Giving back control: What Mental Health Care Bill, 2013 means for the mentally ill

By Asif Kalam

What might it mean for people who live with mental illnesses to be given control over how they will receive medical care? The Rajya Sabha recently passed the Mental Health Care Bill, 2013, which aims to safeguard the rights of people with mental illnesses. It prioritises choices made by patients, and replaces the archaic Mental Health Act, 1987. One of the Bill’s significant new provisions is the Advance Directive, which allows persons living with mental illness to create a document with instructions on how they must be treated and cared for in the event that they are incapacitated by an episode of illness.

The Bill also allows individuals to nominate a representative to take treatment decisions on their behalf if required. Mental Health Review Boards (MHRBs), quasi-judicial bodies that will be set up in every district, will be entrusted with the certification, custody, review, and arbitration of Advance Directives.

Representational image. AFP

"Part of the terror of mental illness is losing control over your mind, and knowing that you will probably lose even more as you grow older,” says Sneha, a 30-year-old writer based in Bangalore, who is bipolar. “To be able to write advance instructions for one’s treatment helps give back some of that control," she adds, when asked about what it might mean for her to be able to make these decisions for oneself. Manisha*, a 26-year-old writer who lives with borderline personality disorder, seems to echo this when she says, “Having a treatment plan in place — even if it’s as simple as a document stating whom to call, what I do not consent to under any circumstances, whom to treat as my next of kin, what my psychiatric and psychopharmacological history is, who my doctors are — would be a level of visibility and explicitness I’d be grateful for.”

Both Sneha and Manisha say that they are willing to go through the process of paperwork to get these Advance Directive documents in place. This is despite how long the process sounds — they both insist that it is important that the directive allows them to maintain control over their treatment. Manisha says she would do it despite not being clear on how the logistics of such a plan would come together. Sneha also mentions that she is willing to and will need to keep updating it, based on the new developments that take place in her illness, its treatment, and her own world view.

Stakeholders we spoke to were in broad agreement that the Bill seems to be a step forward. It has finally decriminalised attempts to commit suicide, and mandates that governments provide affordable, quality, geographically accessible mental healthcare. Vandana Gopikumar, co-founder of Banyan, a mental health NGO for women, sounded hopeful when she said, “I’m happy that the Bill takes into account the large service gap and mandates access to care as a right. This will address the needs of many who live in low resource contexts, who today have to travel long distances to access care, or often forgo treatment in the absence of a functional health and social care system.”

But while the Advance Directive is seen as greatly significant in recognising the autonomy of people for their treatment and care, some policy experts and rights groups are sceptical. Section 11 of the Bill allows doctors and relatives of a person to approach the Mental Health Review Board (MHRB) to revoke or modify the Advance Directive under certain grounds.

Jayna Kothari, lawyer and co-founder of the Centre for Law and Policy Research, argues that the power of Advance Directive is seriously undermined by Section 11. She says, "On one hand the whole provision is to give people with mental illness the right to autonomy and to recognise that they have capacity to take decisions for their own lives. If those decisions that they have made for themselves can be challenged, then you are basically saying that you can make a decision that we can revoke because we know better.”

The grounds on which other parties can challenge an Advance Directive include considerations of whether the person was well-informed, and had the capacity to take the decision. Manisha says, “No matter how distressed or incapacitated I might be at a particular time, I — and the people I trust — know what’s likely to help me and what’s definitely likely to make it worse.”
Kothari argues that in the case of patients who require treatment for other non-mental-health related illnesses, there is no such provision to challenge their decisions, so why is there a lack of patient autonomy in mental health care? “You don’t even raise these grounds for people in non-mental-health situations,” she says.

When asked how she would react if she learnt that her Advance Directive had been overturned, Manisha says, “I’d be unsurprised but bitterly angry. It’s a question of autonomy and self-determination. In some cases this sense of autonomy and self-determination is hard-won. I’d be shattered to realise that having a mental illness somehow translates to my ownership of my life not mattering.”

*Name changed on request.

The Ladies Finger is a leading online feminist magazine.

Finding love in an ableist world | Latest News & Updates at Daily News & Analysis

Gargi Gupta

In a society where the dice is heavily loaded against them, the differently-abled find that the insensitivity and ignorance they battle daily get amplified when it comes to romance and marriage. Gargi Gupta gets a sense of the challenges they face and how they cope

Preeti Monga was just six years old when she lost her vision. What followed next is a story more or less common to most differently-abled people in India – or used to be back in the 1960s, when Monga was growing up in Amritsar. She was chucked out of school in class VIII, and married off at 23 – "’Arrey, hamare baad koi toh ho isko dekhne wala (There should at least be someone to look after her after us),’ my parents thought," says Monga.

Except that it didn’t happen that way; her husband turned out to be abusive and a compulsive liar. That would have stumped many a woman, especially a visually-challenged one with two children. Not Monga. She got back to school, sat for the class X board exams via open school, learnt aerobics and started her own classes. Then, after becoming economically self-reliant, she filed for a divorce. "But I didn’t want to spend my life alone. I wanted romance, I wanted a partner," she says with disarming candour. And so, she proposed to a colleague she liked. Monga, at the time, was sales manager with a pickle brand. "He was ten years younger and said no. So I asked him again and again every day for 22 days until he said yes," she laughs. "When you want something, you should be ready to go for it. There’s nothing to feel shy about."

Preeti and Ashwini completed two decades of marriage this September.

