle, but my father continued his tirade, saying she gave me the haircut because she wanted me to be a boy.

I returned her with the haircut and an empty hypodermic syringe that I had given her for a squirt gun. Well when David saw her haircut he picked her up and started screaming at me and she cried in terror.

— Katherine Merrick, Letter to Dr. Glaser, Dec. 1970

Another time, my mother gave me a plastic syringe to play my favorite game: doctor. I played it all the time with my stuffed animals, dolls, and even myself. When my father saw the syringe, he took it, placed a needle in it, and went to the police station. He accused my mother of letting me play with a dangerous object. The police didn’t believe him.

1970: [My lawyer] said not to let the child be with the mother again. I took the needle to Chief Chet Landers of the Orleans police. He took it and put it in his desk, did not investigate. He told me instead to go get full custody.

— David X Young, History: 1963-1973, Jan. 25, 1973

My father’s anger towards my mother grew into an all-consuming fury. His paranoia was a grenade with a loose pin. He became convinced that Frank Richards, who was of Italian descent, must be a full-fledged mobster who was involved in a wide range of illegal activities. It was bad enough that my mother had left him for a “negro” (a reference to Al Cotton), but now she was with a “wop?” With each passing day, in my father’s mind, Richards became more nefarious, his tactics more insidious, and my mother’s actions more salacious — my mother was his whore, Richards was a major drug kingpin, the police were in on it, and all had a plot against him. 

— Rescue deemed kidnapping —

During this time, my mother’s second oldest brother, Joe, came back to the Cape after living in New Mexico for several years. Like my mother, Joe had born the brunt of their mother’s rage and loss of their father who had been a stabilizing influence on the home. While never formally diagnosed, Joe’s siblings suspected he suffered from schizophrenia. He was always sweet and gentle with me. Joe particularly disliked my father. He recognized his true character from the onset.

1970: I learned that Ks sisters and brothers were moving into the same house with them. Brother Joe Merrick had come in from New Mexico and had been on about 70 LSD trips. He had been heard talking about “bad spells” around the cape.

— David X Young, History: 1963-1973, January 25, 1973

One day Joe accompanied my mother to drop me off at my father’s cabin. As always, I burst into tears when they went to leave. Joe told my mother that “something had to be done;” it was “not right” that I was separated from her and concocted a plan. My mother went to Family Court to find out what would happen if she took me to another state. While they officially advised against it, they told her that custody was considered a civil matter, not federal, so no action would be taken. This was how my father obtained custody of me in the first place.

On July 1, 1970, the week following the pixie haircut incident, my mother went to pick me up at my father’s cottage in Eastham and found the place locked up. Richards’ filed a contempt of court citation for preventing her visitation. The following day she returned to the cabin accompanied by Joe and Alice. My father opened the door. He was alone. “You are never seeing her again,” he said, glaring at them. Then he ordered them off his property and slammed the door. 

My mother promptly reported the incident to the police. When she came to the description of the braces on my legs, the officer suddenly looked up and asked “Does she make a squeaky noise when she walks?” Taken aback, my mother responded in the affirmative. My leg braces caused me to waddle and the leather strapped to the metal made a squeaking sound when I moved. Lucky for them, the policeman had just been at a local rooming house the previous day which also happened to be where my grandmother Christine was renting a room. I was with her at the time and the sound my braces made caught the attention of the policeman.

The officer escorted my mother, Alice, and Joe to the rooming house, but Christine wasn’t there. Residents were questioned and one elderly woman, who had trouble communicating, signaled for a piece of paper. She wrote “Christine Eastham.” Hearing this, they thanked the woman profusely and drove away to search for me in the neighboring town of Eastham. 

