Starved as adopted boy, secluded now as adult

With much fanfare, New Jersey officials in 2005 announced the state would pay $5 million to Bruce Jackson for the years of neglect he endured in a Collingswood home filled with adopted and foster children.

But the landmark case is now also distinguished for the extraordinary secrecy that extends to almost every aspect of Jackson's life.

An unusual order to seal his court records has placed the 25-year-old in such a protective cocoon that almost nothing can be known about his care under state guardianship, monitored by the same department that failed him in the first place.

A wealthy man by most standards, Jackson has spent the last five years in a rural group home, supported by Medicaid and Social Security. Aside from dental work and some video games, there is no evidence that his fortune, swelled by good investments, has granted him any extra privileges or comfort.

Jackson's court-appointed lawyers argue that the veil of privacy is warranted because he has been declared incapable of caring for himself and because of the notoriety of his case. His starvation by his adoptive mother, Vanessa Jackson, who went to jail for four years, was a national scandal.

In April, an Inquirer report revealed that Jackson's three younger brothers, ages 16 to 20, had been unable to see him in four years.

They are grateful to Jackson and call him "our hero" for freeing them from the abusive household into which they'd separately been adopted.

After that story was published, an advocacy group stepped in.

The intervention appears to be the first time since Jackson's records were sealed in December 2003 that an independent watchdog has looked into his care.

Disability Rights New Jersey, a federally funded nonprofit charged with investigating abuse and neglect complaints, reviewed caseworkers' records on Jackson and interviewed Department of Human Services professional staff to see if he is receiving adequate services.

Executive director Joe Young said the review, which did not include a visit with Jackson, had found no red flags. But bound by privacy restrictions, Young could say little about Jackson's care.

Educational and vocational goals are "part of his long-term plan," said Young, who could not say whether Jackson is getting tutoring or job training to help move him toward more independence.

Young also could not say why Jackson had not seen his brothers, who were adopted by James and Amber Parrish of Millville, Cumberland County, after the abuse was discovered.

The brothers, too, are mystified.

"They didn't let him come to Tre'Shawn's graduation" from high school last year, Terrell Parrish, 16, said in an interview in March after he complained of being cut off during a telephone call with Jackson. "They got him guarded like the president."

With its focus on care, Disability Rights will not look into Jackson's trust fund expenditures or an unusual will researched on his behalf.

Several advocates for the disabled said they were deeply troubled by the lack of transparency, even in the absence of allegations of mistreatment. Some argue that court records of those under guardianships should be open, especially in a case, such as Jackson's, where family cannot check in on their well-being. If necessary, medical information can be redacted.

"People who are declared incapacitated are deprived of their basic rights," said Robert F. Ruehl, a Doylestown lawyer who has had clients with guardians. Their court records should be open "because if you see something amiss, something can be done."

David Kairys, a Temple University constitutional law expert, said the question of whether the state was providing "all the services that this young man needs and deserves doesn't seem to be a legitimate area of privacy."

And lawyer David Ferleger, who fought to shutter the notorious Pennhurst State School and Hospital in Chester County and place its mentally retarded residents in the "least restrictive" settings, said Jackson's case merited "an extra level of accountability by having the reports made public."

Michael Critchley, a prominent North Jersey lawyer who reached the settlement for Jackson vigorously protects his client's privacy. He has allowed him only one public moment, in 2006 when Jackson spoke at his mother's sentencing.

"There are many scars, emotional and psychological, that have to be dealt with," Critchley said.

Vanessa Jackson was sentenced to seven years in state prison and was released early for good behavior in February. Her husband, Raymond, died after he was charged.

Jackson lives in a split-level home for the developmentally disabled on a country road in Gloucester County, three miles from the nearest town.

It's large for a group home, with five bedrooms and up to 10 residents, records show.

A parking lot consumes the back, leaving no outdoor recreation area. Neighbors in a small cluster of homes across the street say vans come and go; they rarely see the residents outside.

Jackson was placed there not long after the 19-year-old, weighing 45 pounds, was found rummaging in a neighbor's garbage in October 2003.

That December, then-Superior Court Judge M. Allan Vogelson sealed the "entire record" to protect Jackson "from as much publicity and notoriety as I could . . . until things got sorted out," Vogelson said recently.

The courts declared Jackson incompetent and named the state Bureau of Guardianship Services his guardian.

The bureau falls under the Department of Human Services, which was sued, along with its Division of Youth and Family Services, on allegations that it failed to monitor the Jackson household. DYFS no longer is part of the department.

DHS is now run by Jennifer Velez, a former child advocate who investigated the Jackson case. She declined to be interviewed and said in a statement that DHS "takes seriously its obligation to protect the privacy and confidentiality" of clients.

To safeguard the most vulnerable, New Jersey generally requires private guardians to file annual reports with the county Surrogate's Office, a court similar to Orphans Court in Pennsylvania.

