Thomas MacMillan Photo
“Do you love Isaiah? Do you still want to be his father?” Magistrate Linda T. Wihbey asked.
“Yes,” replied Victor Gonzalez, seven weeks sober.
“Then step up,” the judge ordered.
The exchange, between a judge and a dad behind in his child-support payments, transpired in a third-floor hearing room at the New Haven Judicial District Courthouse on Church Street.
Next door, in courtroom 3A, Judge David Dee was working his way efficiently through a full docket of dads, ordering them in no uncertain terms to make required payments to the mother of their children or end up in jail.
In Wihbey’s cozy hearing room it was a different story. Gonzalez sat in front of a bowl of candy and a box of donuts while Wihbey told him she likes his smile. She then moved on to a discussion of what supports he needs to help him find work and start taking more responsibility for his son Isaiah. Several social service representatives were on hand to offer guidance. And there was no mention of Gonzalez paying child support. He’s just not at that point yet, Wihbey said later.
Gonzalez (pictured at the top of the story) is one of dozens of parents — 90 percent dads — participating in the “Problem Solving Initiative,” a New Haven family court pilot program that works with parents who are behind in their child support payments. The program is designed to address the underlying causes of missed payments, rather than simply punishing scofflaw dads with jail time. Participants are connected with social service agencies and monitored closely to make sure they’re making progress towards goals like steady employment, addiction treatment, and permanent housing.
“It’s therapeutic justice. It’s restorative justice. It’s problem solving,” said Wihbey, who runs the weekly Wednesday hearings.
A little over a year into the program, the initiative boasts some impressive numbers. It has taken on over 150 cases and has a 91 percent appearance rate and a 88.5 percent compliance rate. Total child-support collections per case went up 76 percent over the last 15 months. It’s the only program like it in the state.
Each Wednesday, Wihbey and her staff tackle a series of pre-scheuduled half-hour appointments with parents in the program. That’s different from regular child-support court, where parents are ordered to show up in the morning and might be waiting all day for their turn in front of the judge.
A Banana Bread Rapport
This Wednesday, before her 10 a.m. appointment arrived, Wihbey took some time to explain how the initiative works.
Although bookshelves full of law books lined the wall behind her and a court reporter sat in one corner, the rest of the crowded room looked like it could belong to a social worker. On the walls were posters of dads tenderly holding babies. One said “Be there. Be a dad.” On Wihbey’s desk, next to some purple hydrangeas in a cut-glass vase, was a plaque that read, “Obstacles are what you see when you take your eyes off your goal.”
On a conference table perpendicular to Wihbey’s desk, a bowl of little Jet chocolate bars sat within reach of seat reserved for the “obligor” — the parent who’s behind in his or her payments. Nearby was a box of donuts and a box of muffins. Wihbey said her clerk had talked her out of baking banana bread the night before.
The obligor’s seat was just a few feet from Wihbey’s place behind her desk. It’s all designed to foster a strong connection, Wihbey explained.
“This is how close we are,” she said. It contrasted sharply with the courtroom next door, where Judge Dee sat up on a bench, with two tables and 25 feet between him and the obligor. “I can tell if someone is high,” Wihbey said. “We can build that rapport.”
As for the chocolate, that’s for times when someone comes in angry and yelling. Sometimes a piece of candy is all it takes to change the mood in the room, Wihbey said.
The parents in the program are all in default on child-support and at risk of incarceration. To participate, at least two of several factors need to be present: a criminal record, lack of GED or high school diploma, lack of a work history, or a “personal barrier” like a mental health problem, addiction, or homelessness. Participants must also be willing to join the program.
From there, Wihbey meets with parents as often as every week. Each session involves an update on progress towards goals like addiction treatment or finding employment or housing. Wihbey then gives participants a few very clear orders, like apply for 25 jobs, or finalize your resume.
“My favorite order is to say, ‘Go get your GED,’” Wihbey said.
