Mommy’s Memoirs, First Baby Step Brainstorm

The One Night Stand, but Three or Four Nights,
that Never Ended:

Legally Kidnapped,Unlawfully,
Three and Half Years Without my Son, and Life to Go;


Mommy’s Memoirs

Dedicated to my Son,

the Best Thing I Ever Had




Houston, Texas

River Oaks Area

March or April 2006—

The Day I Met the _ _ _ _ _, and My Then Company Gave me the Same “Choice,” Abortion

On a beautiful, sunny Sunday afternoon in the uber exclusive River Oaks section of Houston, Texas, I was walking to my car when one of the most handsome men I had ever seen cruised by in his then (leased) convertible black sports Mercedes Benz with the top down. He had on his trendy blue tooth ear piece or headset, a visor, sunglasses, and cut jawline to die for that perfected his profile. I was so surprised at actually being attracted to someone again, even if upon first sight, that I remarked out loud, hoping he would hear me, “Nice car!” (as this tends to flatter men). However, to this day he will argue that he did not hear me and made the first move on me, he immediately put his car in reverse, parked the car in the middle of the tree-lined secluded, established old-moneyed neighborhood, and walked right over to me in all his boldness and chic style.

He introduced himself, noticed my then company’s appointment/marketing and vendor partner/agent folders in my car, being himself in the IT industry and also a salesman, and asked me out to dinner for that same evening under the guise he wanted to accept my offer and be referral partners. Up close, he was confirmed handsome—tall, deeply tanned, well-muscled, lean, but not too lean, chiseled, and had dark hair. I think he was wearing a jersey of some sort and was very well-groomed. He said he was in the neighborhood driving around to look for real estate, but that his real estate agent had cancelled on him that day (Matt’s brother, Brian Worrell, is a real estate agent/broker who owns his own firm and lives in League City, Texas near Galveston Bay).  One might say that he had been cruising the spaceburbs for chicks.

Because he—Matthew James Worrell, a.k.a., Matt, was to become my only son’s, my only child’s father, I put the flowing peach and pastel floral, flirty chiffon summer blouse I was wearing that day away in a hat box as a memento (mori), my memory box, for my son, or maybe just for myself.

I told Matt I needed time to get ready and had him drop me off to get my car detailed after he waited a couple hours, allegedly at a friend’s house in the area near where I lived at the time on Memorial Drive in Houston, right around the corner from River Oaks, while I excitedly got ready for the first date I had had in ages, meaning a real date where someone asked me to go somewhere in particular with a real goal and actual destination—in this case a restaurant for the purpose of actually eating—in mind. Matt came back and picked me up at my apartment, where I still wasn’t ready and kept changing my wardrobe until I finally decided on a summery chiffon dress, though I am not sure if it was the peach or the black one, that I had picked-up living in Las Vegas.

As if to show his contrary and persistent nature from the start, though Author, at that time, was in no position to “throw stones at glass houses,” and she did not, nor did she even mind at the time, he disregarded that Author said the only kind of food she did not like was Mexican cuisine, proceeding then directly to a Mexican restaurant he already had in mind where we ate on the balcony on what had become a blindingly sunny, humid, heat and fly infested day amongst the nauseating fragrance of refried beans. The name of the restaurant may have been Milagro or Taco Milagro, a very trendy, upscale Mexican restaurant where the young and chic, once termed “yuppies” hang or hung out and feasted on exotic, high-priced margaritas (Author loathes the taste of salt as well as tequila). Still, Author liked her new found conquest, or date, and we mutually decided to go dancing later that night.

For the club, I decided on a wardrobe change that was little number with a black lace top that showed off my then petite figure, and other assets and dark Texas tan. The valet at the club, aptly titled Escobar or Club ESCOBAR, definitely knew Matt, and indeed he greeted him on a first name basis. To his credit, Matt always appeared, and was even touted by one waitress at a bowling alley on another occasion as a fabulous tipper. This other appointment with him at the bowling alley, was a ruse to try to convince me to go adoption, since the abortion coercion had failed, much to his dismay and, sadly, horror. It was a quirky, and, admittedly, cute surprise for me, a two or three months with child at the time, to find out that this man, my son’s father, bowled on a team league—he is uber competitive (and quite the social networker for business purposes) who, according to his father and step-mother at their home in Jersey Village, a suburb of Northwest Houston, in December of 2011 just before Christmas, to which we of course had never been invited before by them, always has to win at all costs, even as a child, and does, they bragged.

This confession about one of their four sons was made directly to me during a listening session of which I was unaware that had been arranged, again, behind my back to legally abuse me even more. Matt disappeared after we made the first round, that is, the first walk, around the club upon entering, which was to become a habit for him, and also in other dark venues of which author was unaware regarding their nature, and still is in the dark about what really goes on in these circles, or, rings, on knowledge and belief.

When I found him, he was engaged in conversation with a young blonde girl who appeared to be a club regular. He was still drinking “bodka,” as my later two year-old son would later call it, referring to “Daddy’s” drink of choice at “Grandma Diane’s” house (paternal, infant-snatching, kidnapping, child-secreting, unusually close to her son, though she has three others, son, grandmother).

Matt took me to a club where everyone appeared to know and worship him, both girls dancing on booths, and men with spiky gelled hair and metro-sexual chic attire who appeared overly stimulated, to be kind. Matt made a dash for the bar for vodka, as if he had been white-knuckling it in the short time between dinner and the drive there with a detour to pick up my car that I had to have detailed on my only day off (as I lived in it throughout most of the work day in my former life as an outside/inside business-to-business sales professional I the telecommunications/IT industry).

Terminated, or, Black-Balled

August 28, 2006—

I was terminated without cause from my lucrative and promising career as a recently promoted senior sales executive at a telecommunications/IT company where I had just been promoted two consecutive months in-a-row from sales associate to sales executive, to senior sales executive, one day after reporting four months of documentation of blatant, engineered pregnancy discrimination to the Equal Opportunity Employment Office via telephone, and seeking legal counsel at the prestigious labor law firm. My former company settled out-of-court (over the telephone) in record time, even for that exclusive Galleria area labor law firm who had set the expectation it may take years for reparation, the proceeds of which I received in October 2006. I was over six (6) months pregnant and had gained about fifty pounds from my previous figure of 5’4” and 115/117 pounds.

Through forced voice mail messages, I had been keeping Matt abreast of what was happening to me at my company and how I was in danger of losing my car and apartment while being pregnant with his child. I further communicated, truthfully, that I was not seeking money from him, but rather friendship and (emotional) support as I was alone since I had been wrongfully terminated at a company where work had been my life. Matt was in the same line of work, then for Sun MicroSystems while acting as a very high paid, commissioned independent contractor for many well-known computer/IT and telecommunications companies, among them which included his former employer, Hewlett-Packard (while Mr. Sun was being indicted) though at the enterprise level. In retrospect, I must have expected compassion, kindness, and some degree of intimacy between two people who were attracted to one another, had common interests and worked in similar industries in similar roles in the same city, who were not too far apart in age—he is four years older—who made a life together, but that just was not available, nor could it have been given his nature and what Author now believes to be his grooming and (criminal and sexually deviant) history.

Matt did claim, however, although his history is a long one of compulsive lying, that he allegedly had another girl pregnant (but who had no business being a mother because of the lifestyle that she, and he lived) at the time and that they had a better shot at a relationship. He told me he was moving out-of-state and to “have fun with your [my] ‘alien baby.’” Clearly, this Machiavellian master, self-professed lover of psychological games who ominously threatened me that “if the doctors can’t figure me out, neither can you [me],” underestimated this real mommy’s nature and how to motivate one who just might have scared him at the thought of finally meeting his match, though a match with a soul, heart, and an actually honest orientation, a real (wo)man. From that moment on, I vowed to raise the brighter, healthier, happier, stronger, more adorable little boy than Matthew James Worrell, with any other real, imagined, alleged, or artfully, strategically contrived woman with her own baggage and golden handcuffs by another man could possibly conceive, alternatively, conjure in the form of a ready-made family complete with her husband’s two or three thousand dollar a month child support and health, dental, and life insurance, and marital home. Baby, I delivered! All glory goes to God!



Houston, Texas

Memorial Drive, Champion’s Forest, and the Northwest Side

My Son Was Born:
Finally, Heaven, and all HE_ _ Breaks Lose

January 18, 2007 (Thursday)—

My water broke around 4:00PM in my then apartment on Memorial Drive in Houston, Texas. Baby julian-jacob worrell of family Saloom was born at 11:52PM/CST via emergency caesarean section during which I opted for the “twilight sleep” birth upon the anesthesiologist taking pity on me against the will of the doctor who delivered my son. Having been a night owl myself since birth, the time of delivery came as no surprise. This was my first and only private property, “child,” at the age of twenty-eight (28) years old. Julian weighed 6 lbs, 13 ounces and was nineteen inches long, having come into this world after thirty-seven and one half weeks (“gestational age”). The day before delivery, I had seen the doctor’s assistant, a very experienced midwife at his clinic on a routine scheduled third trimester check-up whereupon I informed that this baby absolutely had to come out of my body as I could not take the symptoms of the pregnancy any longer before she summoned the office manager.

The nurse/midwife/doctor’s assistant and office manager apparently took pity upon my apparently very healthy pregnancy, as it had progressed in a textbook manner with every development occurring right on time, but with me experiencing every possible textbook symptom to an exponentially painful degree from, literally, the first week I was pregnant, and instantly knew it, in April or May of 2006, and performed a routine pelvic examination that possibly induced labor.

Thus, my water broke on January 18, 2007, a Thursday, when I was on couch and had to call the doctor’s office to ask them to wait for me (as they closed at 5:00) while I tried to fight rush hour Houston, Texas traffic to make the journey so that I could obtain early admittance papers into the hospital to birth my adorable little boy. Finally, Heaven was here. I was finally going to meet the little angel that had been growing inside me, in the house he had made inside my—our—body. Sometimes I liked to refer to him as my teddy bear, or, little bear (as this is just what he looked like in the first ultrasound, my first glimpse of him at twelve weeks with him—It was winter and that was the outfit I had picked out for him to wear home from the hospital, a little brown bear suit with matching shear-lined bear trapper hat).

Mt son’s father, Matthew James Worrell, “Matt,” had completely abandoned us, delivering upon his promise when I failed to abort our son on more than one of the occasions where he paid for it after threatening that he and his family would “ruin [me]” for having our only child, even misspelling my name on the “consent” or scheduling form and receipt, on the public Internet with his credit card (which the office manager at the clinic, also in Houston, Texas for the notorious Dr. Bernard Rosenfeld, “Kathy,” said she would be happy to keep refunding) refused to answer the telephone or door to me in my pregnancy. Nevertheless, I thought a little boy needed his father, and indeed I wanted him to have one even if I had not received the offer of marriage that, admittedly, I was devastated to not receive, even in light of the circumstances.

So, at approximately 5:30PM on Thursday, January 18, 2007, I sent a text message (as I knew Matthew would not answer the telephone given over nine months of actual experience on this matter and leaving desperate voicemails that always, and still do, prove futile, even harmful no matter how sweet or innocent the intention) to my soon-to-be-born son’s father to inform him that I was at the hospital in labor and extending an enthusiastic and hopeful invitation. Matt, a.k.a., “Satan” (author uses the a.k.a. nickname as hyperbole here) lived up to his proven character and declined the immediate invitation. However, he did ask if he and his mother, Diane Marie Worrell (with whom he was apparently living with at the time while having a posh new townhome built in the heart of downtown Houston in walking distance of the new football stadium and while he was apparently selling off properties like hot cakes at the time), could maybe visit the next day instead.

Enthusiastically, I consented, not knowing the horrors that had been planned for me and my baby boy at the time. Matt admitted in this conversation via telephone with me that he did not think that I would allow him to see the baby after his behavior and total lack of involvement, and worse, throughout my entire pregnancy with our only child, my private property, my body.

Though my mother had not been involved even though she only lived fifteen miles away, like my father, in my period with child, she and her common law husband of over twenty years (that would be the same man who, at five years old, I had to overhear plotting how she would leave my dad for him while he pressed down on my face with a pillow while he thought I was sleeping on his couch in Pearland, Texas), nevertheless, waltzed in.  The only individual who had been a friend to me in my pregnancy who faithfully attended every single ultrasound at the same doctor’s with me and cooked and carried groceries for me, was at the hospital as well. He joined my mother on her smoke break in the parking lot on that chilly January evening. I was absolutely mortified, not to mention terrified and frightened at the prospect of losing the other half of my heart that had been beating and growing inside me for almost a year after choosing life over promotion for cash, under the table, paid offer of abortion, also by my company at the time where I was a senior sales executive (outside, B2B sales professional) for the hot new national telecommunications company for small to mid- size businesses and where I had achieved three consecutive promotions with pay raise new titles in under nine months based on merits and sales.

One must realize that I had finally learned how to pay the bills without a roommate, having previously been a teacher and a substitute teacher after attending Bryn Mawr College in Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee, and then, putting myself through college, graduating at Middle Tennessee State University (“MTSU”) in Murfreesboro, Tennessee with a Bachelor of Arts in English, a minor in psychology, and also earning my teacher licensure to teach secondary (grades 7-12 English/language/”communication” arts). With this baby, this new life, I had finally learned how to choose faith over fear, and to this day, I have no regrets, in fact, my feelings could not be more to the contrary. If one is spiritual or religious, or even just a Believer, then one must necessarily accept that the Lord, and his counterpart below, makes it his mission to tempt and corrupt God’s most faithful, special, and cherished, his Believers. It is Author’s firm conviction that when I walked out of that abortion chair, with the help and encouragement and reassurance of “Kathy,” the office manager at the abortion clinic in Houston, Texas, where Matt, a.k.a. “Satan,” had picked me up, reeking of what my son would later call, “bodka” and full of Xanax, most likely Zoloft, and SOMA, at least, early in the morning while trying unsuccessfully to use his in-car navigation system, to deliver me in his black convertible Mercedes Benz (the same one in which he was pulled over on December 18, 2005, though unbeknownst to me at the time, with a reported large amount of what the Harris County police report or lab identified as substance,”3,4 methylenydioxymethamphetamine,” street drug name, “MDMA,” or, “Ecstasy,” and at least five identifiable illicit substances and over-the-limit alcohol in his system in Harris County, Texas in Houston in suburban Jersey Village jurisdiction), that a hit had been put on me and my quite obviously very special (in a very good way, as in the top ten percent, but not the bottom), child’s life—“from womb to tomb.” That the menace still persists, stalks, though from afar, and pursues, though legally, but unlawfully through the Houston, Texas (Harris County) family courts and Brazoria County and City of Pearland (a suburb between Houston and Galveston just fifteen miles away from the largest medical complex in the world in southeast Houston, Brazoria County) CPS and Masonic cops is proof—-case-in-point.