My mother, Alice, and Joe scoured the town with their eyes peeled for Christine’s station wagon. They spotted her car at the post office and approached cautiously. I was sitting alone in the back seat; my eyes lit up when I saw her. “Hello honey,” she said and I reflexively reached for her. She scooped me up and put me in the car with them. My mother’s heart was pounding hard. Nearby, a woman was sitting in her vehicle watching. My mother reassured her, “Don’t worry, I’m her mother.” The woman returned to reading her newspaper and they quickly drove away.

For a few days, they hid at a friend’s house on the outskirts of the Cape and gathered the supplies needed. All agreed that New Mexico good place to go as it was far enough away and Joe had some connections there. Piling into their beat-up Volkswagen Beetle, they drove west.

I just couldn’t stand to give her back to him another time. It was terrible for her emotionally.

— Katherine Merrick, Letter to Dr. Glaser, Dec. 1970

The drive was long and hot. They spent one night sleeping in the car parked at a rest stop several states away, before they reached Taos, New Mexico. For a few days, they stayed in the back of a gallery owned by Joe’s ex-wife. It wasn’t comfortable with a young child, but it was free. My mother set up outside as a portrait artist to earn some money. After a few days, she’d earned enough to get their own place. 

Joe found a small house in Los Cerillos for $40 a month. The house was rustic. Joe patched the holes in the adobe walls with mud and painted the inside. It had no indoor bathroom, just an outhouse, and a communal shower outdoors which was shared with another home. The neighbors, a mix of Native Americans and Mexicans, were friendly. The landscape was barren with little vegetation, mainly cacti, except for a nearby farm. There were horses and stray dogs that roamed free. Los Cerillos was about 45 minutes from Santa Fé. 

When they had driven away with me to New Mexico, my bivalve splints that I had to wear at night, were still in my father’s cabin. Until my mother could take me to an orthopedic doctor in Santa Fé for an evaluation, Joe fashioned some splints from sanded wooden slats, foam rubber, and ace bandages.

When we left the Cape, Eliza was wearing braces… that someone… had hammered the knee [and ankle] joints… so that they would not bend… I took her to an orthopedic surgeon in Santa Fé… He thought her braces were now doing her more harm than good because she was swinging her right leg rather than bending it.

— Katherine Merrick, Letter to Dr. Glaser, Dec. 1970

The doctor evaluated that my legs appeared to be improving. Until new braces could be obtained, he recommended that I only wear them for part of the day. The homemade splints were adequate as a temporary replacement for the nighttime bivalves, he said, but encouraged my mother to petition the Crippled Children Fund for new ones. He said he was hopeful that in the near future, I might not need braces or splints any longer.

— retaliation —

When my father learned of the kidnapping he flipped out. He immediately went to “work,” contacting the local and state police. Both refused to help since it was a civil matter. Then he contacted the FBI, who also refused assistance.

The general police attitude is “she’s with her mother, what harm can be done?? When I tell them of the medical problem and the past history they act as if I am merely a crazy jealous husband out for revenge.

— David X Young, Track Record of Events April 1970 to Jan. 25, 1971

My father wouldn’t, couldn’t, let it go. He was determined to convince someone in a position of authority to do something, so he went to the press with his version of events: the sadomasochistic, drug-addled, neglectful mother who stole their fragile, severely handicapped toddler and intended to harm her. He provided glamorous images of my mother from her modeling days, ominous images of Joe, and pitiful images of me in traction. Then he posed for pictures holding the bivalve splints that were left behind with a despondent look on his face. The press ate it up. Several articles were published portraying my mother as a villainous, abusive woman who was endangering my life.

Despite the press, my father still couldn’t get action from the police. He wrote to Massachusetts Senator, Ted Kennedy, to pressure the FBI on his behalf. Even though he’d been told the case wasn’t federal on multiple occasions, after months of hounding the Bureau and stating how I was a vulnerable, severely handicapped child whose life was in danger, the FBI agreed to request notification from the U.S. Passport Office if my mother applied for a passport. No action beyond that. Months passed; my father’s paranoia increased.