It’s a heart-warming story, but Ashwini Monga is an exception in a country where the differently-abled battle staggering degrees of insensitivity and ignorance, attitudes that get amplified manifold when they seek a partner, someone to fall in love with, or marry.

More hurdles for women

Sweta Mantrii, a 29-year old freelance writer, editor and documentary filmmaker in Pune who has spina bifida, a condition where the vertebral column bones do not cover the spinal cord entirely. Mantrii studied in a regular school, has an MBA in communications management from a reputed private institute, worked and lived by herself in Mumbai for a year before coming back and has many friends, male and female. Yet, six years ago, a distant relative, presumably invited by her parents to help in their search for a groom for Mantrii, asked her to "Show me how you walk".

That was about six years ago, and her parents are still at it. Mantrii isn’t against marriage; she would like, like many girls her age, a partner, home, love, companionship. But it’s been a difficult quest marred by rejections and jolts to her self-esteem. Families of prospective grooms, says Mantrii, have "implied" to her parents that they expected a financial incentive in exchange for marriage.

"The problem is our social conditioning. Even men with disabilities expect to marry an able-bodied woman," says Versha Kewalramani, 29, a corporate lawyer in Mumbai who has a rare skin condition called epidermolysis bullosa, characterised by skin blisters. Kewalramani speaks of a gendered bias in marriage prospects of the physically-challenged. "While a man, if educated with a well-paying job, expects to marry an able woman, a woman is expected to only marry someone with a disability," she says. Kewalramani, by her own confession, has a "liberal, well-to-do" background, grew up in cosmopolitan Mumbai, went to a regular school and has a mother who pushed her to go out, travel the world, get a career and be independent. She’s just broken up with an able-bodied man she’d dated for a few months. This was her second boyfriend – her first had been a differently-abled man with whom, too, she broke up after a few months. "We found that we our personalities didn’t match," she says.

Romantic liaisons such as Kewalramani’s, with or without marriage in mind, may be fairly common especially among white-collar professionals in cities, but it is practically unthinkable for the differently-abled. As Mantrii found to her cost, her able-bodied male friends were fine with friendship, but were hesitant when it came to romance.

For those from somewhat conservative backgrounds, it’s often their own inhibitions that get in the way. "Unfortunately, most differently-abled people have a poor sense of dignity and self-worth, which gets in the way of finding happiness with a partner. And it’s the parents themselves who are responsible for not giving them a sense of self-confidence. Disabled members of a family are often not invited to come out and interact with visitors – as if they are a shame on the family," says Monga, who also counsels the differently-abled, including couples. "If their own families don’t give them confidence, then how do you expect them to overcome their inhibitions and take a chance with happiness?"

Neha*, a 29-year-old accountant with a real-estate firm, exemplifies such diffidence. Polio-affected and wheelchair-bound, she is apprehensive about marriage. "At home, I have everything to cater to my needs. My family is sensitive and cares for me. I am independent. I don’t know whether another person or family can be as sensitive to my problems. I’d rather be unmarried than find myself in an unhappy relationship. I am lucky my parents agree with me about this," she says.

Women with disabilities may have the dice loaded heavily against them, but men also face constraints when contemplating marriage or finding a partner. Forty-one-year old Ankur Dhir, who runs a small stationery business in Delhi and suffers from muscular dystrophy, says the thought of marriage has until recently been far from his mind. "It’s not just my disability. I first need to earn enough to support a wife and family before thinking of such things," he says. "It was hard because my parents died when I was young and I had little support. It’s only in the last two years that I feel I have the income and a household to offer a partner."

Blame it on the infrastructure

Others like Jatin Agarwal*, a software consultant in a Gurgaon MNC, want a partner who understands them and share the same values. "I’d like to get married to a differently-abled girl because I feel only someone who is differently-abled herself can understand me. But I also would like someone who is educated and independent and will fit in with my family," says Agarwal, who’s registered on several matrimonial sites in his search for a bride.

"The problem, even in cities, is that there are so few places where the physically-disabled can meet and interact," says Kalyani Khona, co-founder of Inclov, a matchmaking app for the differently-abled and people with long-term illnesses. Inclov launched early this year and runs an off-line initiative, Social Spaces, where the differently-abled who’ve registered on Inclov can meet. Khona, just 23 years old, points to her own difficulties in finding a public space with requisite accessibility facilities for the event: "How many restaurants in the city have ramps and toilet facilities for the disabled, or passageways wide enough for wheelchairs? In a place like Delhi, there are just one or two like that."

The discourse on the differently-abled, says Preeti Monga, has until now been largely limited to inclusive schools and colleges and making sure they find employment. "These are important, but more important, I feel, are avenues for social networking. After all, what’s the point if you don’t have friends or a family to come home to?" she asks.

It is needs like these that Inclov are helping to meet. In just nine months, the app has notched up 4,000 registered members and brought about one marriage. Monga herself runs a similar initiative called Fusion, which brings together the differently-abled and able-bodied so they can network for jobs or romance.

These are, as yet, isolated and periodic efforts. Inclov has had six such meet-ups in Delhi, Mumbai, Chennai and Bangalore, while Fusion meets have been held only in Delhi until now. But both Khona and Preeti Monga recognise the initiative needs to reach into small town India to be really effective. Inclov, for one, instituted an "ambassador" programme under which it will support anyone who volunteers to organise a Social Spaces meet-up. Monga, meanwhile, is trying to get the Rotary Club, with its wide network, to support Fusion so the differently-abled can take part in their meetings.

The idea is to get the differently-abled out and about, interacting with those like themselves and others, gaining in confidence. Marriage or romance can follow.