January 19, 2007 (Friday)—

The Morning After, My Son’s Birth

Matt and his mother, Diane Worrell (though she only dropped Matt off and left, refusing to stay and speak to my mother who invited her to stay in the hospital room in what my mother still perceives as an impermissible snub), a woman whom I had never met, nor spoken to before, and later that day, his brother, Brian, his wife, Carey (who reportedly attended Harvard law school, worked for famous Houston, Texas law firm, Baker Botts, as an intern, and, until 2007, worked for then impeached, for sexual misconduct/assault of his female clerks and secretaries, federal US Southern District of Texas, Galveston division judge, Samuel Kent, and then became a stay-at-home mom, later adding real estate broker to the list with her husband, Brian’s homeowner’s CIA Association/Board member team in League City, Texas), Matt’s little niece, ”Mattie,” short for Madeleine, and baby nephew, ”Gavin” Brian’s children, my son Julian’s paternal cousins, and, later that evening, my father, and also Matt’s father, John Kenneth Worrell, Sr. and Dee Wilkes/Worrell, his second wife for whom he left Matt’s mother after thirty or more years of marriage, came to spy, or to visit the newborn baby before snatching him. I had never met, nor had occasion, nor invitation to speak to any of Matt’s relatives. It is not known how long he waited to even inform them they would soon have their seventh grandchild, my son, “Julian.”

At this point, Matt insisted that, due to my emergency caesarean section, through no fault of my own, the operation he and his family refused to be present for, combined with the fact that I could not drive for three weeks, as per doctor’s recommendation, and insistence that I be cared for and stay off of my feet, I must go to his and his mother’s house in far North Houston, “Champion’s Forest” where he lied and said they would take care of me in the hopes of trying to establish rights to my son even though he chose not to be named on the birth certificate, and also at his mother’s insistence that I witnessed when I offered the paperwork in the spring of 2007, when, in reality, the Worrell’s had installed cameras, tried to make me drink the plethora of wine they stocked in the home and drank (while my newborn comfortably slept at least sixteen or eighteen hours per day), and went to work staying as far away from me, my son, and their house for the few days I was there under false pretenses for their legal strategy to convert my property, permanently with the planned assistance of police (though even this failed as it is Author’s firm conviction that the Lord, God, was, and is still with us, being “special” children of Him). He also gave orders for my male friend who I had known long before Matt, and now in a Platonic capacity, the man the doctor respected while refusing to even look at or shake Matt’s extended hand when he finally showed up the afternoon after my son was born after failing to attend every single ultrasound that he had in fact been invited to by myself, to leave the hospital and mine and my son’s life. He made me give the “orders,” though. Foolishly, I “obeyed” with the hopes of my son having a father, and of course his natural mother, together. Every single judicial “order” or binding mediated settlement agreement broken since 2007 has included, in concluding lines, that my son is permanently “enjoined” from being in the presence of the only friend who was around when Julian’s father refused, much to my extreme disappointment and heartache at the time.

I confess. I am very strongly a female, a real woman and mother. Indeed, I do not ask my son’s father not to be a father or a real man, and never did. Nor did I demand money, nor that he stop seeing an actual or imaginary knocked-up adulterous woman with other children. I was forced, under duress, threat, and coercion, or to otherwise have my son kidnapped by a gang of wild hyenas, to comply with alleged “orders.” Matt insisted that, since I was not supposed to drive for three weeks and needed cared for as hospital nurses, the same ones that made a point to let Matt know they documented in the notes that he was bonding well with the baby when he finally showed up, just like he had asked them too, that I must go home with he and his mother at her condo for a couple of weeks, until it was time to move in to my new apartment in the suburbs I had planned. Reluctantly, I had to agree, because they had given my car keys to my then friend.

January 24, 2007 (Wednesday)—


Matt went to pick up routine prescriptions for me and, therefore, needed my cards to go to the pharmacy. When he returned, although he gave me the prescription, when I later asked where my driver’s license was, he replied only that he had work to finish on his computer, and that he would have to go out to his then black Lexus SUV—I am not sure where he was hiding, or, alternatively, to whom he had donated or sold or leased his little black convertible sports Mercedes—to retrieve it later. He urged me to relax, offered celebratory wine that he had also brought home, from the pharmacy (the baby slept most of the twenty-four hours in any single day those first few days).

He urged me to relax and not to push him since he had had a stressful day, and was further bothered by my requests for errands, for which he had volunteered in lieu of giving me back my car keys. In this, he contradicted the entire reason I was supposed to be temporarily visiting with he and his mother, Diane Worrell, who, by the way, worked all day and every day at the Houston Youth Symphony while I tended to feeding, changing, coddling, and reading to Baby Julian just days after being released from an invasive and excruciating operation. The following day I again required my driver’s license back—a day on which Matthew said he was going to interview attorneys to draw up an agreement to pay me at least $1,000.00 per month in exchange for “visitation” rights for every other weekend. He then told me that he had returned my license to me along with my bank card, and that his mother had confirmed that she saw him hand me the card. He refused me the right to search his black Lexus SUV and his mother’s Toyota Camry and old Toronado, which was kept for Matthew to alternate.

The Feigned Fight

January 25, 2007(Thursday) through January 30, 2007? —

That evening, Matt, under heavy influence of red wine, his SOMA pain medication, and Lord only knows what else, and one should know that I hardly knew him, became enraged because I refused to give him a piece of my prescription, which he had quite boldly demanded, even though he was not the one who had not just come out of surgery. As an immediate result of his action, he began throwing the clothes I had temporarily had transported for brief, first time visit at his mother’s condo in Champion’s Forest, out of the bureau drawers where I had been sleeping each night in his mother’s guest bedroom.

Matt told me that I had twenty (20) minutes to get out of the house, but by no means would he allow me to take my newborn baby with me. He began recording my natural response to the epithet he hurled at me which shall not be herein repeated, and his irrational behavior that included stealing my purse, driver’s license, mobile phone, and its SIM card. He and his mother had even pulled all access to telephones within the house. This was a hostage situation.

Matt threatened to phone Child Protective Services (“CPS”) and the police. At that point he falsely claimed that he had allegedly recorded making “death threats” on his life. In reality, he had been shouting into his audio recording device that I should “stop hitting me [him],”—I was not—and, further, that he was allegedly bleeding—he was not. Matthew was doing this to provoke a response and make false allegations that, apparently, his then first legal advisor or attorney, Julia Lovorn, that is, before he hired John Nichols, Sr. and son, “Bo” Nichols, Jr., had conjured to try to manufacture false statements or hearsay for court for which, it only later became clear, that they had been preparing.

During this time, Matthew left the baby in Matt’s bedroom, again, in his mother’s condo, in the beautiful bassinette I had ordered and the special embroidered white lace cover I had gone out of my way to find before Julian was born, as I had made all preparations and bought everything with no help or participation, nor even contact from Matt. The baby was screaming and crying, and alone in Matt’s bedroom into which I had not been allowed and where he had strangely and very secretively been locking the door each day and night. I implored Matt to stop harassing me, and to give me my baby back so that I could take care of him, and also since his body language had become physically threatening as was the tone and import of his words. I was terrified.

When Matthew finally left me alone, in mine and Baby Julian’s guest bedroom, in Matt’s mother’s condo in North Houston on that evening, I read the baby back to sleep. Then, I proceeded to pick up the mess that Matt had made turning over drawers of clothes, both mine, and Baby Julian’s, which I had bought. Matt later came into the guest bedroom to feign an apologetic posture, but not an apology. He said he did not want me to leave, but rather informed me that if I cooperated with his demands for full “custody” of Baby Julian, a name which he had always loathed as he complained that it sounded “like a ‘black’ name,” for at least six months, he and his mother wished me to be part of Julian’s life. I let Matthew James Worrell know that he had crossed a line stealing my telephone and holding me hostage to try to steal the baby that he had begged me to murder via abortion; I intended to leave, and these intentions were made known to Matt, though I had never really been there willingly. He left the condo with my SIM card for my then telephone. I convinced his mother, Diane, to let me take my own baby back to the guest bedroom to feed him and change his diaper. When Matt finally returned home, he still refused to return my telephone/SIM card until I handed him my baby. In addition to these violations, he refused to give me the hospital paperwork he had stolen that pertained to Baby Julian’s birth records and hospital notes he demanded of the nurses, the ones with my name, but not his, on them.

At that point in time, I was forced to hand him the baby just to get my telephone back with the hope of calling someone for help and transport out of there, for myself and for Baby Julian to go with me. The first call I made was to a former client of mine, a Houston family law attorney named Cheryl Coleman. She listened to the events that had occurred that prompted my call to her. Cheryl promptly called the police for me. Officer Gid Watson and his partner, McCall, I believe, was his last name, arrived and decided that Baby Julian had not been “neglected” by me, went in and wrested him from out of Matt’s mother’s arms where they had both been hiding in her bedroom in her condo, with the phone cords ripped out of their wired, secretive, deceptive, surveilling and monitoring walls, and turned Baby Julian back over to my physical possession standing outside of their home on a secluded, gated street in Champion’s Forest in North Houston, Texas (Harris County). The officer informed me that this was a “civil” matter, but claimed that it was not “criminal.” My father, who did not live far from Matt’s mother at the time, arrived to transport myself and my son, little Julian, who was only twelve days old at the time, back to safety at my then home on Memorial Drive in Houston. My mother and her common law husband of over twenty years also arrived on the scene shortly thereafter for a debriefing.



False Imprisonment/Kidnapping,

by Public Servant, Tonya Rolland, a.k.a. “Tony” Rolland, but NOT the Other Way Around





During ongoing paternity establishment proceedings initiated by Matt Worrell, or, rather, for his mother’s benefit, as it was then so many times suggested to me by those who were less blinded than me at the time, on knowledge, belief, and at least circumstantial evidence, my then family law attorney and my son’s mandatory court-appointed attorney for mandatory mediation, had been acquired by infamous family law attorney, John F. Nichols, Sr. and son, “Bo” Nichols, Jr., just like he then advertised on his website tailored to “High Net Worth Divorce Cases” in and around Houston.

Cheryl Coleman, my then family law attorney and former client, though unbeknownst to me at the time, had worked in the District Attorney’s office in Harris County. Matt himself informed me of this back then. Coleman’s father had been a local judge, like Judge Lisa A. Millard’s father had been.

Stephen Newhouse, alleged, by my then attorney, Cheryl Coleman, as corrupt, prejudiced, and biased court-appointed amicus attorney for my son, Stephen Newhouse, is now associate judge in the 313th juvenile court in Harris County under presiding judge, Glenn Devlin (of the Amy and Markel Charron debacle of a case).

When both attorneys Coleman and Newhouse began harassing me for money, without timely or complete invoices, during business hours at my new job with a nice salary and hard-earned commission in outside sales, as Matt’s attorney had done through, at least, subpoena to human resources to find out my new income, that is, before I soon thereafter lost it, I felt forced to make a complaint to the BAR association. Coleman had been refusing to return my documents back to me. She warned me from the very beginning that Matt would out-resource me. Quite obviously, he and his family, as threatened in 2006 on telephone call for having my son, he did “out-resource” me, with both she and Newhouse. Stephen Newhouse was trying to double bill by collecting fees for both myself and Matt that Matt paid him from both of us. This, Cheryl Coleman had confessed to me in her office.

I sent Stephen Newhouse, then amicus attorney, and Cheryl Coleman notices requiring them to stop harassing me, and especially at work and assuring them that I was not holding out any money on them).

On one of the last conversations I had with Stephen Newhouse in late 2007, as I was raising a healthy newborn on my own and trying to prove myself at work in a traditionally male-dominated industry with the deck stacked against me, Matt’s and family and court’s private investigators stalking me like mad, I took my father’s advice and reminded Mr. Newhouse that this was America, not Dickensian England. There was no such thing as a debtor’s prison, or so I thought.

Then, on the evening of Friday, November 30, 2007 while networking at one of my old acquaintance’s restaurants in Houston, I was kidnapped by a woman I had never met who refused to identify herself or show me her badge, which I required at the time. She was then assistant Harris County D.A., Tonya Rolland [spelling as documented]. Rolland attempted to snatch my keys from the valet, to a vehicle that was not registered in my name, and whereas, again, she refused to show me a badge or tell me who she was in front of the restaurant.

Tapes later revealed to me that Tonya and her government buddies had been in the trendy/bar lounge part of the restaurant taking pictures of me emerging from the restroom on my way back to the dining patio on their cell phones, that is, before she assaulted me, but not the other way around.

Rolland, in active concert with HPD police officer, “B.”/Brandon Gardiner, absentee or, rather, retroactive “witness” on the scene, again, another, like Matt, who was driving a black Mercedes Benz German, who appears in tapes, according to other witnesses, to possibly have famous prosecutor, Kelly Siegler, sundry clerks and courthouse personnel, a government agent whose name appears in court documents as Craig Feazel–documents that were not made available to me until many years later, and found only by accident, and private investigator on the scene who failed to re-appear in my defense, though he tried to get me to go to a hotel room with him to drink, or, to “party,” while claiming to be a married man, had me transported to two different Harris County jails, beat-up, strangled to within seconds of my last breath.

An insider who worked at the jail informed me while I was there that someone had actually changed the charge from the one that the police officer filed via “complaint,” from the least (falsely alleged) criminal assault misdemeanor charge to the most offensive where “bodily injury” was inserted, making it a Class-A versus the previously complained of, though false, Class-C misdemeanor “assault” [against me and my then infant son, and the entire community in a shocking abuse of power, among other high crimes and misdemeanors–essentially and in spirit, treason and tampering with government documents, which is a felony in Texas].

The clerk said he had never seen that before, and honestly appeared to be stunned. He agreed with me, that he knew I did not belong there. By the grace of God, and my father, that same clerk helped me “bond out” literally seconds before Judge Margaret Stewart Harris called me to the front of a crowded audience, mostly hardened criminals and men in orange jumpsuits all chained together, and angrily called my name first on the gargantuan video screen that, after waiting two nights, appeared to be a hearing for what had to have been at least a hundred inmates at the same time through closed circuit court television?