The day my mother took me, Christine told my father that one of her friends was in the car with me and my mother must have “overpowered her.” Days later, she admitted that I was in the car alone. My father was livid. He considered Christine’s negligence a form of betrayal and blamed her “carelessness” for my capture.

On September 29, 1970, Christine was discovered lying on the side of the road with multiple injuries including a crushed pelvis and to the emergency room. She had been walking across a parking lot when she was hit by a car. The driver fled the scene. 

1970: That night Christine was struck down… behind the Land Ho,… the doctors said about 30-35 miles an hour. Her pocketbook and glasses were 22 feet in one direction, her scarf with a broken antenna 16 feet in the other direction. A large puddle of blood where she lay. Sergeant Donald Walsh of the Orleans police said to me “this sort of thing has got to stop”. I rushed to Cape Cod Hospital. All her teeth had been knocked out, her face very scarred, the back of her head split one, and her hip and upper thigh bone shattered.

— David X Young, History: 1963-1973, Jan. 25, 1973

My father told the police that Christine’s accident was “most definitely” caused by mobster Frank Richards acting on behalf of my mother, although he had no “proof.” The police couldn’t explain why Christine was out by herself at that time of night, but they quickly poked holes in my father’s outlandish story. There was no evidence that Richards involved in anything illegal. Besides, why would the mafia execute a hit out in the open in a small, close-knit town, on an elderly woman of little consequence? If they did do it, why would it be ordered by the lawyer who was representing my mother, a fugitive pursued by the FBI? The police couldn’t see how killing Christine would benefit my mother’s custody case. “Wouldn’t you be a more likely target?” they asked my father, who had an answer to all of their questions. Christine must have uncovered some evidence of Richards’ drug dealing and that’s why the “hit” was ordered, he asserted. Where the evidence of these crimes was and how any of this was connected to my mother wasn’t part of his explanation. None of it made any sense. Several witnesses were interviewed and potential suspects identified, but there was insufficient evidence to close the case. It was never solved. 

Christine’s relatives and many others in the area, believed my father had arranged the hit. His rages, abusive language, and deep resentment towards Christine was well known. He blamed her vocally for my kidnapping, even calling her a “cunt” in front of several people. The common belief was that my father accused Richards to deflect attention away from himself.

1970: The police only made a cursory investigation, stating it could not be termed hit and run because Christine could not “remember the moment of impact”. We were never able to get insurance. It is an angled parking lot where she was struck. The only place from which to get up that kind of speed is in the Main St. entrance to the lot, which is directly opposite Richards’ office. Several people… told me that it was Richards who did it. But I have no proof.

— David X Young, History: 1963-1973, Jan. 25, 1973

— short-lived happiness —

Meanwhile in New Mexico, I was happy. I have fond memories of when my mother would go to Santa Fé to draw portraits in the plaza. She’d carry me through a market and I’d see beautiful turquoise and silver jewelry spread out on blankets for sale. The silver sparkled as the sun reflected off them. It hurt my eyes to look, but they were so beautiful. 

While in Los Cerillos I made a friend — a little mulatto boy named Bood who lived next door. We were about the same age and spent numerous days playing together. I remember one day we were both sitting on a big pile of dirt making mud pies. His skin was chocolate brown from the sun, but when he smiled his teeth were a flash of bright white. It was a blissful time.

All summer we ate [healthy] and lived rather primitively but comfortable and HAPPY. O god we were so happy there. When I wasn’t doing portraits I was hauling Eliza around in her little red wagon. She eventually stopped wearing her braces all together. She still wore the night splints though… She was getting stronger all the time… One day in October she got up and started running and didn’t stop all day.

— Katherine Merrick, Letter to Dr. Glaser, Dec.1970

Four months passed. In November 1970, my mother applied for a passport which alerted the FBI. The two detectives flew to Santa Fé. My mother, who was working cleaning rooms at a local ski resort,  took a break to check her mail and was arrested.