(*Names changed on request)

| Sun, 4 Sep 2016-06:35am , Mumbai , dna

Reforms and the disabled

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Javed Abidi

The history of codification of the rights of the disabled coincides with the era of reforms.

Any assessment of the economic reforms of the past 25 years could well do with some understanding of their impact on people with disabilities in India. Indeed, in view of the negligible levels of participation of people with various impairments in economically productive activity, the influence of these sweeping policy changes would seem at best minimal. In the event, even the staunchest critic of liberalisation would have to acknowledge that the greatest legislative and policy changes since Independence that affect such a large section of our population have been initiated in the post-privatisation phase. A plausible explanation of this post-protectionist paradox may be found in the need for greater regulation under more market-oriented conditions.

Codifying rights for the disabled

Most curiously, the history of codification of the rights of people with disabilities coincides more or less with the commencement of the era of economic reforms. Even though legal guarantees enshrined under the Constitution were read into judicial and executive decisions during earlier decades, they were notably few and far between, informed largely by an ad hoc approach to addressing issues, or at times a spillover from an activist judiciary.

It was the landmark Persons with Disabilities (Equal Opportunities, Protection of Rights and Full Participation) Act, 1995, over four years after the reforms, which stipulated specific provisions concerning equal opportunities to basic education, employment, and accessibility. Every policy advance, or its absence, witnessed since that path-breaking legislation has turned on these three fundamental ingredients critical to a better quality of life. Since the passage of that comprehensive law, the lot of the disabled had moved, one might say, from a mode of thinking akin to the Directive Principles of State Policy discourse, to a more robust, Fundamental Rights approach to matters.

Any serious evaluation of what people with disabilities have gained in these past 25 years would probably have to begin with showcasing the political will India’s leadership displayed to generate the very tools to arrive at such an independent and impartial assessment. That was the bold decision the National Democratic Alliance government took to canvass disabilities in the 2001 decennial population census. The real import of the measure becomes apparent when we consider that the 1981 census was the lone exception to the otherwise routine exclusion of this category from the countrywide exercise since Independence.

As per the 2011 enumeration, India is home to 26.8 million people with disabilities, whereas other estimates put the figure at about thrice that number. Census 2011 also shows that 54.5 per cent of people with disabilities in India are literate — a 5.2 percentage point improvement over the previous decade.

Jobs and the open economy

Under liberalisation, employment opportunities have expanded into the private sector, almost unthinkable hitherto. Employers such as ITC, Lemon Tree Hotels, Mphasis, Wipro, and so many others have seen the economic wisdom behind playing on the strengths, rather than the impairments, of our manpower. Notable here are also the equality and diversity norms that the corporate sector is beginning to incorporate in its hiring practices. It would be hard to overlook the direct benefits flowing from the adoption of an open economy in these respects.

In the arena of state employment, the more industrious and enterprising among the disabled have, aided by the Supreme Court’s proactive interpretations of the equal opportunities provisions in the 1995 law, entered the corridors of the administrative services. There are athletes with disabilities who have brought laurels to the country. Access at polling booths seems to have become almost irreversible since the apex court’s landmark 2004 ruling stipulating easy access through ramps. The greater visibility for disability-related concerns in our media is also part of this broad picture of inclusion, howsoever restricted.

The Government of India has ratified the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities and corresponding domestic legislation is in the making. Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s flagship initiatives such as the Sugamya Bharat Abhiyan — designed to bridge physical barriers — are encouraging signs. Yet, they cannot conceal the impatience among disabled people with the glaring disparities that stare us in the face every day.

The census and other data discussed above in fact capture this dismal reality. Of the literate among the disabled, only 8.5 per cent boast a graduate degree, as per the 2011 census. A mere 21.1 per cent of Indian schools adhere to inclusive education for children with disabilities; just 1.32 per cent of teachers have been equipped with the relevant special skills training. This finding of a survey by the National Council of Educational Research and Training points to the challenges in relation to employability. As much as 73.9 per cent of disabled people in the employable age are either non-workers or marginal workers.

These are the numbers that should worry us, and prod us into action. Women with disabilities are most vulnerable to exploitation, as also people with psycho-social impairments and those hard of hearing. The revised National Building Code of India and the corresponding revision of State bylaws can potentially break many of these barriers provided elements of universal design are incorporated.

Javed Abidi is Honorary Director of the National Centre for Promotion of Employment for Disabled People and founder of the Disability Rights Group.

Hindu

Grammys 2016: Stevie Wonder calls for disability rights

Stevie Wonder: Grammy Awards

Stevie Wonder: Grammy Awards

Stevie Wonder teased Pentatonix members at the Grammy Awards for not being able to read braille as they presented the award for Song of the Year, since the results were only written in braille: “You can’t read it,” he taunted in a sing-song voice as they laughed. “You can’t read braille.”

But Wonder turned the presentation into a teaching moment when he got serious for a minute and said, “I just want to say, before saying the winner, that we need to make every single thing accessible to every single person with a disability.” Wonder then announced that the winner of the award was Ed Sheeran for the song “Thinking Out Loud.”.

The blind soul singer is well-known for his advocacy of disability rights; in 2009, he was appointed as a United Nations Messenger of Peace with a focus on persons with disabilities. Wonder met with Secretary General Ban Ki-moon in 2013 to deliver a statement on goals for disabled people and their communities around the world; in particular, Wonder pushed for greater access to books for visually impaired people.