At the metro Harris County jail, Judge Margaret Stewart Harris of Criminal Court at Law No. 5, whom I had never met, signed orders to have me held indefinitely without bail and without a lawyer and without informing me of my right to a lawyer (though documents I discovered on accident years later falsely claim that I allegedly “waived” such a right to an attorney). Judge Margaret Stewart-Harris, against the peace and dignity of myself and my son, ordered this crime against me, and individual with no “priors” at the age of almost thirty years old, in my adult life, having been a former high school English teacher and put myself through incredible colleges and universities, working my way through them all.

It should come as no surprise to the reader that it was the first weekend following the coerced “binding mediated settlement agreement” that gave Matt, rather, for his mother, “joint-managing ‘conservatorship’” of our son, and her weekend. Thus, it appeared that Matt and his family had, for the second time in the first year of my son’s life, converted my private property.

Judge Margaret Stewart-Harris made it clear in court that Tonya Rolland was her buddy when she fraternized with her in open court and even admitted to having her over to dinner.

Tonya, a.k.a. “Tony” Rolland, as referenced in much later obtained police report from that evening of November 30, 2007, worked hand-in-glove with then notoriously corrupt and forced-to-resign Harris County District Attorney, Charles/”Chuck” A. Rosenthal of the politically inspired 2005 Lawrence v. Texas case against gay rights that he lost arguing it in the US Supreme Court). It is logical to deduce that she would have worked in the same office as my former family law attorney, Cheryl Coleman, who, shortly after, sent a Christmas card saying that she was “concerned” about me due to the alleged “charge.” Tonya Rolland-McLaughlin just ran on Republican ticket for Criminal Court judgeship, court No. 10, Harris County). She lost to a former sheriff.

It is more than concerning to Author that Officer “B.”/Brandon Gardiner, though it was never alleged, nor made known to Author at any point in time, that is, until I had to go downtown to obtain other police reports I never knew existed that Matt had filed against me in earlier years, though by now it was 2012, not 2007, is that the report alleged me to be “drunk.” No road test or breathalyzer, nor allegations by “Complainant” B. Gardiner were made against me at the time, and indeed, have never been brought to court, at least, not to criminal court, nor to family court (unless ex parte, in which case I still would not know).

Chapter IV


January 2007- October 2010
Houston, Texas
(Harris County);

October 2010- May 2012
Pearland, Texas
(Brazoria County)

The Saga Continues:
“Primary Joint-Managing ‘Conservatorship’”



April/May 2012

Pearland, Texas
(Brazoria County)

The Kidnapping,
“The Daemon 10,000 Screw,” or,
“The Fix is In”


April 25, 2012-April 27, 2012 (Wednesday-Friday)–

Daddy Surprises Us With a Cameo Appearance—He Shows Up for “Visitation”

Julian, then five and half years old, visited with Matt at his home where he resided with a woman to whom he had recently been married, Nancy Gray Dufour Worrell, in Tomball, Texas in Harris County (justice of the peace territory, like Matt’s mothers, where matters never seem to appear “criminal,” only “civil”) pursuant to previously coerced binding mediated settlement agreement for 310th court in Houston in Harris County, associate judge, Conrad Moren, Judge Lisa A. Millard presiding.

Those Allegations

April 27, 2012-May 01, 2012—

Julian began to make allegations about his father and “The Visitor,” whom he and Nancy’s three small children by her recently divorced husband, the one before Matt in whose home they resided while Matt did not work for at least a year and half, a “homeless teenager with black, spiky hair, were reportedly made to call, “The Visitor.”

The Kafka-esque Bureacratic Nightmare Begins

May 02, 2012 (Wednesday)-

At approximately 4:45-5:00PM/CST, I telephoned my son’s then doctor in Pearland, Texas to let my son tell him what he told me to find out if we should come in to have him checked-out just to be on the safe side. After Julian told him what he alleged had happened to him at his father’s home, his doctor told me that I better hang-up the telephone and call Child Protective Services (“CPS”), because that is exactly what he was going to have to do then, immediately upon hanging up the telephone with one another. Again, I asked if we should come in to check Julian out, but he said he did not do that at his office, and advised to go to Memorial Hermann Hospital or Texas Children’s Hospital where they had specialists for that kind of exam.

Between the hours of approximately 5:30PM through 7:00PM, I was on hold and spoke with a live, “in-take specialist” and her manager, after getting cut off in between getting disconnected and calling back after I had initially been on hold on the automated system for over forty-five minutes before speaking to a live individual with Department of Family and Protective Services, Child Protective Services division (“CPS”) in Austin, Texas. Julian was itching to “tell somebody and get it over with.” After the “intake specialist” heard his story, the supervisor of the woman with whom both myself and Julian spoke to on the telephone that evening advised me to make a police report before relinquishing him to his father for “visitation” the following day for Thursday through Monday visitation, even though I let her know he would surely bring his own police and have lawyers on the telephone as was his pattern of behavior. Upon me asking her what I was supposed to do, she replied that if Julian were her child, though she was not giving me legal advice, she would not let her child go back to the home where alleged incidents took place. Still, that was her only solution between then and the time I was supposed to get my son to a hospital for a sexual assault exam to clear him to visit his father, or to otherwise put myself and son in jeopardy of false allegations of “child abuse or neglect” for failing to report or listen to my only son.

May 02, 2012 (Wednesday)
Approximately 6:35PM to Approximately 7:00PM-

A Break with Reality for a Sense of Normalcy—We Stopped at the Park to Play

After calling Julian’s doctor and subsequently making mandatory, good faith, lawful report to CPS Statewide Intake from my mother and her common law husband’s home, Julian’s maternal grandparents, who lived on the same road as the Pearland Police Department substation where we had been advised to make an immediate police report by CPS “intake specialist” and manager or supervisor, Julian and I stopped at the park in the same neighborhood of  (Lake) Southwyk, which has now blossomed into the prestigious Silver Lake master-planned, gated community—the same founding little neighborhood where I had grown-up—for a sense of normalcy.

May 02, 2012 (Wednesday)
Approximately 7:00PM-8:00PM–

Trying to Mitigate Circumstances at the Pearland Police Department, Trying to Prevent an Incident Report in Pearland

Between the hours of approximately 7:00-8:00PM on that same evening of Wednesday, May 02, 2012, I took Julian to the Pearland Police Department to try to make a police report in the city in which we lived at the time like the supervisor we spoke to on the telephone advised us to do immediately so that they would help with “visitation” the next day if Matt decided to show-up (even though he had been absent, no-calling and no-showing for a year and a half until very recently, right after final child support orders lessened for him by Texas Attorney General’s Office of Child Support Enforcement, which had solicited me for review, not the other way around, in 2010). Immediately, the Hispanic receptionist/dispatcher snapped that they did not take “those” kind of reports, and besides, I would have to go to the police department where the alleged incidents had occurred. She told me that I would have to wait to call them until an incident with the father at visitation pick-up actually occurred before asking the police for help.

However, as Julian and I were walking to our then vehicle, he spotted two police officers around the back—where inmates are detained. We knocked on the glass door as it was right there in the same parking lot where our car was parked because my son said he wanted to talk to them. One of the two officers motioned for me to enter and opened the door. They stepped outside the door when we asked if we could speak to them about a private matter. I asked if either of them knew any officers or where I was supposed to go so that my son could talk to them about alleged incidents of sexual and deviant nature that had reportedly occurred while visiting his father (though that would have been the wrong one as Matt and Nancy lived in justice of the peace jurisdiction in Harris County). I told them what my son had revealed to me and also to my mother whose husband was also present, and also to the doctor and to CPS workers on the telephone that evening.

The police officers, who have automatic recording devices on their belts, told me that although they could not take an official report, they wanted to make sure it did not look like “coaching” when they spoke to my son, but my son had already indicated to me that he felt more comfortable speaking to the two police officers without me. So, I walked over to the car, got some water out, brought it back to my son, and then retreated back into our car for approximately forty-five minutes while he spoke to the officers about what allegedly happened at “Daddy’s” house.

After hearing my son, and letting him climb through their cruiser, play with the lights, and even play with a real taser, he told me that it was worse than what I thought and told me an added sexual detail or allegation that my son had not told me about. The police officer who appeared more interested and friendly told both me and my son to go directly to the right police station while my son felt like talking. The officer even made my son promise him to go immediately and tell the police officers in “Tomball.” These police officers, however, did not even know how to tell me which police station was the right one, or how to find it, as I informed them that I knew for a fact that they lived in Harris County in that four corners—a crossroads of a sort—region where Spring, Cypress, Tomball, and Houston all converge. So, they just told us to go to the Tomball Police Station, which we immediately did.

By the time we arrived at the Tomball Police Station, it was approximately 10:00PM. My son said he was getting a little headache, so the two nice female dispatchers there not only volunteered to call a Harris County police officer to make a report of my son’s allegations and to “interview” him, like the Pearland police officers said they—the “Tomball” police officers, would do (even though they were given my son’s father’s address), and that he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone else, but also insisted upon calling Tomball emergency medical technicians to the scene to dispatch simple child’s headache medicine to my little boy.

A Harris County, Precinct 4, patrolman, under the jurisdiction of Constable Ron Hickman, who recently made Harris County Sheriff, a sergeant, arrived around 10:30PM. The EMT’s, who were taking my son’s vitals by this point, listened in and interjected with advice or, alternatively, orders to take my son immediately to Memorial Hermann Hospital, or Texas Children’s Hospital for a sexual assault exam, dubbed by “CPS,” a “S.A.N.E.” exam. Then, the police officer who was taking the report, but he refused to speak to my son and made me tell him, instead, my son’s own account of what happened, citing “policy,” said I might want to wait to take my son for the exam so that “county” could “pick-up the tab.” He told me that I did not have to take my son to the hospital right away, even though evidence and memories fade, though he did not relay nor relate this common sense knowledge. The officer had us follow him out to his patrol care in the very dark parking lot of the Tomball Police Department at around 11:00PM after scribbling some notes or report that I was later to be denied, and still am denied, by Precinct 4, Harris County Constable, justice of the peace jurisdiction. He got in the car, leaving me and my son standing outside in the dark parking lot, and radioed in some kind of code or report in a rather hushed, secretive manner to an unknown, undisclosed individual or department that was most likely CPS all the way back in Brazoria County, field office, the same county from which we had just driven from for an hour. He left me, in the parking lot with my sweet, innocent little boy. The only help or protection consisted of these words, “Someone should be calling you,” and, “I checked, you can wait for them to pick-up the tab.” “You do not need to take your son to the hospital tonight,” though this strongly contradicted what the medical technicians who seemed more concerned for my son’s welfare said we needed to go and do immediately, even though they could not tell us which hospital we should go to with proper jurisdiction. In criminal law, this scheme is called entrapment or estoppel by entrapment. But little did we know we had just entered a place and time known as The Kidnapping Zone.

Big Pinch Thursday

May 03, 2012—

The next morning at approximately 11:30AM/11:45AM, the morning of Thursday, May 03, 2012, my son answered our phone while I was stepping out-of-the shower since he was waiting for my mother, “Grandma Sue/Susie,” to arrive and need let in the gates to watch him while I attended a job interview with Thompson-Reuters in Houston at 1:30PM that afternoon. When I emerged from the shower, with my long hair soaking wet, my son said that the lady on the telephone was yelling at him and that she wanted him to put me on the phone right away. The first thing that the woman whom I was only later to find out was the Brazoria County caseworker’s name, Lesly Damian-Murray (spelling as documented), immediately started verbally assaulting me when I got on the telephone, hair dripping wet while I was trying to get ready for much anticipated and prepared for job interview with a Fortune Company that would have been perfect. “You’re a terrible parent for letting your son answer the phone,” Damian-Murray exclaimed! She proceeded to lambaste me because my son was not in school, though, due to his birthday, he was not allowed to yet be attending kindergarten, of which I promptly informed Damian/Daemon Murray of such fact. She refused to self-identify or to provide an employee number, even though that is exactly what the DFPS website said to demand if contacted by a CPS worker. I informed her that I needed to continue getting ready for my job interview at that time, and politely asked to re-schedule the call.

She fired back, accusing, “your [my] son is more important than a job interview!” I let Lesly Damian-Murray know that, already, I did not trust whomever she was, and, with due, reciprocal respect, asked to speak to her supervisor as she did not even believe I had taken my son to the police to make a report on the previous evening, saying, “You couldn’t have had time to do that,” as if she was horrified that her cover-up and malicious prosecution and kidnapping scheme was unraveling at the seams. I had let her know that we had a very late night, and that we would wait for law enforcement who was supposed to be contacting us to interview my son, again. In a juvenile, mocking, catty tone mixed with the strange combination of Hispanic, tinged with valley girl accent, she replied, “duh, that’s ‘me,’” her irreverent, disrespectful, merciless social working eyes rolling on the other end of the telephone line. I held long enough for her supervisor, who never did get on the phone before hanging-up.

My mother had already been in and out with Julian to take him to her home for my interview, as she and her husband only lived five miles away from me and Julian. At this point, having been guilted and thrown into panic mode by this CPS worker in Angleton, Texas (Brazoria County), and knowing that my son’s father was scheduled to pick-up my son around 3:00PM that same afternoon, though he never gave notice when he did not or, alternatively, the rare exception, did decide to pick-up my son, as he had been only minimally involved over the last couple years, if at all, I reluctantly felt forced to cancel my interview with Thompson Reuters. I drove over to my mothers home to find she and Julian happily playing catch with a ball in the front yard. I used this private time to step back into my then vehicle to call the Office of Consumer Affairs in Austin, Texas around Noon to ask them to document in the notes that I was being cooperative with CPS, but that my assigned caseworker was being unreasonable and irrational, and gave her the details. She took the notes and replied that it sounded like that “team” needed some coaching. She gave me the direct line phone number for Lesly Damian-Murray’s immediate supervisor and also a director, Karen Coblentz, whom I proceeded to call. I was forced to leave a voice mail message for Karen Coblentz, Brazoria County CPS program director, regarding the quite bizarre stories or actual facts my son had been telling me about her “team,” and advised them to get their act together. I left my phone number and asked her to contact me. Later, it would be revealed that Brazoria County CPS program director, Karen Coblentz and her coaching team at Brazoria County CPS, who had changed the Priority Level I to the least prioritized for responding to allegations of child abuse or neglect at their field office, had definite and direct knowledge that I was cooperating, thus negating the need for law enforcement to become involved against me for allegedly “failing to cooperate” to procure an order, without hearing or notice—without due process of law, and in a court without jurisdiction, no less, a specialty Children’s Court, thus, inferior, the 300th of Judge K. Randall/”Randy” Hufstetler in Angleton, Texas.