“This [program] is a recognition that one-size doesn’t fit all,” Wihbey said. If a father has problems in his life that are keeping him from getting it together to make payments, sending him to jail is not going to address those problems, she explained.
However, failure to comply with the alternative program means participants could get kicked back to the traditional courtroom, where they might face jail time.
Wihbey happily recounted success stories from the program, like the guy who kicked his heroin habit and came in cheerful and filthy from a new $22-an-hour construction job. She didn’t offer even a pretense of professional distance from program participants. “They’re all my favorites,” she said.
A Full Plate
Gonzalez, one of those favorites, arrivedfor his 11 a.m. appointment. A small man in a red and black polo shirt, he took a seat at the table. A horseshoe-shaped scar was visible in the back of his head, evidence of surgery years ago for a brain aneurysm.
In a soft alto voice, Gonzalez told the judge he’d been to a treatment program and was seven weeks clean from his abuse of “benzos.”
The ten people in the room erupted into applause.
“I’m very proud of you,” said Wihbey. “So this is how you want to live your life?”
“Yeah,” Gonzalez said. He said he’s also due to “get bottles soon” for his methadone treatment. That means he can take the drug home with him, rather than having to show up at the clinic every day for his dose. It’s a sign of trust and progress.
Then, the bad news: Gonzalez application for social security disability was denied. He said he can’t work because of headaches, stemming from his surgery.
After some probing questions from Wihbey, Gonzalez agreed that he could try working part time. But he also has 100 hours of community service he needs to do, a result of a prescription fraud conviction.
“You’ve got a lot on your plate,” Wihbey said.
The conversation then turned to Gonzalez’s 6‑year-old son, Isaiah. He lives with his mom, who’s still legally married to Gonzalez. Isaiah has a heart condition, which led to a pacemaker implanted when he was two months old, Gonzalez explained later. He needs frequent medical attention, and his mom has not been cooperative with the Department of Children and Families (DCF), said Marissa Bigelli, a lawyer representing the child.
“Why aren’t you trying to provide for Isaiah?” Wihbey asked. Even if he can’t write checks, Gonzalez could help out by, for example, taking Isaiah to doctor’s appointments, she said.
Isaiah’s mom has been telling him he’s not his dad, Gonzalez said. There hasn’t, however, been a paternity test, he said.
“Then you’re still the dad,” Wihbey said. “Isaiah needs help right now. … You can become more involved.”
Isaiah’s guardian ad litum suggested Gonzalez should file for custody, now that he’s clean and sober and the mother is “giving DCF a hard time.”
Wihbey told Gonzalez he should talk about fatherhood with Bruce Trammell, a representative of the New Haven Family Alliance (NHFA) who was seated at the end of the table.
“We can help him in the guiding process,” Trammell said.
“It’s not about you and your wife, it’s about you and your child,” Wihbey said. She left Gonzalez with three orders: Stay sober, do your community service hours, and meet with Trammell about NHFA’s fatherhood program. She set another hearing for June 22.
Wihbey presented Gonzalez with a foam “Key to your success,” in recognition of his progress.
“Consider stepping up for Isaiah,” she concluded. “Consider it.”
“OK,” Gonzalez said, feeling daunted about the prospect of taking custody of his child, he later explained.
“It’s kind of challenging and scary at the same time,” he said moments later, seated in the hallway outside the hearing room. “Everything’s coming up on me all at once.”
He said he’s only seen Isaiah four or five times in his life.
Gonzalez, who’s 43, grew up in the Bronx. He was addicted to heroin until 13 years ago. After his mother died, he ended up in Connecticut. He worked as a machine operator for six years at the New Haven Register, but hasn’t held a job since. He’s been struggling with his benzo addiction and now lives with his older sister and her son on State Street.
Now that he’s off drugs, he’s seeing more clearly and he’s grateful for the child-support program, Gonzalez said.
“They have a lot of tools, a lot of people willing to help me,” Gonzalez said.
“I need to step up, like she said.”
“The key to your success.”