But the Bureau of Guardian Services is exempt from the filing requirement set up to catch irregularities. Instead, it has its own reporting system within DHS.

What is public are DHS inspection reports of Jackson's home and two adjacent ones run by AdvoServ of New Jersey with shared staff.

The reports show some deficiencies in recent years, including "failure to correct patterns of medication errors," months-long delays in psychiatric consultations, failure to follow up on behavior-modification plans, and poor record-keeping of residents' pocket money.

Bob Bacon, chief program officer with AdvoServ, said the company took such matters "very seriously" and developed "action plans to correct" any citations. He said most were documentation problems, a "very small percentage" of operations.

Bacon also said family visits were allowed if the care team believed they were in the client's best interest.

William Tambussi, the court-appointed lawyer who oversees Jackson's trust fund, said that he had visited Jackson and that the care was good.

He's "doing well," said Tambussi, who is also lawyer to politically influential businessman George Norcross III and the Camden County Democratic Committee. Tambussi said Jackson "is in a setting comfortable and conducive to him" and "does things that occupy the day."

Critchley said Jackson "is doing OK . . . but it doesn't mean in a clinical sense he's doing really well."

"There are certain facts you would have to know to understand Bruce's situation . . . and it's confidential."

Jackson may be a rich man in name only. His millions remain in a special-needs trust - which Tambussi said had been barely touched.

His group-home costs - typically about $160,000 a year in New Jersey for the developmentally disabled - are paid with public money. The disabled may receive benefits if trustees completely control their funds.

Jackson's lawyers, Critchley and Tambussi, work pro bono. And investment decisions by his trust-fund manager, now Wells Fargo, helped his settlement grow by $677,000 as of March, Tambussi said.

"We're not in a race to spend $5 million," said the Westmont lawyer. Jackson might one day need to pay for "extraordinary and special needs. . . . He went through an incredible ordeal and is still suffering from it."

Paul Prior, a New Jersey lawyer who represents the developmentally disabled and was a federal monitor at state-run institutions, said Jackson should enjoy his good fortune.

"I'd hope the trustee and his guardian would access the trust as frequently as possible to enhance the quality of his life. I would hope it does not just sit in a fund and accrue interest," he said.

Jackson's financial reports, like his care reports, are closed.

Tambussi said that besides money spent to replace Jackson's rotted teeth and the video gaming system, Jackson had "pocket money" and shopped for things "that adorn his room." He said Jackson was content with recreational activities paid for by the state.

"Bruce is cognizant of what's out in the world," Tambussi said. "But he hasn't asked" for a big trip or big purchases.

The lawyers would not say whether Jackson gets private tutoring or any services that his trust could afford to fund if the state does not.

Nor would they say whether Jackson would benefit from a computer or his own house. They also would not explain why he hasn't seen his brothers.

What's planned for Jackson's money when he dies is another unknown. It's an issue that his lawyers have wrestled with.

Under Medicaid rules, the benefits he has received must be reimbursed. Any remaining money is supposed to go to family, or to the state if there is no family.

But Critchley asked attorneys to explore the possibility of getting around those rules by creating a will.

Details emerged in a 2005 legal bill, from the North Jersey law firm Mantell & Prince, to research whether the court could "relax" aspects of the law and allow a will and the designation of a "charitable institution" as the beneficiary after Medicaid.

Gary Prince Jr. said the intent was to prevent Jackson's adoptive mother and her family from inheriting.

"The concern was that the very money he got as settlement, God forbid, would go back to them," Prince said.

Jackson's trust paid $28,000 to the firm for work on his trust and will.

Critchley would not say what charity was being considered. "If and when it's appropriate to talk about [the will], I will," he said.

Tambussi was also firm. "Why should Bruce show you his will? Really, because he had some level of notoriety, it doesn't mean he gave up all privacy rights."

The lawyers would not discuss whether a will would bar Jackson's brothers, who received their own settlements, from inheriting.

But whether they fit the definition of "family" is a gray area. As foster children adopted by the Jackson family, they are not related by blood. And their legal ties to Jackson may have changed after their adoption by new parents.

Jackson's last visit with his brothers - he watched them play football - ended abruptly in October 2006, when his caregivers said he couldn't go out with them for pizza.

Getting through to Jackson is difficult, the Parrishes say. He sometimes calls and the boys chat about music, girls, and video games, but his number is usually blocked and they can't call back. They don't know where he lives and don't know who his lawyers are.

A few months ago, James Parrish said, he was able to get a caregiver on the phone and asked for a post office box where he could send pictures of the brothers. He said the caretakers had told him no.

The boys "just want to be with him . . . to play kickball, basketball" and to see how he is doing, Amber Parrish said. She said they worried about how he was doing.

Plans for a reunion may finally be in the works.

Critchley said last month that discussions were under way - "hopefully in the near future."

The decision, he said, rests with Jackson's care team.

To watch a video of Bruce Jackson speaking at the sentencing hearing of Vanessa Jackson, go to www.philly.com/seeBruce

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