This would have equated to, and did, turn into such a fraudulently procured alleged “order” to transport then five year-old Julian for second unnecessary, abusive sexual assault exam to cover-up the first one at Texas Children’s Office that I took him for the next day on Friday, May 04, 2012 for the purposes of clearing my son against sexual abuse allegations by his father for the purposes of continuing visitation, lest I be maliciously prosecuted and lose custody for allegedly “denying visitation to father” without a hearing for that ex parte allegation, too, by sworn, false affidavit to an associate, but not elected judge who, by statute, must rubber-stamp each and every falsely sworn affidavit that comes across bench, ex parte, absent any notice or hearing for mother to defend herself in family/CPS/adoption/”civil”/termination of parental rights/commitment court, but in Harris County in Houston, the 310th, associate judge, Conrad Moren, “elected” judge, Lisa A. Millard presiding for Matthew James Worrell and company. Karen Coblentz neglected to CPS Differential Response Policy, morphed after other lawsuits into Alternative Response Policy,” though it is currently termed Flexible Response Policy.

May 03, 2012 (Thursday Afternoon)—

Daddy Decides to Show-Up, with Police and a Camcorder to Unexorcise Visitation

My son’s “presumed or adjudicated” father pulled up in front of mine and Julian’s then townhome in his silver Toyota Tundra truck. I remembered the advice from Stacy, or, Stephanie, on the phone with CPS in Austin the night before regarding the police, or just not being home. I panicked, not knowing what to do in this “Catch-22” of a situation, an impossible condition. I put Julian in the Jeep mobile and started to head over to my mother’s house where I did not think Matt would try to bully or manipulate my mother’s common law husband. I only got about a half a mile down the road before I pulled into the McDonald’s parking lot at the end of our street where I called Matt on his mobile phone to tell him where I was at, and that we would come back so that he could visit with our son, but he needed to finally tell me what happened and why my son was telling me these things. I was very upset, as he had refused to even acknowledge my previous e-mails and calls inquiring as to why my only son as saying the things that he was saying about “Daddy” and “The Visitor.” Matt replied in a condescending, low tone of voice, “Joni, it wasn’t that bad.” Then, he very coyly suggested, “Is there something that you need, Joni?” I repeated in a stronger tone of voice, “What happened, Matt?” Matt instantly ended the call.

There was another call to or from Matt while I was still trying to think of a solution. Matt immediately hung up the phone on our son, who was in the backseat begging to talk to “Daddy.” I was still trying to think about what to do. Matt hung up the telephone on our son because I would not get back on the phone with him. I raced back home so that I could make a good faith effort to be home for court-ordered visitation. Sure enough, Matt was sitting in his truck and refused to get out. My son was very upset. I got out of the Jeep mobile—we were parked right in front of our garage—and picked my son up so that he could see “Daddy” through the window of his truck, and, reciprocally, so that Daddy would talk to his son. When Matt finally slit the window to only slightly break character with his rage for a second and waved to Julian, he put more energy into letting me know that the police were on there way. Those were his exact words—“The police are on their way.” Then, he rolled the window back up and raised his recording device and Julian and I, standing there perplexed, and, quite naturally and reasonably, upset. Not knowing what to do, Julian and I got back into the Jeep mobile and called the Pearland police ourselves, as, again, we had been advised to do by the alleged authority on the law and child protection, “CPS.”

Officer Paul Elton made sure to pull in around the back way to park on the far side of Matt’s truck, the driver’s side, for father and City of Pearland through the Pearland Police Department, and also for Brazoria County CPS and his own commissions, on knowledge and belief. This was the first factual indication that something was afoul. When he got out of the car, I remember thinking that he looked like he could be another brother or cousin of Matt’s, as he looked eerily like Matt and his father, though he still had his dark hair unlike Matt’s father. Officer Paul Elton jumped out of his police cruiser ready for action, hiked up his pants over his paunchy mid-section, and stared me down like a demon ready to pounce before walking over to me—Matt was cued to get out of his truck and join Officer Elton. He immediately walked over to Matt to get his confirmation of their themed story. Officer Elton yelled, “Ma’am, just stay over there!”

When Officer Elton finally strode over to me in the form of the cock-of-the walk, the angry vein of misogyny, projection, and rage swelling up in his red, puffy face, and asked me what my “problem” was, I handed him Sergeant Walton’s business card from the night before with the police report number written on the back of it. Next, I informed Officer Paul Elton, Badge # 105 or # 106, who used to be listed as a warrant officer on the Pearland Police Department website, though I couldn’t have known that at the time as mine and Julian’s home had been broken into in 2010 and my home office and computer wiped out when we had a large home on the North side of Houston—I still used a flip phone without data and disallowed text due to security issues and privacy problems regarding my actual, firsthand and repeated experiences with Julian’s father and his family and employed and family stalkers for years, that the two Pearland police officers to whom we had spoken the previous evening, and I told him one of their names, said that after interviewing Julian without me present, the allegations of a sexual, deviant, repugnant nature were worse than what I had originally thought or been told by my son. I told Officer Elton that his partner at the Pearland Police Department also told me emphatically, in no uncertain terms, that he would have gone over and “shot the guy” (referring to alleged or reported perpetrators). Clearly, I did not consider taking such advice. That really would have been—would be—truly insane.

So, after all of this, that, had been the helpful, nicer, Pearland police officer’s response on the night before, Wednesday, May 02, 2012, to my questioning him, whether or not, in his experience, my son’s allegations were true and as to what I should do about it. One must recall that said Pearland police officer to whom we made a first report as the law requires, or otherwise risk serious jail time and a fine for not reporting, and we had already called a medical doctor to be safe and protect my son’s health in case his allegations of sexual abuse/assault/misconduct, and again, Lord only knows what else, were true, also made us promise to go directly to Tomball Police Department, though the wrong one, immediately while my son “still felt like talking.”

In response, Officer Paul Elton spitefully and menacingly retorted, as he practically threw Sgt. J. Walton’s, the Harris County police officer’s business card back at me, and the police report number written on the back, “He isn’t one of ‘Ours!’” He then asked for my driver’s license. Regretfully, I let him borrow it thinking that he would act normally and return it to me after he identified me, but this was not to be the case. This also alerted me that something was very wrong.

Then, Officer Elton/Notel eagerly walked over to Matt, again, Matt with access to my quite popular valid Texas driver’s license (retrospectively, another terrifying, not fully informed, thus null and void, involuntary decision for forward looking state and joint-private venture collaborative, sustainable professions profit, but not ours) where they proceeded in a hushed football huddle to get their game plan together. The duration of the officer’s absence also alerted me to the fact that something was definitely wrong, and, naturally, I began to fear for mine and my son’s individual safety at that point. There was no contract at that point. Realizing that I had the right to re-enter mine and my son’s then primary, exclusive “managing conservator” home, which I was standing on, as was the officer and Matt, Julian and I walked right back in, but did not “run,” as would later be misrepresented, repeatedly.

Reasonably Exercising Our US Constitutional, “Civil” Rights Alleged “Child Abuse or Neglect”

No one looked or even tried to stop us—from going back inside our door to the home we were still Standing on, and indeed, had not left. Officer Elton started banging on the door with his booming fist. My son was upset and crying at this time. He, afterall, wanted to go and see “Daddy,” which I had done everything in my power save for sacrificing our life and safety and private property to help him to do, and also for the last five and half years, actually more than that. Julian’s father had only recently began picking him up after choosing to un-exercise visitation, the same visitation that he demanded going to court and battling over rather than choosing a normal, healthy relationship with myself and my son. But he had only started picking him up, I found out, immediately after February 29, 2012 final child support orders had been signed in a Title IV-D child support court managed and overseen by the Texas Attorney General’s Office of Child Support Enforcement (“OCSE”), to take him to visit play therapist, Kim Abernethy in North Houston, who was licensed, thus, monitored only by Department of Family and Protective Services for Texas (“DFPS”), a joint, collaborative inter-agency with Texas Office of the Attorney General, Health and Human Services Commission, and the Child Protective Services (“CPS”) division of Department of Family and Protective Services (“DFPS”).

Paul Elton called the local Brazoria County CPS office in Pearland that Thursday, May 03, 2012, even offering to drive or escort Matt over to the office to meet with supervisor, Cheryl Harvick, but more likely than not, this was not their first meeting, nor for Paul or Cheryl. Officer Elton alleged that I had “appeared” to be “emotionally unstable” because, essentially, I exercised my US Constitutional and natural law, divine, God-given rights over which he, nor anyone else, had jurisdiction, to stay in my home where no crime nor probable cause, nor reasonable suspicion or articulable and reasonable and rationally “related” evidence of crime or crime about to be “committed” could not have existed other than by those who organized the scheme to, among other things, subvert due process of law, both procedural and substantive, and especially equal protection of the laws with invidiously discriminatory animus, gender, and socio-economic, marital status bias with malice and decepcios.

False Allegations of Child Abuse or Neglect, Cooperation

This, Elton alleged, and harassing Brazoria County CPS worker from the bizarre call earlier that morning, her, Lesly Damian-Murray’s first response to my son’s reported trauma, to create or cause it—extortion, racketeering, fundamentally—in her Affidavit in Support of Motion for Order in Aid of Investigation of Child Abuse or Neglect, Cause No. 67979, in the District Court of Brazoria County, Texas, 300th “Judicial” District, signed by (“Hon.”) Judge K. Randall Hufstetler, filed Monday, May 07, 2012 at 10:17AM by then clerk, Rhonda Barschak. The falsely sworn affidavit signed and signed off on by Lesly Damian-Murray, her immediate supervisor, Cheryl Harvick, Karen Coblentz, and Brazoria County CPS attorney, Amanda Stricklin or Strickland (the same last name as their attorney in federal lawsuit against them), was submitted by them to the 300th court on Friday, May 04, 2012, the next day, the same day father filed for ex parte orders, again, with the same false allegations made, verbatim, “coached” by attorneys, in 2007, but now, in 2012 in spite of the fact they had repeatedly proved false in the same court—the 310th court in Harris County in Houston, Texas. Officer Elton alleged that I had appeared to be “emotionally unstable” to defend his own irrational, erratic, egregious and malicious misconduct and racketeering along with his regular co-conspirators. This was clearly not an isolated incident, and the one when I was fifteen years old, in the same town, same police officer, same type of father’s interference proves it. My mother would mother later identify Paul Elton (“Notel” spelled backward) as the officer who interfered and converted me from hers to my father’s physical possession at the age of fifteen in the same defendant City of Pearland, cruised onto the scene, making sure to be careful and sneak around the back way so as to strategically pull up on the far side of Matt’s truck. Julian and I were standing in the summer sun sweating and waiting for what we already knew would not be help, at least not for us, for, it never was with the Worrell family when they so frequently called for child protective services, police, and, apparently beforehand, their slew of Texas Super Lawyers.

He then asked for my driver’s license, which I did not know that I did not have to give him at the time. He would later fail to return it. He then walked over to Matt where they appeared to be in their football huddle for way too long, so I exercised my right to walk from the front porch of my then home right back into it with my private property, my little boy, as I had done nothing wrong, nor had I been charged or accused of doing anything wrong. By the time Officer Elton and Matt realized Julian and I had walked—not “run”—back into our beautiful, brand new townhome that had never even been lived-in before us, in a gated community, during business hours where the office was still open to grab a key for a welfare check, he proceeded, instead, to pound on our door like a rogue thug for almost an hour or so, though I was not wearing a watch at the time. My son was crying. He wanted to go with Daddy. I wanted to be able to let him go with Daddy. He played while I started reading to him aloud before he, and I both, me silently, crying ourselves to sleep to try to drown out the sound of Officer Elton’s pounding fist, or maybe it was his and Matt’s. For, Matt had been known to do the same thing, and even tried to break into the same townhome earlier that spring, after final child support orders were rendered in a different, Texas Attorney General’s Title IV-D court, presided over by “Judge,” but just a magistrate, Veronica Torres (spelling as documented).

Julian and I must have woken up after six o’clock that evening. I telephoned the Pearland Police Department to inform the same rude-sounding Hispanic receptionist on the telephone who refused to help us on the previous evening to let her know our complaint and the officer. She said that the police chief might call me back. I also asked about my driver’s license that Officer Elton had failed to return to my door, or, alternatively, in the still open office in my community with the manager who was on duty who could have also put it in my mailbox. This was customary, which I knew because my mother had been an apartment manager in Pearland since the 1980’s. The nasty, judgmental Hispanic worker dryly said that Officer Elton should have given my driver’s license back, but with no further advice on what or how I was supposed to get it back. She may be related to Judge K. Randall/”Randy” Huftstetler of the 300th Children’s Court in Brazoria County in Angleton, Texas, as there is a Priscilla Hufstetler at that same Pearland Police Department substation, I was later to find out. I never did get that call from Captain J.C. Doyle, Pearland Chief-of-Police. But if I had, my son may still be with me and may have helped to save us both well over three years of heartache through maternal alienation and financial and professional, social ruin, among other things, and legal issues besides a federal civil rights lawsuit for violation of US Constitutional and natural law rights, freedoms, and liberties, and also for conspiracy against those rights with malice and deception tinged with and motivated by invidiously discriminatory animus and gender-bias against unwed, then temporarily unemployed, by the same scheme, but never lack of education, unwed but not by choice, mother and a small, adorable, healthy, happy, fit, profoundly intelligent and talented, well-mannered and well-dressed little boy.