CBSNews.com – Breaking News

Gehlot promises disabled-friendly ramps at airports, rly stations, hosps

Thaawar Chand Gehlot

Thaawar Chand Gehlot

Amravati: “Artificial limbs with total flexibility, which would enable the disabled to walk, write or even play normally, would be manufactured in Kanpur in collaboration with German and England-based companies. The unit would start functioning in six months,” said Thaawar Chand Gehlot, Union minister for social justice and empowerment, on Sunday.  “Disabled persons are integral part of human resources. They have the right to lead a good life. To give them this opportunity, there is need for public participation in governmental efforts,” he added.

The minister also spoke about Sugamya Bharat Yojana wherein his ministry plans to provide disabled-friendly ramps in 100 multi-storeyed buildings in 50 big cities. “This facility will also be made available at all airports, railway stations, hospitals or whosoever demands it,” the minister said. Gehlot also said that medical certificates bearing unique identification number would henceforth be issued to the disabled.  Paying his maiden visit to the city to distribute equipment worth Rs 60 lakh to 1,044 disabled persons at a function organized by District Disability Rehabilitation Centre director Kishor Borkar at Sant Gadge Maharaj Vidyalaya, Gehlot said that a revitalized social justice ministry is committed to bring about a change in the lives of the disabled persons with its transparent functioning, effective propagation of schemes and elimination of corrupt practices.

Gehlot said that his ministry has provided various equipment to over 3.75 lakh beneficiaries in last one-and-a-half years. “We organized over 350 camps in 26 states and of these I personally attended 100 mega camps wherein equipment worth over Rs 1 crore each were distributed.  Though Amravati did not fully meet the criteria fixed for holding a mega camp, I made it a point to visit this camp, he said.

He said that persons with more than 80% disability would be provided with motor tricycles. “Initially, we had planned to distribute 1,000 motor tricycles, costing Rs 37,000 each. We have already achieved the target. To meet the extra demand, we have decided to give Rs 25,000 subsidy and we are approaching MPs, MLAs and donors for the remaining amount,” he said.  Praising the disabled sportspersons who brought laurels in the international events, the minister announced to set up national sports centres at five places. “Punjab, Andhra Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh have already given land for the purpose,” he said.

MLA Sunil Deshmukh, MP Anand Adsul and Guardian Minister Pravin Pote also addressed while Borkar delivered introductory remarks and also submitted a memorandum of demands to Gehlot. On the occasion, Gehlot felicitated deaf and dumb Juned Khan Salim Khan, a city footballer, who represented India at Los Angeles.

TOI

An able beach for disabled

Roxy Gagdekar
Tithal beach, Valsad.

Tithal beach, Valsad.

Tithal beach in Valsad district of Gujarat will become India’s first disabled-friendly beach. Preparations are on to open the 1 km stretch of the beach by June, which will have open access right up to the waters with disabled-friendly food courts, washrooms and entertainment area. Tenders were recently floated for the project that will include construction of slopes with no barriers or steps and installation of detailed signage so that the disabled can reach the water without any assistance. Construction on the 3- km long beach will be made in two phases.

In the first phase a kilometer long stretch will be converted for the handicapped while the 2-km second phase will be taken up later. The project will be another first under the Gujarat model of development. Talking to Mirror, Valsad collector Vikrant Pandey said this is the first-ever effort by the state government for a disabled friendly beach. “It will be first of its kind beach in India,” he claimed. The beach is currently a famous tourist spot with thousands of visitors every week. However, the disabled people are not able to use it at present.

The government will spend Rs5 crore in the first phase. “We will have ramps and railings from the parking area to the water,” Pandey said. He also said the construction has been planned after taking inputs from disabled people. The bathrooms and changing rooms will be accessible via wheelchairs and the food counters will be lower in height to serve the disabled. “The disabled visiting the beach will not feel discriminated in any way,” he said. The idea for the project was derived from central government’s Accessible India campaign.

Pandey had recently organised a mega camp for the specially challenged in Valsad under the slogan “Aao Milkar Saath Chale (United we walk)”. The camp was organised last month to give a single window solution to the problems of specially challenged people of the district. About 60 of them secured employment in various corporate firms. Talking about the state government’s initiative of constructing disabled-friendly beach, Chairperson of West Asia International Council for Education of Children with Visual Impairment Bhushan Punani said this is a welcome move by the state government. “I believe this is the first step towards making India accessible to all. Our students at Blind People’s Association go for beach picnics while on tour.

However, the physically challenged only sit at a distance while seeing others having fun. Hopefully, this will change and the initiative will prove particularly beneficial to people of Gujarat and Maharashtra. Nafisa Barot, executive director, Utthan congratulated the state government but raised an apprehension saying “hope that the planners are planning this beach in consultation with disabled people, who are eventually going to use it”. She commented, “I am glad to see sensitivity for disabled people in the government, but it should not be limited to tokenism. The construction should be such that the disabled can really make the most out of it.” Nirmal Kumar, founder of G-Auto, said the move will inspire confidence into the disabled to plan visits to such places.

Latest Comment

Yes. The Disabled too Need Access to Such Places. Good Initiative.Vishnu Swaroop Kyanam

Talking to Mirror, Alkesh Rathod, a disabled youth, said he and his friends plan vacation every year but he always refuses to go to a beach as it becomes arduous for him to negotiate his wheelchair in the sand. “However, I will be among the first to visit this beach once it’s ready,” he said. Chandni Vasudev, a disabled girl, commented till now she has always avoided public places like beaches. However, she would be thrilled to visit Tithal beach once it’s ready.

WHAT IS AN ACCESSIBLE BEACH?