The FBI detectives were brusque, but the local police officer, a handsome Latino man who took my mother to jail, was very nice. Alice had already left New Mexico for college by then, but Joe was at the house babysitting me when he was also arrested. Joe was brought to a separate cell in the same Santa Fé jail with my mother, while I was placed in a welfare home.

My mother was despondent to learn where I was. The local police working at the jail were sympathetic and assured her that I was with a large Latino family in a nice home. I remember there were so many kids around which was I thought was great fun. I wonder if that was when my love of Latin culture first developed…

My mother and Joe stayed in jail for six days. The Santa Fé jail was rustic with no frills. Each cell had a mattress without sheets and a toilet without a seat. My mother was vegetarian at the time and recounted how the first meal was spaghetti with meat sauce. She tried to clean the noodles off before she ate them, but it took so long that after only a few bites, the guards were back to take her food away. Another day, she was moved to a temporary cell while they cleaned. When she walked past a group of scraggly men, one of them yelled out with a thick Spanish accent “Wet you in fer?” “Kidnapping,” my mother answered. The man then said “I dun kilt a man.”

The FBI contacted my father who flew out to New Mexico. My mother described to me how she looked out the small window in her cell and saw my father in the courtyard outside. Panic rose up when she realized that he’d have access to me again, but there wasn’t anything she could do. My father wanted to take me right away, but the detectives wouldn’t allow it. Instead, they escorting everyone: my father, mother, Uncle Joe, and I, back to Boston.

Eliza has a frightening look on her face, is very pale, limping badly, with a protruding stomach, dressed in pants and a shirt. She first said “I got a new Daddy named Joe” and refuses to kiss me. I mention [Christine] and she “never wants to see her because she is bad.” She cries and rejects me. “I am a boy now.”

— David X Young, Track Record of Events April 1970 to Jan. 25, 1971

When we arrived, it was late at night and raining hard. During the entire flight, my mother held me close. Once the plane landed, she was told to hand me over to my father. It was heart-wrenching to give me to a man she knew was abusive, but she had no choice. My father took me with him while my mother and Joe were transferred to the Barnstable County Jail to await arraignment. 

The Barnstable Jail was like a luxurious hotel compared to the Santa Fé. There were sheets on the bed, magazines to read, and even a television set. My mother shared the cell with a woman who had been arrested for check fraud. She recalled how they watched The Beatles’ movie, A Hard Day’s Night, on television together.

After a week in jail, my mother was still wearing the same dirty clothes from when she’d been arrested. For her day in court, she was lent a change of clothes which were several sizes too big. She was grateful to be clean. Her sisters, Alice and Chrissy, and even my father’s cousins, the Quinns, came to support her. It’s very telling that my father’s flesh and blood chose not to support him.

The judge ruled that there was probable cause for kidnapping in my mother’s case, but dismissed the charges for Joe. A hearing was set for February. My mother was released from custody on $1000 bail. The Quinns offered to let her and her sisters stay with them. Joe returned to New Mexico. My mother never saw him again.

As soon as she was freed from jail, my mother went to visit me. While she’d been locked up, my father had disappeared with me again. She went to the authorities to report it, but just like the first time, she was told that there wasn’t anything legally that they could do. It would take more than ten years before laws were passed to protect children from being stolen by a parent.

On Sunday, 28 December, 1980, President Jimmy Carter signed into law the Parental Kidnaping Act of 1980, … states will be required to give full faith and credit to other state’s custody orders; and Federal Unlawful Flight to Avoid Prosecution Warrants (UFAPs) could be issued based on requests by states which have felony provisions for child-snatching.

— A Publication of Children’s Rights newsletter, Our Greatest Resource Our Children, Fall 1980

v

cold grey wood licks my eyes
to the pulse that steadies me
rigid brick stares me down
my purple wooded hole.

let me clutch your hand
and i shall lead you to my origins
of glowing rods and icy nails
that shatter in cellophane stars