May 04, 2012(Friday)—

The First Exam, and the Father’s Race to the Courthouse Gate

I drove my son to Texas Children’s Hospital for a sexual assault examination by actual medical professionals as we had been advised by my son’s primary care physician, CPS Statewide Intake hotline specialists, and the emergency medical technicians in Tomball. They turned out to be a pediatric nurse who specialized in child’s sexual assault exams, and a pediatric emergency room doctor who specialized in children’s sexual assault exams. Unfortunately, it was also hospital policy for a staff social worker to be present. I would later learn that this staff social worker in particular, Sandra Rosinski-Russell, had also been the Child Protective Services (“CPS”) program, or, pogram, director for Fort Bend County CPS. She had also been a defendant in the landmark Gates v. Texas Department of Protective and Regulatory Services, case decided in 2008 in which eleven (11) children were wrongfully and unlawfully, unconstitutionally, “removed” from their adoptive parents, repeatedly. In this case, the US Fifth Circuit Court of Appeals, located in New Orleans, Louisiana, warned that police officers and CPS caseworkers in Texas (thus, necessarily also in Louisiana and Mississippi by way of federal, US Fifth Circuit Court law-making authority–jurisdiction) would no longer expect good faith (“qualified,” thus, limited) “immunity,” though they unfortunately were pardoned in that case. I also, in the much more immediate future, to learn that Sandra Rosinski-Russell, now the Man/datory Texas Children’s Hospital social worker and former defendant in a landmark case in which she acted against parents, children, and families, had reportedly been the mentor to the Brazoria County CPS program supervisor, the notoriously retaliatory, corrupt, and ruthless, sadistic legal, but unlawful, kidnapper, an, individual, now defendant in my federal lawsuit, and Julians, forced sui juris, de jure, “in propria” (unrepresented), Cheryl Harvick in Pearland, Texas. After waiting from 1:00PM until after 8:00PM to be seen at the hospital, staff social worker surfaced after the much nicer, more human nurse took vitals and asked Julian and I some questions together. The first interview with the social worker started out with, “I just need to get some demographic information from you.” She kept arguing that we were in her welfare system, but I kept informing her that was a mistake. She basically said the computer could not make a mistake, and that I was in the system, though she did look puzzled. Clearly, her welfare funding system and demographic profiling were all she cared about helping that night, but not my son.

However, it was later divulged by Cheryl Harvick, the final kidnapper in the Game a few days later, that the social worker, Sandra, did indeed at least call to make the referral—the fourth one Cheryl Harvick said she received, and blamed on me for having to get off her meaty and substantial bottom to fail to investigate, but instead to legally intervene for the alleged pedophile father with a criminal history rife with drugs and alcohol. That policy is clearly coming straight from the top, to the bottom, to be fair, though.

While waiting to be seen, between approximately 1:30 PM and after 8:00PM on that Friday night, Julian asked to call his father, or perhaps his father called first. Phone records can reveal after three and one half years. I had always said I would never keep my son from talking to his father, no matter what anyone told me, and even though Matt attacked me legally for allowing Julian to phone him, for years. That was one of the “coaching” themes they had targeted against us early-on, the Worrells and legal teams. I did not care. My son had a right to speak to his father any time he wanted in my mind. I never wanted my son to grow up or learn to resent me for trying to keep him from his daddy. I have a heart, and endless love for my son, and even for the fact that his father and I created a life together, a life which Matt never questioned that he helped to create.

Being pure of heart, clearly, however, proved to be the only disability or exigent circumstance in this case, as Matt learned from my son that we were at the hospital so that Julian could indeed have visitation with Daddy. Without informing me, though I had given Matt every chance to answer the phone and respond to e-mails inquiring as to why my son was making the allegations that he had been about his father, with no response from Matt, which was customary with any attempted communication since our child was with me, Matt, through attorney—attorner (etymology of the word attorney is attorner, in feudal, Medieval period in UK, this was an individual who “turned over” property to/for/by The Crown, of England/Great Britain)—Bruce Allen Buskirk, filed another emergency, ex parte motion for another emergency, ex parte hearing to modify custody and child support in collusion with CPS’s intended filing for termination of parental rights intervention on the same day as his hearing in Houston, Harris County’s 310th court.

Stella Cox, assistant to William Sumpter Frazier, the special (CPS) and commitment court prosecutor in the 310th on CPS Tuesdays for elected Harris County attorney, Vince Ryan, pushed the emergency motion through after a fax from a one “Debra Reyna,” who may actually be Debra Hatley, CPS program supervisor, (spellings as documented), of the Children’s Assessment Center (“C.A.C”) in Houston, which is also spearheaded by Harris County Commissioner’s Court under the executive leadership of Vince Ryan and “Judge” Ed Emmett for Children’s Commissioner’s Court.

Julian and I did not get to leave Texas Children’s Hospital until around, or just before, 10:00PM that Friday night. We headed straight for the nearest McDonald’s on the way home where he enjoyed a little bit of a Happy Meal, but enjoyed playing on the equipment in the play room even more. I was just glad it was over with, or so I thought. I was mistaken.

May 05, 2012 (Saturday)—

“Talkin’ ‘Smack’”

at the Pearland Police Department

Julian and I had to make a quick stop at the Pearland Police Department substation, again, but this time to attempt to retrieve my driver’s license that Officer Paul Elton had stolen, alternatively, maliciously and deceptively neglected to return on Thursday, May 03, 2012 at mine and Julian’s then home. Ironically, a monument to a man in uniform bending over to help a little boy and pat him on the head stands, a cold, hard metal statue, in front of the little, but modern, newly built substation. Weekly trips to the grocery store, though I now have to humble myself to ask for a ride from my mother’s common law husband, often find me passing that same statue, on “Freedom Drive,” with the feeling of bitter irony and angst at the hypocrisy of the Big Lie, America’s dirtiest little secret.

At any rate, a much nicer southern lady, who was apparently taking a smoke break out in front of the building, pleasantly greeted us on a mild, beautiful, sunny day that seemed full of hope and promise of better times. She smiled and watched us walk into the substation and wait for at least five minutes before she returned to her station to professionally greet us, again—after she finished her smoke. The lady looked through her stack of unclaimed driver’s licenses, of which she assured us, given the very strange situation that it was not returned by Officer Elton, would have to be there, and that it would be there. Surprise, surprise. It wasn’t there. Since she was the one who was quite bothered on this day, but not me, that she had apparently stumbled upon blatant officer misconduct, I tried to help her out and elaborated on the situation by explaining the scene that went down two days earlier at mine and my son’s then home just a couple miles away. The nicer lady assured me that she would make sure the chief of police—that is Captain J.C. Doyle—knew about what happened. She did not, however, inform of a way to make a complaint in writing. When Julian and I let the police station, we went on to have lunch and enjoy the sunshine and, again, try to return to return to some semblance of normalcy.

May 06, 2012 (Sunday)—

Chuck E. Cheese

I took Julian to Chuck E. Cheese to play skee-ball. Then, we rested. If only I would have known that would be our last fun or recreational activity together, we would have closed the place down.  Incidentally, those muppets, there, bear a strkingly similar countenance to those in court.

May 07, 2012 (Monday)–

Kindergarten Round-Up Pre-Registration with Julian

As a former educator whose life’s passion since she was teaching the adults in the neighborhood how to spell her name on her chalkboard was to teach, today was one of the second most important days of mine, and also Julian’s life, with me. I remember spotting these beautiful little spotted robin eggs walking into the school, which I had taken Julian to about a month earlier for a tour of the building with the principal to prepare him. His father did not respond to our invitation. Now I know why. I proudly escorted my son to kindergarten pre-registration on the morning of Monday, May 07, 2012, not knowing that our world as we knew it to exist had fallen apart without so much as a phone call or a letter to be lawfully and legally, US Constitutionally, challenged.

May 07, 2012 (Monday)—

Call to the Children’s Assessment Center (“C.A.C.”) for Counseling

I asked my regular family physician, who knew Julian and myself very well, what I should do given the circumstances and my son’s allegations. One of his colleagues said he had heard great things about the Children’s Assessment Center in Houston with regard to counseling. So, I called the Children’s Assessment Center (“C.A.C.”), though, probably due to lawsuits, they are also dubbed, one of sixty-four “Child Advocacy Centers” around Texas, to speak to somebody. I was forced to leave a message. Nobody called us back, at least, not until I was sitting in court, alone, two days later at 9:00AM, my once child permanently lost to me.

May 07, 2012 (Monday)
310th Court, Harris County (Houston, Texas)–

The Custody-Switch, Ex Parte, Never Noticed

Though I still have not been given proper notice of the incident, it now appears that on Monday, May 07, 2012, associate judge Conrad Moren in the 310th court in Harris County, presiding over these dockets under guidance and instruction of elected Judge Lisa A. Millard, rubber-stamped a piece of paper that fraudulently claims to have switched “exclusive, primary, joint-managing ‘conservatorship’”—that’s physical and legal custody to the rest of America—from me to alleged perpetrator without any chance to be heard or present evidence. Clearly, this is a null and void “order,” void ab initio, without appearance, that is, because, lawfully, thus, legally, they never happened. These orders are void due to, inter alia (among other things), implicit and explicit fraud upon the court, and utter lack of procedural and substantive due process of law absent equal protection with decepcios, conspiracy against rights, malicious intent to prosecute and terminate parental rights through incremental procedures and wrongful, statutorily required temporary restraining orders which, again, by statute, then turn into permanent orders of protection and permanent injunctions against ever seeing one’s private property or child again in what is known to the initiated as “pay-per-view” parenting in a unsupervised situation, and also through temporary orders that cannot be appealed and presume guilt under the law with zero evidence required, especially in what are considered the death Julians’ current address at the time was on file with the 310t court, and so was our correct telephone number, in addition to all other mandatory agencies that, by former binding mediated settlement agreement and child support orders, were legally required to be, but this was never enforced against Matt at any of his addresses since 2007.

May 07, 2012 (Monday)—

The Call from Cheryl Harvick and Sergeant William Lilly, or, Ving Rhames’ Pulp Fiction Foil

The first chance I had to check my voice mail messages that day was after 6:00PM. A woman named Cheryl Harvick, Brazoria Count CPS supervisor over Lesly Damian-Murray, the instigating CPS caseworker who had telephoned on Thursday before Matt showed-up with Officer Paul Elton, had apparently been desperately trying to reach me that day on that phone number. I immediately returned her call upon receiving her message, even though my son was ready for dinner after a very long day and saga that her “team” coached. When I spoke to Harvick, she said she had been busy working with someone named Sergeant William Lilly all day, reportedly, to procure a “warrant” to arrest Julian’s father. She lead me to believe that she and Sergeant Lilly, Special Crimes Against Children Unit/Bureau, but in Harris County in Houston, and perhaps others, had investigated and found Matt and “The Visitor” to be guilty, or else why would they need my “help” to talk to me to make their arrest on him the next day? Either way, I could not have refused, even if I had wanted to, “help” them since I had learned that failing to “cooperate” carried with it felony and fine—criminal prosecution.

Harvick kept insisting that Sgt. Lilly should have already called me, and that it was imperative that I speak to him immediately, though she did not use the word imperative since it is most likely not in the social worker dictionary. I remember that the feeling, much like the way the things my son told me about his father, was surreal, and almost like they could not be happening. Could my father’s son really be guilty of such a crime? He always had been the most secretive, aloof man to me that I had ever known.

Cheryl demanded, under duress, threat, and coercion, or to risk the danger of not cooperating, and losing my son permanently for that reason, that I meet her at 1:30PM the following day, CPS Tuesday, May 08, 2012 at the Pearland CPS Office. I would be forced to show-up. I added that I wanted to talk to Cheryl at such time about the misbehavior and attitude of her employee, caseworker Lesly Damian-Murray. She told me on the telephone that evening that she wanted to hear all about that, and to make sure to write everything down on paper, which I did when I was finally able to get my little boy to sleep late that evening, after all we had endured like Spartan warriors, still Standing strong and doing what we had to do, lawfully, legally, rightfully, and in good faith.

One must also understand that even before Cheryl Harvick had called me, she knew, and I also informed her and Sergeant William Lilly that evening, that I had taken Julian for a sexual assault exam at Texas Children’s Hospital, but that it was too late for any more revealing examination or evidence to be discovered internally or externally on Julian’s body.

At this point, Julian was, of course, very hungry, so I made cooking him dinner a priority. While I was cooking, Sergeant Lilly called. He sounded enraged, even more so than Paul Elton on the phone, but how could I refuse his demand to meet him the following day at the Pearland CPS office, where, by the way, Cheryl Harvick had promised my son would not be taken from me for something that did not occur when he was with me. I was coerced under duress, and terroristic threat of losing my son for not showing up at Pearland CPS office the next day to meet with he and Cheryl Harvick at 1:30PM, though 2:00PM for his alleged “appointment” with me.

Julian was in the background itching to speak to the police officer to whom Mommy was speaking on the telephone, but Sergeant William Lilly barked very loudly in a deeply southern, street slang that he did not speak to kids! Then, he hung-up the phone making me feel as if I should have apologized for bringing it up. I noticed that the phone number from which he called had a Dallas/Fort Worth pre-fix—817. Though I did not realize it at the time, with the knowledge I now know, this could have meant that he also worked for or had once worked for the Federal Bureau of Investigations out of the Dallas field office. Alternatively, or, also, it could be clear-cut proof that he was engaged in violation and conspiracy against mine and my son’s, U.S. Constitutional, “civil” rights and fundamental freedoms, rights, and liberties, among them, the guaranteed right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness (citing the federal, founding, historical, traditional, thus, applicable The Declaration of Independence (1776)).

May 08, 2012 (Tuesday)


at the Pearland CPS Office

(Brazoria County)

Julian and I arrived at the Pearland CPS office promptly at 1:30PM on Tuesday, May 08, 2012. I had expected that we might be there for no longer than thirty minutes to an hour, and looked forward to taking my son for a happy meal, again, since he certainly deserved it, and since these government Mandated errands had been dominating our lives, unnecessarily and through no fault of ours. I was so wrong.

Defendant Cheryl Harvick nervously, but firmly, greeted me, ignoring Julian before leading us immediately to a room in the back of the offices. She initiated a weak attempt to build rapport with my son, but failed. He appeared very distrustful of her, almost as if he knew what she was doing. Then, Harvick told Julian that she had to take him into another room to talk to “Mommy” (referring to me). She quickly ushered him out of the room at that point. I did not even get to hug him goodbye, nor did I know I had any reason to at that point, thinking our nightmare would soon end. Again, I was dead wrong.

Cheryl came back into the same room where she had left me sitting. In with her came Officer Paul Elton, the same one who had come to torture me and my son at our home Thursday for “visitation.” He brought his own squad which consisted of, allegedly, an “Officer Brown,” as Cheryl gave his name for him and an internal affairs detective in plainclothes, but a badge, Det. Rene Alvarado, for the City of Pearland through Pearland Police Department. Harvick then shouted at me, “I can tell you right now your son isn’t going home with you, because you will never call the Officer of Consumer Affairs of One of ‘My People’ Again,” rolling her meaty and substantial, pasty pale white neck that had the wrinkled jowls of a Shar Pei!

Then, Officer Paul Elton/”Notel,” threw my driver’s license at me and snidely remarked, “Here is our license back!” . . . “You won’t ever go ‘talkin’ ‘smack’ about me at ‘my’ [his] precinct again!”