Services and environment at the accessible beach suit the people with disabilities and create no discrimination. The beach is designed in such a way that a person with disability can access it without any assistance. The disabled have access to all the facilities that normal people use. 10 most wheelchair-accessible beaches
» California, USA » Virginia, USA » A-One Pattaya Beach Resort, Thailand » Sirens Resort, Loutraki, Greece » Freedom Shores, Isla Aguada, Mexico » Hanauma Bay, Honolulu » Cancun, Mexico » Key Largo, FL, USA » Manly Beach, Australia » Tuscany, Italy

Ahmedabad Mirror

The Strange Case of Anna Stubblefield, New York Times

She told the family of a severely disabled man that she could help him to communicate
with the outside world. The relationship that followed would lead to a criminal trial.

By DANIEL ENGBEROCT. 20, 2015

Anna didn’t want to keep her feelings secret. As far as she knew, neither did D.J. In recent weeks, their relationship had changed, and it wasn’t clear when or how to share the news. ‘‘It’s your call,’’ she said to him in the lead-up to a meeting with his mother and older brother. ‘‘It’s your family. It’s up to you.’’

When she arrived at the house on Memorial Day in 2011, Anna didn’t know what D.J. planned to do. His brother, Wesley, was working in the garden, so she went straight inside to speak with D.J. and his mother, P. They chatted for a while at the dining table about D.J.’s plans for school and for getting his own apartment. Then there was a lull in the conversation after Wesley came back in, and Anna took hold of D.J.’s hand. ‘‘We have something to tell you,’’ they announced at last. ‘‘We’re in love.’’

‘‘What do you mean, in love?’’ P. asked, the colour draining from her face.

To Wesley, she looked pale and weak, like ‘‘Caesar when he found out that Brutus betrayed him.’’ He felt sick to his stomach. What made them so uncomfortable was not that Anna was 41 and D.J. was 30, or that Anna is white and D.J. is black, or even that Anna was married with two children while D.J. had never dated anyone. What made them so upset — what led to all the arguing that followed, and the criminal trial and million-­dollar civil suit — was the fact that Anna can speak and D.J. can’t; that she was a tenured professor of ethics at Rutgers University in Newark and D.J. has been declared by the state to have the mental capacity of a toddler.

Anna does not agree with this assessment. She does not deny (as no one could) that D.J. is impaired: His cerebral palsy leaves him prone to muscle spasms in his face, his neck, his torso and his arms and hands. She acknowledges that it’s hard for him to stay in one position, that muscle contractions sometimes twist his spine and clench his fingers in a useless ball. It’s clear to her, as it is to everyone, that he has trouble making eye contact and keeping objects fixed in view. She knows that he wears diapers and cannot dress himself; that he can walk only if someone steadies him; and that otherwise he gets around by scooting on the floor. She knows that D.J. screams when he’s unhappy and chirps when he’s excited, but that he can’t control his vocal cords. Anna understands that even now, at 35, D.J. has never said a word.

But she takes issue with the other half of D.J.’s diagnosis: that he’s not just spastic but has a very low I.Q. In 2004, five years before Anna met him, a clinical psychologist named Wayne Tillman, who consults for New Jersey’s Bureau of Guardianship Services, assessed D.J. and found that his impairments precluded any formal testing of intelligence, but that certain facts could be inferred: ‘‘His comprehension seemed to be quite limited,’’ ‘‘his attention span was very short’’ and he ‘‘lacks the cognitive capacity to understand and participate in decisions.’’ D.J. could not even carry out basic, preschool-­level tasks. A few months later, a court made P. and Wesley his legal guardians.

From the time she met D.J., Anna thought Tillman had it wrong. D.J. might be unable to speak or hold a pencil, but those are motor skills, not mental ones, and their absence didn’t mean his mind was blank. What if D.J. had a private chamber in his head, a place where grown-up thoughts were trapped behind his palsy? Then, of course, he would fail the standard tests of his I.Q. — tests made for people who can answer questions verbally or read and write. What D.J. needed was another way to share his deep intelligence.

At the request of D.J.’s family, Anna began to work with him, using a controversial method known as ‘‘facilitated communication.’’ Starting with her hand beneath his elbow, she helped him point at pictures, and then at letters, and eventually at the buttons of a Neo, a hand-held keyboard with a built-in screen. With his hand in hers, she helped him type out words after 30 years of silence.

Wesley and his mother had been thrilled with D.J.’s progress, but now, suddenly, they recoiled. (Neither D.J.’s family nor Anna agreed to be interviewed for this article; all their quotes and recollections are drawn from court records and testimony. P. and Wesley are referred to by a middle initial and a middle name to shield D.J.’s identity, which has not been publicly revealed.) When Wesley told Anna he thought she had taken advantage of his brother, she could not muster a response. At last, with her help, D.J. began typing: ‘‘No one’s been taken advantage of. I’ve been trying to seduce Anna for years, and she resisted valiantly.’’ Then he typed another message, meant for Anna: ‘‘Kiss me.’’ Wesley walked out.

Later, after he told Anna that she wasn’t to see his brother anymore, she tried to plead her case by phone: ‘‘I will put in writing, prick my finger and sign with blood — whatever makes you reassured that this is for real,’’ she promised in a voice mail message. ‘‘I will leave my husband, and I will make a permanent life and home with [D.J.].’’

