Justice for Jayde

I hadn’t thought about Jayde in years.

The toddler was dead when her mother carried her blanket-wrapped body into the Alpena hospital emergency department. She’d been in and out of consciousness on the couch for days, her skin patchworked with bruises and her brain swollen from trauma. 

Don’t call for an ambulance, her mother’s boyfriend demanded. She’s fine. We’re fine. Everything is normal. We don’t need help.

But the girl died, and the adults who caused her death now sit in prison, he with a 55 to 90 year sentence for second-degree murder and first-degree child abuse, she serving 15 to 40 years for letting it happen.

I listened to the police scanner in the newsroom the night police closed in on Aaron Trout, wanted and considered dangerous after his girlfriend brought little Jayde’s body to the hospital and sent the ER into lockdown mode. I reported on the court case that ensued, and on Trout’s attempts to regain custody of his own children from jail while facing murder charges in Jayde’s death. I read Jayde’s horrific autopsy report, struggling to find words to describe the marks where the toddler had been duct taped to a potty chair or left to sleep on a cold porch with her hands tied behind her back ― words to explain the dented bone where her head impacted the wall as Trout swung her by her ankles in a rage.

I visited the backwoods house where Jayde died and interviewed residents in the nearby quiet-looking town who agreed nothing bad happened there … except when it did. I reported on the mother’s inability to leave her controlling boyfriend, even to report her own daughter’s abuse.

After one court hearing, I spoke to Jayde’s father, from the Detroit area, who wore a t-shirt emblazoned with “Justice for Jayde” and smiling photos of his daughter. “This is just what we do downstate,” he shrugged when I asked about the shirt.

For most of my life, I’d lived in places that didn’t need “Justice for …” shirts and signs. People in my safe, small towns didn’t get violently killed. Other acts of violence stayed behind closed doors, where people like me didn’t have to think about them.

Since Jayde's death, I’ve seen the"Justice" phrase used frequently. Justice for Brynn. Justice for Dee. Absolutely, I think. Let’s get the creeps who did these horrible things. Let’s give them what they deserve, or at least as close to it as the law allows.

But is that really justice?

Maybe. But maybe justice goes beyond catching the bad guy and focuses on stopping the next bad act.

Jayde came to mind today as I typed up a story for The Brooklyn Exponent about a Michigan Court of Appeals decision in a Lenawee County case. A mother and father had appealed a local court’s decision to take away their parental rights because of ongoing domestic violence, drug abuse, and undertreated mental health issues in the home.

A year of attempts at reunification didn’t lead to change in the parents’ behavior, so the court said they can’t be parents anymore. Their daughter is now flourishing with her foster family.

The mother in that case reported fearing for her daughter’s safety if they stayed with the father, who hit when he was angry. They stayed anyway.

Had a family member not stepped in to report what she saw in the home, the child might still be witnessing abuse. Or experiencing abuse. Or worse, I thought as I typed my story, thinking of the limp arm dangling from a blanket at an Alpena hospital.

Such stories fill me with sadness and with rage. Most of all, they make me feel helpless. I don’t know how to help the next Jayde, hidden away in a home I’ll never see. I don’t know how to help the mom who knows her home is unsafe but doesn’t know how to leave it. I want someone ― some Children’s Protective Services worker, some police agency, some lawmaker ― to find a fix and find it now because the problem is so much bigger than we see. One headline about one abused child in one dysfunctional home represents a hundred children, a hundred homes where the hurt hides behind pulled shades.

I can’t live like that, growing ever more numb to sad stories because I feel powerless to play a role in them. But what’s one nondescript, non-superhero person to do?

Notice, that’s what.

Notice the kid who acts out and gets aggressive with her playmates, who talks less than she used to or seems sad or reluctant to go home. The kid who might be watching adults abuse one another at home. Who might endure weekly visits with her biological parents who act like they don’t want her.

Notice the woman who cancels plans and avoids messages, who seems to be in constant contact with her significant other. The one who apologies frequently and seems more anxious than usual. The one who might be in an abusive relationship she doesn’t know how to escape.

And then what?

I don’t know. I don’t know how to solve the Big Problems any more than anyone else.

But I do know that it takes all of us. If we all saw that Jayde’s mom needed help, maybe she would have gotten it. If we all see that the bratty preschooler might be more than just the class problem, maybe we’ll surround him with the adult support and connection he needs to counteract the troubles he shouldn’t have to deal with at home.

Maybe if we remember that the developmentally delayed child may have witnessed her father hitting her mother, we can give her an extra smile, an extra layer of patience and encouragement. Maybe if we are conscious that many homes don’t offer the support ours does, we can build up our own sons and daughters to be advocates for the battle-scarred student the next desk over.

Maybe if we see, and take the small steps that are within our power, fewer hurt kids will grow up to hurt their own kids.

We can’t save Jayde. But we aren’t helpless to help the hurting right in our own circle, our own neighborhood, our own family. Horrible headlines don’t need to make us cringe and close our eyes. They can prod us to action.

Go help a kid. 

You could be saving a life.

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If you believe a child is in immediate danger, call 911.

If you think a child is being abused or neglected — or if you are a child being mistreated — call or text 800-422-4453 right away. This is the ChildHelp National Child Abuse Hotline, available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. They can tell you how to make a report. Find more information about identifying and addressing child abuse at childhelphotline.org.

For information about how you can help counteract traumatic childhood experiences, visit apaf.org/our-programs/justice/free-resources/what-are-pce-s.

To learn about supporting someone you suspect may be impacted by domestic violence, visit thehotline.org.

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The photo with this post depicts Jayde's dad holding a picture of his daughter. I took the photo, but it's the property of The Alpena News. I'm using it with their permission. (Thanks, Steve.)