Next, Harvick slapped down an “Order in Aid of Investigation of Child Abuse or Neglect” on the table where in front of me where Harvick and the police officers were all standing above me with menacing, intimidating looks and police in full uniform and guns and bullet proof vests, handcuffs, leather boots, belts complete with mandatory recording devices, tasers—clearly on-duty. The order had been signed by Brazoria County judge, K. Randall/”Randy” Hufstetler of the 300th Children’s Court in Angleton, Texas. Brazoria County CPS headquarter offices are right next door. Harvick claimed that the order gave her permission to have Julian transported to the Children’s Assessment Center (“C.A.C”) in Houston—the same one she knew I had already contacted to no avail for counseling—for a forensic interview for Julian which, by official policy and protocol, strict, and widely advertised rules, must be videotaped and another adult, parent present with attorney, both for support to child and parent. Harvick told me he would be back to the CPS office, but that I was not going with him, and that neither was I allowed to see him before he left.

I showed Harvick the discharge papers from Texas Children’s Hospital with diagnosis, “sexual assault,” clearly written on the papers dated May 04, 2012 from when she already knew I had taken Julian for an exam by the best professionals and specialists in pediatric sexual assault exams in Houston—the largest medical complex in the world—and also as recommended by Julian’s local Pearland family physician and emergency medical technicians whom Julian had just seen for a pre-kindergarten check-up, as well as a dentist right before all this reporting nightmare had begun. I later learned that my son’s doctor’s office opened a new location near CPS headquarters and has preferred provider referral status after expressing serious concerns and making a referral about my son’s allegations against his father and “The Visitor,” who frequently spent the night at “Daddy” and Nancy’s house (her ex-husband’s and her marital home in Tomball, Harris County).

Harvick’s response to my showing her the Texas Children’s Hospital diagnosis and discharge papers was to express anger and say that she knew the staff social worker at the hospital there very well, former defendant and former Fort Bend County CPS program director in the Gates v. Texas Department of Protective and Regulatory Services, et al (5th Cir., 2008), and bragged that Rosinski-Russell had been Cheryl’s “mentor” when she was new. Harvick admitted she made the referral, but allegedly did not believe me even though my son, not me, was the one she interviewed away from me where he corroborated every word of his earlier allegations, to each and every professional in the community to whom we were tossed around like pennies in a money jar for later emergency funding use.  Harvick said she was angry because she had interviewed my son that day at the Pearland CPS office, also separated from me, the only occasion we ever had to meet her, and that my son’s “story” was word-for-word identical to the same account he gave to everyone else. She claimed that in her then experience of twelve years (ironically, the same amount of years of experience that Matt’s first attorney, the feared and notorious family law attorney, John F. Nichols, Sr., and son, “Bo” Nichols, Jr., advertised his payrolled employee in his practice who was a former CPS supervisor, had), meant that a “child” of that age—5 ½–was “coached” because it sounded “rehearsed.”

I informed Harvick, and the Pearland police officers present, that my son had definitely displayed early signs of giftedness, especially verbally, and that it ran in our family and especially my educational history coupled with the fact that I had been a high school English teacher and had read to Julian in utero since my second week with him in my body. Harvick shockingly snapped with venomous spite, “Oh yeah, well then how come he can’t even write his name?”

She said that was what a West Pearland Kids ‘R’ Kids franchise that I had to pull Julian out of after less than a month because of the horrendous experiences we had there (not to mention Matt calling to capitalize on that situation though, in good faith, I had called and left him voice mail messages imploring him to intervene and maybe go have lunch with Julian and check out the facility to get his opinion)after recently moving to Pearland from the North side of Houston—Matt had moved forty miles away without informing us or the courts as our binding mediated settlement required on multiple occasions, though I had tried to notice him of the move when he was intentionally and consistently unavailable, much to both mine and my son’s disappointment. That daycare had included a one “Miss Tanya” calling my son “stupid” because she could not understand or was too overworked to heed my advice that Julian needed some special attention due to our recent move away from a big, beautiful home that he loved and a pre-school were he loved his teachers and friends, and because his father seemed to have disappeared, or, at best, become inconsistent in showing up for any visitation, and certainly not calling to let us know when he would choose to exercise his “joint-managing ‘conservatorship’” fatherly rights, duties, and responsibilities. Indeed, my son did know how to spell his name. He had an incident he told me about where Ms. Tanya ripped off the daily sticker (throwing it in the trash) that was my tradition to put on Julian’s hand every morning before school so that any time he missed me or felt sad, he could look down at it and know that Mommy was thinking of and missing him at exactly that same moment. The sticker also reminded him that Mommy would be back at the same place and time every day to take him home and cuddle and read with him. It was no wonder Julian did not want to hold the pencil the way she was trying to force him to do.

Harvick also apparently ignored the fact that Kids ‘R’ Kids West Broadway location in Pearland, versus the Kids ‘R’ Kids in Cypress that I transferred him to was so full that they put Julian in a class with children a year older than him, four instead of three year-olds. The owners and director or supervisor, “Dawn Melody,” just did not want to reject the $800/mo. tuition in addition to enrollment fees that is, before Julian was “kicked-out,” right in front of him with me present in the director’s office and a witness because of an “Anonymous” post they said had to have been from me (but would have had no way of knowing about if it didn’t reference Matt, but not by his name, just behavior cited as a reason why Julian deserved compassion and patience adjusting to a new environment).

Their behavior was also atrocious in that class, as observed by myself. It was also my opinion that there was blatant “reverse sensitivity” going on in the Pearland Kids ‘R’ Kids of Shadow Creek Ranch, of which I felt compelled to express on a Citysearch website for reviews that later suborned, misrepresenting, omissive, perjurist who won’t even reveal her actual name besides, “Dawn Melody,” the reported supervisor or director of Pearland Kids ‘R’ Kids, also licensed by Department of Family and Protective Services for Texas like play therapist Kim Abernethy, would use as ammunition to appear at a hearing all the way in Harris County (Houston).

May 08, 2012 (Tuesday)
Approximately 2:00PM—

Sergeant William Lilly/The Sphincter Policeman,

or, Ving Rhames’ Foil in Pulp Fiction Shows, or, Attacks

( read Lawrence v. Texas, US Supreme Court, 2005)

Sergeant William Lilly, Harris County Sheriff’s Department, Special (Sex) and Crimes Against Children Unit/Bureau finally showed. He strode into the unreasonable, unwarranted, unlawful detention and interrogation that he refused to let me refuse, and without a lawyer present like I repeatedly required in reasonable tone of voice and the patience of saint, especially given the hostage crisis and terrorism taking place under the color of law for “State” of Texas on that same afternoon of Tuesday, May 08, 2012 at the Pearland CPS Office. Lilly sat down with Cheryl Harvick, and Detective Alvarado and Officer Brown and myself. He angrily insisted that I tell him why I allegedly called him out there. At that point I reminded him that he had called me with Cheryl Harvick, but not the other way around. I said I wanted to remain silent and that I wanted an attorney present before speaking to any of them. Harvick and Lilly kept trying to get me to tell them that I had a boyfriend, but I did not, and there was certainly no one else who had lived with myself and Julian since we came home from the hospital. Lilly kept bullying me until he finally made everyone leave the room except for the two of us. He made sure they closed the door. Then, he put his leather boot up on the chair in front of me, leaned in with a glaring look of loathing in his eyes and twisted up face, nearly spitting on me, and threatened me with what would have been a “felony in the state of Texas,” for “making a false report of child abuse against a father.” I reminded him that my child had reported the allegations against his father, a man who was never even my husband, nor with whom I had even co-habitated, and who had not even been involved, at his own choice, in my son’s life until recent child support orders had been entered against him and had earlier briefed him as to the father’s criminal history and nature of his maternal alienation and kidnapping and family’s threat to ruin me for choosing to berth/birth my son, and their total abandonment of us in my pregnancy. Lilly appeared to simmer down at this point, and told me I could make this all go away so that everyone could go home to their families if I would just “confess” that I had allegedly “lied”—Lilly’s words(even though Harvick had already told me, along with Officer Paul Elton, that my son was not going home with me and that I probably would not see him again due to their retaliation against me). At that point, Sgt. William Lilly started to stomp out of the room at the Pearland CPS Office, looked back at me, pointed his finger at my face, and ominously threatened, “I’m coming back for you [me] when I [he] prove you are ‘lying!’” Then he slammed the door and Harvick and the other police officers entered.

Timelines reveal that Sergeant William Lilly never investigated the father’s home, and that Cheryl Harvick and Brazoria County CPS, in active collaboration with Sergeant William Lilly and Harris County CPS had the open Harris County sexual abuse/assault/misconduct investigation against my son’s father closed, and, to this day, Captain Paul Staton, in writing, has denied me the right to mine and my son’s police report made on the evening of May 02, 2012 with Sergeant J. Walton (at the Tomball, Texas Police Department).

May 08, 2012 (Tuesday)
Approximately 3:00PM-7:00PM—

The Shakedown 

to Try to Deceive into Signing Away Parental Rights

Now, during this time, Harvick had my son transported to the Children’s Assessment Center (“C.A.C.”) for a Sexual Assault Nurse Examination, or, “S.A.N.E.” exam. Cheryl Harvick alleges that someone named “Ekira” or “Elkira Jones” examined my son, again, but this time at their federally, county, state, and locally funded establishment, the C.A.C. However, when I called the C.A.C. on different occasions, the receptionist claimed that there was nobody by that name who worked there.

Similarly, upon filing for discovery, unrepresented, at a later time period, I found the names Connie Nelki and Christi Belluomini listed as individuals who were supposed to or did actually evaluate my son. Kristi Belluomini listed my son as normal, along with Connie Nelki, who are both psychologists licensed and employed by Department of Family and Protective Services for Texas. Contrary to policy and protocol, and being against the Confrontation Clause of the federal, US, The Constitution for the United States of America, there were allegedly no videotapes, nor recordings of exams at the C.A.C.

Harvick had interrupted her forced, coerced interrogations of me to take a phone call that she said was from someone saying they interviewed my son and said they found no evidence of sexual abuse (but they wouldn’t, and they knew that because they were aware of the Texas Children’s Hospital reports and timelines). Obviously, it was too long after alleged incidents for conclusive graphic evidence, but not direct testimonial from my son, who was obviously incredibly articulate, and without “coaching,” at least, not by his real mommy. Besides, it would have to be since defendant individual, Karen Coblentz, Brazoria County CPS program director and team Cheryl Harvick and Lesly Damian-Murray altered or manufactured and misrepresented and omitted evidence by changing “Cody Bogan’s” report, which was the second of three or four of them from different mandated reporters and professionals between Wednesday, May 02, 2012 and that fateful day that will live in the infamy of my mind on CPS Tuesday on May 08, 2012, from a Priority Level I, required for all allegations of sexual abuse, to Level II (the difference was a required response from 24 hours changed to 48-72 hours.

Harvick did admit to me on the same day of Tuesday, May 08, 2012 at the Pearland CPS office, however, that my son had told her that a “teenager with black, spiky hair” was at “Daddy” and “Nancy’s” house when Harvick allegedly, but out of my site, if at all, conducted an oral interview at the Pearland CPS office with Julian.

They continued to get me to sign over my parental rights to the Worrell family, Julian’s Uncle Brian and Aunt Carey and their two small children, near Clear Lake, Texas, one of the last stops before Galveston Bay on the Gulf of Mexico where Brian was a real estate broker with his own firm, and Carey was a stay-at-home mom, allegedly with a Harvard law degree, who clerked for Judge Samuel Kent, a local federal judge in the US Sothern District of Texas, Galveston division, then, briefly, Houston, who was impeached for sexual harassment in 2007, the year my son was born. I told them if I did that, I would never see my son again, and had been telling them and tried to get them to read the journals in my car which documented years of legal abuse, false allegations that proved false, vexatious litigation against me, but not the other way around as they tried to alleged, calling police and cps for years, which they obviously knew, kidnapping, and secreting my child, and worse, by all of Matt’s family that began only days after he was born. They did not care. Their conspiracy had clearly already been set in motion.

Harvick, Lilly, and Elton, with the added intimidation and pressure of the presence of “Officer Brown” and Detective Alvarado, kept trying to get me to tell them I had a boyfriend and accused me of not being able to support myself and Julian, which I assured them I had paid the bills alone and lived alone with him all those years. Obviously, Matt had planted a seed about my old friend who attended the birth of my son when he had refused, and even to my friend to begged him to come to the birth for me before my son was born, to no avail. Cheryl had already told me in the first few minutes we were alone that she planned on permanently giving Matt full custody and terminating parental rights, and that “Randy,” she meant, (Hon.) Judge K. Randall Huftstetler, 300th Children’s Court in Brazoria County, did “whatever she told him to do,” and would the following day in court. I informed her and all officers about Matt trying to coerce abortion, then adoption after it was too late, and even threatening mine and my son’s life in pregnancy for not terminating “it.” Cheryl made her notations that I was a “Christian,” which she would later emphasize to the associate judge in a Harris County court, but not Brazoria. Abandoning a mother and child and failing to financially support them in pregnancy is grounds alone for termination of parental rights by their precious Texas Family Code.

I also let her know that Matt had said he had another girl pregnant at the same time as me, though he could not be trusted as, in my experience with him, he had been a pathological liar and the most secretive person I had ever known. She knew his name was not on the birth certificate because he did not even attend his own son’s birth, his only child. Cheryl condescendingly opined in her southern, country-fried, overblown accent, the shriek of a wild Harpy from HEL_, that that was common for girls like me in my circumstances. Neither did she, nor any of the police care about Matthew James Worrell’s December 2005/2006 felonious conviction, reduced from Felony I to misdemeanor, for driving under the influence and driving while intoxicated when, on December 18, 2005 in the area of Jersey Village in Houston, Texas (Harris County), he was pulled over in his black convertible Mercedes Benz with five identifiable illicit substances that included alcohol over the legal limit in his blood, which had to be drawn since he was the one who had a history or pattern of failing to cooperate with police. I informed them that the same police stop and subsequent conviction amounted to intention to distribute large amounts of “M.D.M.A.,” street drug name, “Ecstasy.” Harvick and the officers ignored me even though I, not Matt, was apparently on the chopping block for, as usual, non-disclosed allegations against me to try to re-direct attention away from his crimes and malicious prosecution against me. I also told them that Matt had most recently abandoned our son for one hundred fifty-six days, though I think I later calculated, consecutively, one hundred fourteen days of the demanded court-ordered, “joint-managing ‘conservatorship’” for his mother, Diane Worrell’s benefit. He had no-called, no-showed, and never explained, nor communicated.