But the family had had enough. What at first struck them as a miracle — a voice for D.J., his inner self revealed — now seemed a fraud. D.J. could not have given his consent to any love affair, they later told the authorities, because he suffers from profound mental disabilities, just as the psychologists had always told them. His ‘‘messages’’ must have been a sham. If Anna pretended otherwise, it was only so she could use D.J. as a guinea pig for research, or to further her career, or because, as Wesley would later say during the three-week trial for sexual assault that concluded this month in Newark, ‘‘she was having some sick, twisted fantasy.’’

Anna has never wavered in her claim that she and D.J. fell in love and that his messages were his. Even after she was indicted, she seemed more concerned about his fate than her own. ‘‘In the spring of 2011, [D.J.’s] access to his means of communication was taken from him,’’ she wrote in a chapter for a recent academic book, which was published while the justice system creaked its way toward trial, ‘‘and he is once again treated as severely intellectually impaired by those who have control over his life. This chapter is dedicated to him, in hope that he will one day regain his voice and his freedom.’’

Marjorie Anna Stubblefield goes by her middle name, pronounced with an aristocratic a, as in the word ‘‘nirvana.’’ Her last name is her former husband’s. Years ago, she was Margie McClennen, an honours student who grew up Jewish in the nearly all-white town of Plymouth, Mich. ‘‘I was raised to believe that I have the responsibility of tikkun olam, repairing the world,’’ Anna wrote in her 2005 book ‘‘Ethics Along the Colour Line.’’ As a high-school student, she put that lesson into practice, writing articles for the school newspaper — one about a classmate who became pregnant, and another about a press-­freedom case involving Plymouth students. Each won a national award. While a sophomore, Anna played the title role in a town production of ‘‘The Diary of Anne Frank.’’ ‘‘Marjorie just was Anne Frank,’’ says Elyse Mirto, a fellow cast member who is now an actor. ‘‘You know that famous quote — ‘I still believe, in spite of everything, that people are truly good at heart’? That was Marjorie.’’

Her parents were involved in local politics, environmentalism and women’s rights, but their most enduring cause was that of people with disabilities. Each trained in special education for their Ph.D.s. Her mother, Sandra McClennen, started working with blind, cognitively impaired children in 1963. For decades, she taught disabled people social skills, like shaking hands and talking appropriately with strangers, in the hope of helping them move out of state-run hospitals and into community housing.

Anna shared this interest in disabilities: As a high-school student, she studied Braille and learned the alphabet in sign language. But as a junior academic, she would apply the mandate of tikkun olam to a different focus — the fight for racial justice. Since getting her Ph.D. in 2000, she has become a prominent scholar in the field of Africana philosophy, has published widely on race and ethics and has served as the chairwoman of the American Philosophical Association’s Committee on the Status of Black Philosophers — the first and only white scholar ever to have done so. ‘‘Our world is in shambles,’’ she wrote in ‘‘Ethics Along the Colour Line.’’ ‘‘White supremacy is central to this state of affairs, and we cannot repair the world without ending it.’’

Her own family is mixed-­race — she has two children with her ex-­husband, Roger Stubblefield, a black tuba player and classical composer. For 11 years, she served on the faculty at the Newark campus of Rutgers University, whose student body is among the nation’s most diverse. Yet for all her work on behalf of African-­Americans, she worried that she might be ambushed by the ‘‘habits of racism.’’ ‘‘Even in well-­intentioned quests to be antiracist,’’ she wrote, ‘‘white people all too often invade or destroy the space of non-white people.’’ The same essay lays out what could be a thesis statement for her whole career: It is crucial, she wrote, for white philosophers ‘‘to wrestle with the horrors and conundrums of whiteness.’’

Those ‘‘horrors and conundrums,’’ as Anna saw them, formed the nexus of oppression she had sworn to fight in all its forms. As the years went by, her mission seemed to broaden and merge into her mother’s. By 2007, Anna had begun to argue that a person’s intellect — and the degree to which he or she is ‘‘disabled’’ — could be as much a social construct, as much a venue for tyranny, as race, gender or sexuality. It was, after all, white elites, she wrote, who first devised measures of I.Q. ‘‘as both a rationalization and a tool of anti-black oppression.’’

With this shift in her scholarship, Anna began to wrestle not just with race but with disability; not just with racism but with ableism. If poor, black Americans were the most vulnerable members of society, she wrote in 2009, then poor, black, disabled Americans — men like D.J., born with cerebral palsy, raised by a single mother, seemingly unable to communicate — were the most vulnerable of the vulnerable. Voiceless in both fact and metaphor, she said, they were the ones ‘‘whom we push so far to the margins of our society that most of us, regardless of race, do not even notice when they fall off the edge.’’

By the time that warning made it into print, Anna had been working with D.J. for about a year. This was her mitzvah and her tikkun olam. She was helping to repair the world.

When D.J.’s brother finished his dissertation, he included a dedication to his family: ‘‘Mom, I stand in awe of your strength and grace,’’ he wrote. Wesley also put in a message to his little brother: ‘‘[D.J.], you never cease to amaze me.’’

Wesley graduated from high school in 1993, then enrolled at Rutgers. He was always very close to his brother, whom he sometimes calls ‘‘Baby Bubba.’’ By the time Wesley was named one of D.J.’s legal guardians, he had earned a master’s degree in history; in 2009, he was on track to get his Ph.D. and in one of Anna’s courses. During class, Anna showed part of a 2004 Oscar-­nominated documentary called ‘‘Autism Is a World,’’ narrated by Julianna Margulies and co-­produced by CNN. The film described a nonverbal girl with disabilities and an I.Q. of just 29 who went to college after learning to type using facilitated communication, or F.C. The girl reminded Wesley of D.J., and after class he went to Anna for advice: Could his brother also learn to use a keyboard? Anna said she had attended a three-day workshop on the technique the year before and maybe she could help.