Likewise, in spite of our repeated attempts to get him to comply with notifying us when he did plan on exercising his paternal rights, duties, and responsibilities, he wholly and consistently failed in this legally ordered requirement as well. Harvick said that did not make sense because now Matt said he wanted to see his son. Defendant Harvick and defendant and other present Pearland and Harris County police officers present refused to look at the suitcase full of journals that documented over six years of history that implicated their preferred vendor client, Matthew James Worrell and family’s unconscionable cruelty and mistreatment—abandonment, harassment, intimidation, violence, coercion, kidnapping, interference with child custody and access, child enticement, an idea that William Lilly himself suggested I should have prosecuted Matt for, even though I was too busy working and raising our son to bring frivolous litigation like Matt loved to do. I let them know that Matt and his family did not even call on birthdays or holidays, but I always sent cards and school pictures to his family, anyway, without response. I let them know about the extreme maternal alienation the Worrell family perpetrated against me during Matt’s modified, extended, by infrequently exercised periods of visitation—“joint-managing ‘conservatorship,’” since Julian was as little as three or six months old, but without the right to determine my son’s primary residence.

So, though this seemed to be a family courtroom, at the Pearland CPS office, on CPS Tuesdays on May 08, 2012, just one day after I pre-registered my son for kindergarten to begin in the fall, still, nobody noticed me that associate judge Conrad Moren in Harris County, but not Brazoria County, had reversed primary managing conservatorship on the previous day. Still, nobody has notified me of the ex parte custody-switch, other than the piece of paper I sought out, but did not know existed when I was to later attempt to defend myself in what would be yet another family/criminal court gender war, or, “custody battle.”

Harvick told me that my then five year-old son, but not at least twelve or older, as she lied about in later court papers, allegedly told her, but not in my presence, that Julian allegedly wanted to stay with “Uncle Brian.” Paper work I would discover later revealed that Carey Worrell, Uncle Brian’s wife, was the pre-arranged medical consenter for my son for pre-arranged temporary sole managing conservatorship by CPS until they falsified a non-existent investigation on Matt.

The Shakedown to Try to  Deceive into Signing Away Parental Rights

Now, during this time, Harvick had my son transported to the Children’s Assessment Center (“C.A.C.”) for a Sexual Assault Nurse Examination, or, “S.A.N.E.” exam. Cheryl Harvick alleges that someone named “Ekira” or “Elkira Jones” examined my son, again, but this time at their federally, county, state, and locally funded establishment, the C.A.C. However, when I called the C.A.C. on different occasions, the receptionist claimed that there was nobody by that name who worked there.

Similarly, upon filing for discovery, unrepresented, at a later time period, I found the names Connie Nelki and Christi Belluomini listed as individuals who were supposed to or did actually evaluate my son. Kristi Belluomini listed my son as normal, along with Connie Nelki, who are both psychologists licensed and employed by Department of Family and Protective Services for Texas. Contrary to policy and protocol, and being against the Confrontation Clause of the federal, US, The Constitution for the United States of America, there were allegedly no videotapes, nor recordings of exams at the C.A.C.

Harvick had interrupted her forced, coerced interrogations of me to take a phone call that she said was from someone saying they interviewed my son and said they found no evidence of sexual abuse (but they wouldn’t, and they knew that because they were aware of the Texas Children’s Hospital reports and timelines). Obviously, it was too long after alleged incidents for conclusive graphic evidence, but not direct testimonial from my son, who was obviously incredibly articulate, and without “coaching,” at least, not by his real mommy. Besides, it would have to be since defendant individual, Karen Coblentz, Brazoria County CPS program director and team Cheryl Harvick and Lesly Damian-Murray altered or manufactured and misrepresented and omitted evidence by changing “Cody Bogan’s” report at headquarters in Austin, which was the second of three or four of them from different mandated reporters and professionals between Wednesday, May 02, 2012 and that fateful day that will live in the infamy of my mind on CPS Tuesday on May 08, 2012, from a Priority Level I, required for all allegations of sexual abuse, to Level II (the difference was a required response from 24 hours changed to 48-72 hours.

Harvick did admit to me on the same day of Tuesday, May 08, 2012 at the Pearland CPS office, however, that my son had told her that a “teenager with black, spiky hair” was at “Daddy” and “Nancy’s” house when Harvick allegedly, but out of my site, if at all, conducted an oral interview at the Pearland CPS office with Julian.

Meanwhile, still a the same ranch—the Pearland CPS office—Harvick and the same Pearland police officers were joined by another in Pearland police uniform, Paul Elton’s snide buddy who waltzed in eating out of a bag of potato chips remarking rudely with Elton and Harvick how much they wanted to go home, already while they unlawfully detained me and kept me permanently, as had earlier been expressed would permanently be and remain the case, separated from my private property, the living, breathing, divinely inspired, creative, intellectual, physical and corporeal manifestation of my own body and spiritual and physical, soulful being.

This police officer seemed quite irreverent for someone who alleged to have been a victim of child sexual molestation himself. He rejected my efforts to have him speak to my son, which showed he did not care in the slightest about my son’s alleged abuse by his father, which leads me to believe this new, known, unnamed DOE police officer was lying. He and Officer Elton babysat me for Cheryl Harvick for awhile. They both told me, “Of course the father is guilty.” Officer Elton then started “talkin’” his own brand of “smack,” maliciously remarking, “but you can’t go around acting like a ‘basketcase’ (for crying)!”

By this time, my mother, Grandma Sue, and her common law husband, had arrived, as I had called them, and brought my son a “Happy” meal from McDonald’s while I had gone home (only a couple miles away from the Pearland CPS office) for around an hour, to try to pack my son’s little Diego bag with clothes, toys, his mini-size Bible, and his favorite woobie blanket (quoting the classic 1980’s movie, Mr. Mom, which starred actor Michael Keeton)—items his father Donna Everson, child’s CPS/court-appointed guardian ad litem (“GAL”) later took away from Julian, even though they were sentimental items, that, according to CPS, are supposed to be afforded every child.

I returned to the Pearland CPS office with my son’s items because it was apparent the police were, though unconstitutionally, permanently seizing my son. They refused to listen to reason. They were very angry that I had not signed over my parental rights, and, even though, when Cheryl Harvick finally told me in front of Officer Paul Elton that I was a horrible parent for “putting my son into foster care”—the only other choice to signing over my parental rights, to allow the Worrells to legally steal my son, AGAIN, under the color of law, I asked through a screen of tears and begging if it was too late to “consent” to “Uncle Brian” and “Aunt Carey’s” “plan” to take my son for an indefinite period of time that Cheryl Harvick said there was no way she could or would put in writing for me. She started to respond just before Officer Elton cut her off. Elton shouted, “It’s too late, you have kept us here long enough.” . . . “We want to go home and have dinner with our families, already!” Harvick told me that she had called “Uncle Brian,” and that he refused to agree to take my son because, allegedly, she said, they were “too scared” of me. Interestingly, my mother, Sue Saloom, had listened and watched Harvick, along with George, my mother’s common law husband, to whom Harvick kept agitatingly referring to as my mother’s “paramour,” in subsequent court documents, George Treibel, as Harvick allegedly dialed “Uncle Brian” (Worrell) and “Aunt Carey’s” (Worrell’s) phone number. No one answered the telephone. Cheryl Harvick had not spoken to Brian, nor to Carrie Worrell, Julian’s paternal aunt and uncle, at least not on that evening when Harvick said she did. They had been aware of Matt’s attempted kidnapping and conversion with Julian’s paternal grandmother, Diane Worrell, right out of the hospital.

Next, Harvick made a scene out of bringing George, to whom she referred as my mother’s paramour, into the same CPS solitary confinement/forced interrogation/torture chamber/STAR chamber where I was crying. Harvick shouted, “I want your “step-father,” to see you cry because you put your son in a foster home. She said she hoped I did not get any sleep that night. Officer Paul Elton chimed in, “ I know I won’t have any trouble sleeping tonight!”

Entrapment, Hood-Winked, Again


May 08, 2012 (Tuesday)
Approximately 5:00-5:30PM—

The Process Server, “Destiny”

While all this had been going on at the Pearland CPS office, a few of the police officers were standing in the hallway outside of the room where I sat. Officer Elton/”Notel” obnoxiously made sure I heard him comment, “Oh, it sounds like someone is joining us.” . . . “ I don’t know who it could be,” and started laughing with his police officer buddies. He then looked down at his phone or pager that was attached to his belt (the one required to be recording). All of the original officers, with the exception of Sergeant Lilly, were present, to the best of my recollection.

A process server, dressed in shaggy, baggy, denim jeans, a tank top, flip-flops, no make-up, and a pony-tail, a girl who could not have been much older than eighteen or twenty, “Destiny,” strode into the same STAR chamber at the Pearland CPS office. She asked if I was “joni saloom.” The service return reads that it came into her hand at 1:30PM that afternoon, May 08, 2012, and was executed at CPS office at 9307 Broadway Street, Suite 201, Pearland, Texas in Brazoria County. Destiny Johnson, according to the certified document, signed the Officer’s Authorized ‘Person’ Return to the 310th court in Harris County on Wednesday, May 09, 2012; It was also notarized.

The police officers came into the room at that time, so that I was forced, coerced, into saying that i, being natural (wo)man, an individual, was a “person” called by the state for their undisclosed, registered, fraudulent purposes of which I was not made fully aware in a timely and fully sufficient way that would indicate I “understood” the consequences, thus, null and void, ab initio, without appearance, though at the time I did not know that matter of law.

The document, a materialized piece of déjà vu from 2007 proceedings, the difference in pre-determined outcome being that I had a lawyer in 2007, included a Citation and Notice to Appeal along with Emergency Protection Orders and Emergency, Temporary Restraining Order, and Petition to Modify the Parent-Child Relationship, with a signed (and sworn, perjured, libelous, malicious affidavit against me by Matthew James Worrell, Julian’s “presumed or adjudicated father” in the 310th court of Harris County). The same allegations had proven false in the same court, and elsewhere, over-and-over, and with CPS in subsequent years, not to mention in m careers and in the living proof of my son who was healthy, happy, intelligent, and adorable—undisputed, “normal,” even by the child psychologist, Connie Nelki’s one stock CPS report to the court, and Donna Everson’s, the child’s dual-role appointed guardian and attorney ad litem. Nevertheless, Matt’s malicious and deceptive, manipulative allegations were verbatim, the same. No proof was ever offered, nor any articulable evidence or probable cause or even reasonable suspicion of a crime committed or about to be committed before they would have had time to go to court for a valid warrant. Besides, my son was permanently kidnapped, or, “removed,” absent court order or warrant specifically to remove him from my parental custody, control, and management, absent any allegations of exigent circumstances for remaining in my home that I provided for Julian, and absent “voluntary consent,” the US Constitutional and US Fifth Circuit Court jurisdictional standard required by law, and all of them (read Meyer v. Nebraska (1922), Pierce v. Society of Sisters(1925), Stanley v. Illinois (1965); Santosky v. Kramer (1982), Wallace v. Jaffree (1985); Troxel v. Granville (2000); Gates v. Texas Department of Protective and Regulatory Services, et al (5th Cir., 2008).

The document commanded—coerced—me to appear under terroristic conditions of duress, threat, and coercion, or to otherwise have Harvick’s promise that I would never see my son again come true, in the 310th court the following morning, but neglected to give an address where I was supposed to appear, and nobody would tell me. The address had changed from the old family law building in downtown Houston, though I would not have had good cause to know that. Officer Elton added that he was going to be forced to go to court to tell them what he knew as a witness, but did not tell me “what he knew,” if anything. Sergeant Lilly actually showed-up the next day, taking a picture of my cleavage, though he was wearing dark sunglasses the whole time and was dressed in plain clothes this time, smacking chewing gum.

May 08, 2012 (Tuesday)
Approximately 7:00PM—

Permanent Kidnapping “Notice,” After the Fact

Cheryl Harvick, Brazoria County CPS program supervisor, proceeded to write up a “Notice of Removal” (without proper notice or court hearing) to kidnap my only son and convert my private property under the color of authority of law for the state of Texas. On it, Harvick substantiated her own claims of “emotional abuse,” for allegedly telling my son that he was abused (without any evidence), for “neglectful parenting” (without any evidence save for that which implicated her crime), for allegedly subjecting my son to her second, unnecessary sexual assault exam, an “adult situation” which she said qualified, and, finally, she alleged that it appeared that it was a possibility, “mentally unstable,” though she did not bring this part up to me. I discovered it later.

Targeted, Marked, Registered:

Chained to the “Digital Plantation”

In Texas, as in most other states, a substantiation of child abuse lands one on the central registry to preclude employment through the following known, named databases as mandated by Texas Family Code and other state equivalent codes, which are not necessarily laws–local, state, regional, national ,databases to include, but not limited to, The National Centers for Missing and Exploited Children database, Department of Homeland Security, National Crime Information Center, Texas Crime Information Center, the Federal Bureau of Investigation, which is an inter-agency also with the US Postal Inspection Service, the Central Intelligence Agency, and the Health and Human Services and State Attorney General’s offices “collaborative joint inter-agency” web/database, and this substantiation is even entered into the National and also individual State Highway and Transportation and Safety databases such as the Texas Department of Transportation, and also to local police department databases where, if, for example, one is pulled over or sighted who is on this list, it must be reported to these literally KGB, FBI trained CPS harpies, oftentimes who have no other former education, other than from government social services. In these integrated databases, which have now also integrated internationally as well, documentation never disappears itself, though those who end up on the list frequently do, . . . get “disappeared,” targeted, sometimes even marked for death or “suicided” if they won’t go away. Certain cases are coded as such to alert that their, and those, children, in particular, sometimes the ones whose files end up in the locked black file cabinets in the very back room of CPS offices, or, test/demonstration sites for “profit centers” selected by Department of Justice and other federal, state block, regional, state, local, and county and non-governmental organization (“NGO”) and clearly for-profit, non-for-profit research projects that rake in billions a year.

Trafficking does not begin to describe the nature, spirit, and essence of what goes on to create, and, thus, to steer the grant funding for the information contained in those files which are rumored to be accessible only to men who, sometimes weekly or bi-weekly, sometimes less frequently, but whenever they need or want access to them, come in and extract the files without any unwanted oversight. This has been reported by former CPS workers and insiders—public knowledge and information, or, alternatively, hearsay or speculation.