One Saturday not long after, Wesley and P. took D.J. up to Anna’s office in Conklin Hall. In preparation for their visit, Anna had cut out pictures from magazines and drawn on index cards. ‘‘In which room would you find a stove?’’ she asked, laying out four cards showing a kitchen, a bedroom, a bathroom and a laundry room. ‘‘Please don’t be insulted,’’ she added quickly. ‘‘I assume you know the answers to these questions.’’

D.J. couldn’t name the pictures or gesture at them on his own. It seemed to Anna that he would try to point and then freeze up and lock his hands together. So she used the method that she learned during the workshop. First, she placed her hand beneath his elbow to stabilize his arm and found that, with this help, he could pick out the picture of the kitchen. Then she asked him to show her the president of the United States, and D.J. pointed — still with her support — to a photo of Barack Obama. Now she used her other hand to tuck his pinkie, ring and middle fingers lightly under hers, as if their hands were spooning, with just his index finger sticking out. From this position, she introduced a set of letter cards and finally a keyboard. ‘‘It was clear he knew the alphabet and could spell simple words,’’ she said later. ‘‘He was a fast learner.’’

P. took D.J. to Rutgers every other Saturday and then asked Anna over to her house for more facilitation. ‘‘I would get excited: ‘Did he do something?’ ’’ P. said. ‘‘I tried to contain myself, but [Anna] said I was distracting him.’’ At one point, Anna had to make P. leave the room.

That fall, P. took more than half a dozen mothers of children with disabilities — friends from her support group — to meet with Anna and learn about facilitated communication. (One soon began working with Anna.) ‘‘I thought it was the best thing since sliced bread,’’ P. said.

Wesley was enthusiastic, too. When he met other users of facilitated communication, he noticed that D.J. was among the very few who weren’t white and didn’t come from some degree of privilege. ‘‘I was proud,’’ he said in court. ‘‘Who wouldn’t be?’’ His brother ‘‘was the Jackie Robinson of F.C.’’

The method that Anna used with D.J., and with several other clients at the time, was devised some 40 years ago to help a girl with cerebral palsy named Anne McDonald. Born in 1961 to a family that ran a dry-­cleaning business in a railway town 60 miles north of Melbourne, Australia, she came out feet first, with signs of foetal distress. For the first hour of her life, she could not breathe on her own. At 3, she was given a diagnosis of spastic quadriplegia with severe mental retardation and sent to the St. Nicholas Hospital for children with profound disabilities.

Even as a teenager, McDonald was small enough to fit into a baby stroller and weighed less than 30 pounds. Her eyes were often crossed, and her arms, neck and tongue remained in constant motion. When Rosemary Crossley, then an assistant at the Mental Health Authority, first saw McDonald, she was bone thin and writhing on the floor. Neither McDonald nor any other child had toys or wheelchairs, Crossley has said, and they weren’t getting an education, either. ‘‘Just the floor and a cot,’’ is how she remembered it.

In 1974, Crossley selected McDonald and seven other children for a special play group. She called them ‘‘bean baggers’’ — most were so physically disabled that they could sit only in beanbag chairs. Three years later, she turned the play group into a communication study. Her plan was to ask the kids to point at objects, photographs and words, and thus find a way for them to voice their basic needs. She started with McDonald: ‘‘ ‘Annie, I think I can teach you to talk,’ ’’ she recalls in ‘‘Annie’s Coming Out,’’ the memoir she wrote with McDonald. ‘‘ ‘Not with your mouth … but with your hands, by pointing to pictures of things.’ ’’

The problem was that McDonald had a lot of trouble pointing. When she tried to move her arm, Crossley wrote, it would ‘‘shut up like a rabbit trap,’’ sometimes snapping back against her face. Crossley realized that she would have to keep it balanced. ‘‘I was acting as a responsive item of furniture, not moving her arm but simply facilitating her own movement.’’

The supported pointing worked brilliantly. Now, McDonald could pick out word-blocks and form sentences like ‘‘I want a book, please.’’ Just two weeks into this training, Crossley took out a magnetic board with letters on it to see if McDonald could spell things on her own. Less than a week later, McDonald pointed to the letters ‘I’ and ‘H’ and then to 11 more, producing ­‘‘IHATEFATROSIE.’’ ‘‘This is the first sentence Annie ever spelled,’’ Crossley wrote. ‘‘Annie had freed herself.’’

After a month, McDonald demonstrated a familiarity with local politics. In two months, she was doing fractions. It all happened so quickly that some of Crossley’s colleagues wondered if her assisted pointing might be a fraud. Perhaps Crossley had controlled the children’s hands herself, guiding them to shapes and letters in the way that people move the pointer on a Ouija board.

Crossley had the same concern. ‘‘What I did not know was whether I was subconsciously manipulating her,’’ she wrote, ‘‘or imagining her hand movements over the letters and making up sentences to fit what were really random twitchings.’’ But she became convinced that the method worked after McDonald started spelling things with other people — including references to private jokes that no one else could have known. How had she learned so much so fast? She had worked out the rudiments of language by watching television and overhearing nurses’ conversations. She had learned arithmetic by counting slats on the barriers that enclosed her cot.