The informed reader must comprehend that Cheryl Harvick does not have any medical training, nor is she a psychologist. If anything, I have more collegiate training in psychology and also psychopharmacology than Cheryl Harvick, which is well-documented. In fact, Cheryl and Paul Elton admitted to mental or emotional instability and also through their actions. Elton, on that same evening, earlier, while he was babysitting me, actually confessed that he was forced to undergo counseling at his then age of thirty-seven years old. Cheryl Harvick’s confession exists in article entitled, “Fostering Abuse,. . .” published and online by The Houston Press, byline by Margaret Downing, March 27th or 29, 2003, which chronicles her malicious greed and retaliation—severe child abuse—against the peace and dignity of the state, making her a “danger to everyone in it,” as she would later make the same statement at final, unnoticed bench hearing in the 310th court in Harris County against me. The difference is in the comprehension. What Cheryl meant when she went to court to give such impermissible, but allowed, hearsay, speculation, unfounded opinion and fact not yet in evidence against me and Julian and our once happy lives together, she was really saying to the judge and all sundry court employees, “Mrs. Worrell is a danger to our livelihoods because she might possibly expose our corruption and she is not mentally unstable—people may believe her.”




May 09, 2012 (Wednesday)—

Double-Teamed by Matt and CPS,

in Court

At approximately 7:30AM the morning after kidnapping my son like a wild dingo who just ran off with baby, Cheryl Harvick Called my then mobile telephone as I was getting on the freeway to try to find the right court to show-up for for the 9AM docket. Harvick, much nicer than the previous evening, almost apologetically, in a deceptive manner, demanded that I bring her copies of my son’s birth and immunization records to the Pearland CPS office. One needs to understand that she had told me my son going to foster care the day before, and that he had been permanently “removed” as of 1:30PM on what came to be known as CPS Tuesdays in court, but on May 08, 2012—before any court hearings or notice. Nobody had alleged the required “imminent,” immediate danger requirement specifically for remaining in my physical and legal custody, in Texas, artfully schemed or termed, “conservatorship.” Since I did not want to appear uncooperative, or like a lawbreaker, I backtracked, coerced, again, under duress, threat, or to not even have the chance to challenge my son’s kidnapping or removal. I was forced to rush back to the Pearland CPS office on Broadway in rush-hour morning traffic. There, Harvick and her underling, Lesly Damian-Murray, Brazoria County CPS caseworker, who I met that morning face-to-face for the first time, made copies of select documents that proved I was the permanent “sole manager” of julian-jacob worrell of family Saloom, or, “worrell,” as they kept falsely referring to me as “Mrs. Worrell,” ignoring my polite corrections both in and out of court, and all of the collaborative court co-conspirators, though I did not yet realize the conspiracy as a conspiracy.

After frantically finding my way to the hearing in the 310th Court in the new “’Civil’ Building” in downtown Houston, Harris County, on-time, the court, presided over by associate judge Conrad Moren for elected Judge Lisa A. Millard and Harris County Attorney’s Office via special prosecutor, William Sumpter Frazier for Vince Ryan, and his assistant, Stella Cox, usurped non-existent jurisdiction over my son’s case. I was not allowed to speak, nor to contest that, nor to have an attorney present, though I demanded and required it before the hearing to William Sumpter Frazier, appointed guardian ad litem for my son, and attorney ad litem for him, Donna Everson, and also associate judge Conrad Moren, though I informed that I was indigent, or could not afford an attorney. This was uncontested from both Attorney Bruce Allen Buskirk for Matthew James Worrell, petitioner, and was also uncontested by “intervenors,” Cheryl Harvick, Lesly Damian-Murray for Brazoria and Harris County CPS, and William Sumpter Frazier for them and the 310th Harris County Court and County and Children’s Commissioner’s Court for Vince Ryan and Ed Emmett.

Cheryl Harvick ordered associate judge, Conrad Moren, to terminate my parental rights to my son on-the-spot. She admitted, in response to Moren’s question, that there was an existing, open case out for sexual abuse of my son against the father who brought the case. Harvick, at that time, ordered or “recommended” that all rights and the child be turned over immediately to father, Matthew James Worrell, alleged perpetrator. I showed Conrad Moren my son’s Friday, May 04, 2012 discharge papers with diagnosis that read, “sexual assault,” from Texas Children’s Hospital. May 04, 2012 was the day the father filed for modification, and also the same day Damian-Murray, Harvick, and Brazoria County CPS with signed approval of Karen Coblentz and attorney Amanda Stricklin/Strickland, with the assistance of William Lilly, from Harris County, ordered Judge K. Randall/”Randy” Hufstetler, judge for the 300th Children’s Court in Brazoria County, located in Angleton, Texas, to sign, without notice or hearing, an order in aid of investigation for alleged failure to “cooperate” with CPS/police in an alleged, but never initiated investigation, which documentation proves (in line with unconstitutional CPS differential response policy in effect at the time).

Cheryl Harvick perjured herself and falsely testified under sworn oath on court record, that I was “dangerous, mentally unstable, and also falsely alleged that I ‘ran from police’ along with a lot of other multiple party, impermissible, themed hearsay—slander at best, and also suborned perjury to make money for the court. She hinted to the judge that she was committing conspiracy, but not me, in order to stick with her intervening theme of a paranoid Christian.

Associate judge, Conrad Moren, ordered my son into the “temporary sole managing conservatorship” of CPS, but, due to CPS order back to him, gave them his, but not my, permission or involuntary consent to allow me and my son to donate “kinship caregiver” funds to Brazoria and Harris County CPS and the Texas Attorney General’s and Health and Human Services Commission joint, inter-agency and Child Support Surplus Fund by converting physical custody to the presumed paternal, documented, proven baby-snatching grandmother, Diane M. Worrell, who lived right around the corner from Matt Worrell, alleged perpetrator.

Harvick informs me at the end of the staged event that she will be re-directing my child support for Julian (but did not tell me it went right back to the Texas Office of the Attorney General).

May 22, 2012 (Wednesday)—

Queens Abandon Ship at Bench

Before my son’s case was called, William Sumpter Frazier and Donna Everson approached me and commanded me to follow them outside of the courtroom. Reluctantly, I did so, again under duress, threat, and coercion, or possibly never see my son again as Harvick had promised the previous day at 1:30PM. They snobbishly said they were willing to “give you [me] the opportunity to work with CPS while you [I] work on ‘your problems.’”

To Sumpter-Frazier and Everson I calmly and confidently stood my ground and replied that before I said anything, I wanted to speak to a court-appointed lawyer, which I said I knew was my legal right. I added that the only thing that we had to “talk” about was my son going home with me immediately (on that same day, though of course, he was not present in court in spite of his right to speak to judge at all meaningful times when his place of living was to be discussed at all). The dynamic duo of William Sumpter Frazier and Donna Everson, who worked together in that courtroom every CPS Tuesday to terminate parental rights and solicit adoptions and CPS “helping” services and child support surplus and county and judicial slush retorted angrily, “No Way!” Then they said, “Let’s just see what the judge says” about that court-appointed attorney,” and stormed off in a fit.

I heard Donna Everson, CPS/court-appointed dual-role guardian and attorney ad litem (GAL/AAL) for my son advising Matt and Nancy Worrell to call Jane Burstain, whose name I quickly recognized as an adoption policy specialist/lobbyist in Austin, regarding their situation. Matt’s then lawyer, Bruce Allen Buskirk, was present.

Judge Lisa Millard began to preside at bench on Wednesday, May 22, 2012 before jumping ship when she glanced at the case history on the computer screen and proceeded to re-schedule the full adversary hearing/”show-cause” hearing on why my son should remain in CPS custody or, alternatively, be returned home to me. Everyone in attendance, including Matt Worrell, made a point to object on to Judge Millard hearing the case on that day, except for me. It appeared staged, ex parte. Judge Lisa Millard had ex parte communication on that morning with William Sumpter Frazier before calling the case when I heard her remark in open court that his CPS had skipped some steps. Then, Sumpter-Frazier raced up to the bench to ask her if she had seen “the tape” (referring to the Title IV-D, The Social Security Act court recording from February 29, 2012 final child support orders rendered by Judge Veronica Torres in the family law building across the street that Torres made a point to sell to the fathers before all hearings).

This, by the way, was a tape I had never seen, nor was I ever informed about, nor that it would be used against me for whatever Sumpter Frazier, again, ex parte, appeared to be implying. Before getting off the bench, Millard refused to to look at any of my evidence and promised to look at it next time and said she would try to help “you,” then she corrected herself nervously, and said, “all of you,” next time—re-scheduled hearing May 29, 2012. Scheduling orders were rendered in the case against my motion for hearing for scheduling orders with counsel and judge (without my knowledge or input, but with Matt’s and CPS attorney and judges).

Regarding that court-appointed lawyer I directly, but politely required of Judge Lisa A. Millard on that day, she said we could take care of that at the next hearing.

Both father’s then attorney, Bruce Allen Buskirk, and Assistant County Attorney—D.A.—310th court’s William Sumpter Frazier, in spite of my proffering of my suitcase full of evidence against their clients, including “Matt James Worrell,” my very polite demand for full disclosure of evidence in court before hearings.

Before each and every hearing or alleged trial, I showed the official court recorder the full case styling and very politely required court recording for my use. Each time he told me he was complying with my requirement, but then later denied me each and every recording and even a quote for a transcript for each one, at Donna Everson and associate Judge Conrad Moren and elected Judge Lisa A. Millard’s corrupt, conflicted obstruction of justice, among other high treason and crimes as fiduciaries to the public. The court recorder actually told me on one occasion that I would not be able to afford it, and on others, to have the court-appointed lawyer he knew I was being denied contact him. The court clerk/case steering agent for the 310th was equally complicit at all times material and relevant, though, due to orders being void ab initio, they appear to have impersonated public servants.

Letter Dated May 22, 2012:

Shortly thereafter I opened a letter mailed from Cheryl Harvick and Lesly Damian-Murray (approved by Karen Coblentz) at the Pearland CPS office for Brazoria County. The letter read that “investigation” of alleged abuse or neglect reported on May 02, 2012 that involved one or more children in your [my] family and made the following “findings”:

“Saloom, Joni F.—Emotional Abuse, Reason to Believe

Worrell, Matthew J.—Neglectful Supervision, Unable to Determine

Saloom, Joni F.—Neglectful Supervision, Reason to Believe

Unknown 1—Sexual Abuse, Ruled Out

Unknown 3-Sexual Abuse, Ruled Out

Unknown 1-Sexual Abuse, Ruled Out

Unknown 1— Sexual Abuse, Ruled Out.”



Multiple Employer Benefit Program

ARC Chart Below:


1. Academy of Special Needs Planners
2. ARC (Non-Profit Corporation)
3. Municipal District
4. Court System


1. Title IV-D (Attorney General)
3. Judges
4. Bank of America and JP Morgan Bank
5. Psychologists / Home Study Experts
6. Special Needs Attorneys
7. Abusive Parent
8. Our Children
9. Protective Parent
10. Law Enforcement
1. The Court orders Alternate Dispute Resolution (ADR)
2. The Special Needs Attorney determines the wealth of the family
3. One of the parent becomes the target of the courts, DFPS, and law enforcement
4. To obtain evidence the Court orders a psychological exam and a home study
5. The Court utilizes the evidence to build an adverse case against one parent
6. The build a stronger case DFPS testifies in Court about the TI’s drugs, abuse, mental instability
7. Judge removes conservatorship rights
8. Special Needs Attorney assumes temporary guardianship using the temporary guardianship form
9. Working in cooperation with DFPS and the ARC program – the children are labelled with special needs
10. A trust fund is established by the Special Needs Attorney vis-a-via the ARC
11. Bank of America and JP Morgan Bank then invests the money or borrow against assets
12. The trust fund is overseen by the municpal districts and the Title IV-D Office

Outcome $$

1. Pooled Trusts
2. Liens
2. Domestic and international 501C corporations

William Blake, Dante's Gates of Hell (1826)-8x6
“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!”
[“Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate!”]
(Dante Alghieri, The Divine Comedy, Inferno, 1308-1321)

May 29, 2012 (CPS Tuesday)—

The Full Adversary Hearing, or, Show Cause Hearing:

The Point of No Return in a Termination of Parental Rights (“TPR”) Hearing

The Death Penalty

Before the hearing began, I made an oral motion for associate judge presiding, Conrad Moren, to appoint an attorney for me for what was a termination of parental rights “intervention,” but had been filed as a “modification” by the father on the same day—conspiracy.

Associate judge, Conrad Moren, was very short with me, and abruptly fired back, “You can ask for that at the next hearing,” even though this was the point-of-no-return hearing in a termination of parental rights case in which your private property sometimes described as “child” or “children” get returned to you after CPS assured you that he has been legally kidnapped and he will never be coming home with you again because the alleged, “presumed or adjudicated father,” with no proof, does not allow it. Conrad Moren proceeded with the hearing against my consent or appearance, and without jurisdiction. All orders are void ab initio, but try explaining that to the police, who, in many places, are now barred from being hired if they have an intelligence quotient that measures above 100 as a literal policy matter—exceptions are sometimes made for supervisors.

Matt and Nancy brought an old man to the trial as a witness for him who, along with his wife, had recently adopted a baby, apparently in their fifties or sixties, to testify that he knew about Matt’s past history as a drug addict and alcoholic, or, with “problems,” but somehow thought Matt would make a good father. He was also one of Matt’s former employers, and current co-contractor for commissions, on knowledge and belief.   When associate judge Conrad Moren asked this man’s qualifications to testify with Matt, he replied that he had just adopted a baby.  Case Closed.

Cheryl Harvick made sure to get her Order to Re-Direct Child Support rubber-stamped by presiding associate judge, Conrad Moren(back to the Texas Attorney General’s Office/Texas Child Surplus Report).


April 2013

Houston, Texas

Federal Lawsuit Filed

Violations and Conspiracy Against US Constitutional, “Civil” Rights
in the US Southern District of Texas, Houston Division

Fast-forward to October 2015

Threatened that if “Conspiratorial ‘Ramblings'” Didn’t Cease, I would be Thrown into a “Nut House”
Informed that Alleged Contract, Alternatively, Someone Else’s “Conspiratorial ‘Ramblings,'” on Me Had Been “Traded,” through Several Hands
Cross Reference the (Karen)Anderson v. Hoverson Case Here in Sacramento, 2013, Murder of Mother and Little “Llama” Lured into the Lake, as Reported or Alleged

Cross Reference Blood and Money, The Joan Robinson Hill Case in Houston, or, really, just the case steering $1,500 fee racket behind part of it