Soon after McDonald turned 18, she went to court for the right to leave St. Nicholas. In a proceeding, she was shown an arbitrary pair of words — ‘‘string’’ and ‘‘quince’’ — while Crossley was not in the room. Then she had to spell them out with Crossley’s help. ‘‘String’’ and ‘‘quit,’’ she wrote. Not exactly right, but close enough. The judge accepted the method and ruled that McDonald was competent to make her own decisions. Addressing the press right after, she spelled: ‘‘Thank you. Free the still imprisoned!’’ McDonald went on to graduate from college and died at 49.

The philosophy that drove Crossley’s work, one of radical inclusion, was gaining traction in the world of special education. In 1984, the same year that ‘‘Annie’s Coming Out’’ was made into a movie, Anne Donnellan, a professor at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, published a sort of manifesto for disability rights. An academic paper called ‘‘The Criterion of the Least Dangerous Assumption,’’ it advised teachers on how to treat disabled children: When you assume they will never function as adults, when you shunt them into special classes and give them toys meant for younger children, you make them victims of your meagre expectations. It’s better to treat every child as if he or she has hidden talents, Donnellan warned, because if you do the opposite, what happens if you’re wrong?

Assuming competence was the founding principle of Crossley’s method. But her work would not become widely known until a Syracuse professor of education named Douglas Biklen visited Crossley’s Melbourne clinic in 1988. He described that trip — along with a second one a few months later — in a bombshell paper for The Harvard Educational Review in August 1990. The implications were enormous, Biklen wrote. Those who had been categorized as having among the ‘‘lowest’’ intellectual capacities could now tell the world they existed; they could say, as he put it, ‘‘We will reveal ourselves, we will show our creativity, when we feel appreciated, when we are supported.’’

With Biklen’s help, facilitated communication spread through the world of disability services with a near-­religious fervour. At Syracuse, he set up an institute that trained teachers, parents and social workers. Among its earliest disciples was Anna’s mother, Sandra. When she heard about the method, she set out for one of Biklen’s workshops on the night train. Back in Michigan, she had Anna serve as the videographer of her early sessions.

At the peak of F.C.’s popularity, a workshop could draw 1,000 people, says Christine Ashby, who now runs Biklen’s institute. By October 1991, the technique had made its way into this magazine, in an article that began with a boy in Syracuse who was thought to have an I.Q. of 37 until he started using facilitated communication; he received a standing ovation when he graduated from high school. Three months later, Diane Sawyer did an Emmy-­winning segment on the method for ‘‘Primetime Live’’ on ABC. ‘‘For decades, autism has been a dark mystery,’’ she told her viewers, ‘‘a disorder that seems to turn children in on themselves, against the world. Tonight, however, you are going to see something that has changed that. Call it a miracle. Call it an awakening.’’

Not everyone was convinced. Howard Shane, a speech pathologist and professor at Harvard Medical School, was at a conference in Stockholm in the summer of 1990 at which Crossley presented her data. He had been trying to help nonverbal people communicate for more than 15 years, using keyboards linked to voice synthesizers and other tools: Press a button, get a word. In Sweden, Crossley claimed that she had made stupendous breakthroughs just by squeezing a shoulder or cradling a hand.

‘‘It just didn’t fit with anything that I or anybody had ever seen before,’’ Shane says now. ‘‘Either she saw something that nobody saw, or there was something wrong with me, in that I was dismissing people as being retarded when all you had to do was just believe that they could do it.’’ He snorted as he recalled Crossley’s presentation: ‘‘We were sitting in the back of the room, and I turned to my friend and said, ‘This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard.’ And then I said, ‘But what harm could it do?’ I actually said that to her. I said, ‘But what harm can it do?’ ’’

Shane got his first call from a district attorney a few months later. A nonverbal adult in Northampton, Mass., had accused someone of sexual assault while typing with her hand supported. The story turned out to be untrue, but it was not the only accusation of this kind. Facilitated communication arrived in the United States during a hysteria over child sexual abuse, fuelled by memories ‘‘recovered’’ during hypnosis or elicited from children. By the end of 1994, some 60 users of facilitated communication had made claims of sexual abuse.

As these cases multiplied, Shane and others began to look more closely at whether facilitated communication could be trusted. When Betsy Wheaton, an autistic 16-year-old from Maine, typed out that her father ‘‘makes me hold his penissss,’’ Shane, brought in to evaluate her, arrived with a battery of tests. First, he showed Wheaton and her facilitator, a speech and language trainer named Janyce Boynton, a set of pictures — a shoe, a spoon, a ball — and asked Wheaton to identify them. In some trials, Wheaton was shown the same pictures as Boynton; in others, she was shown different ones that Boynton wouldn’t see. No matter which she saw, the results were the same: Wheaton spelled out whatever was on the pictures shown to Boynton.

D.J. met with Stubblefield every other weekend in her office in Conklin Hall. Credit Jonno Rattman for The New York Times  D.J. met with Stubblefield every other weekend in her office in Conklin Hall.
Credit Jonno Rattman for The New York Times

Next, Shane started asking Wheaton for information that Boynton didn’t know — the colour of her parents’ car, the names of her family pets. Wheaton pointed to the letter board with Boynton’s help, but her answers were inaccurate. For a final test, Shane took Wheaton into the hall and showed her a key and other things from his pocket. Back in the room, he asked her to name the objects she had seen. With Boynton supporting her arm, she failed to spell out anything at all.

The results of these experiments matched those from published studies that used a similar controlled approach — asking typers to name objects their facilitators either could or couldn’t see. In almost every case, it seemed that the messages nonverbal people typed were not their own. One early review of this research found just four subjects whose communications might be valid out of 126 people tested. A subsequent review of 19 studies of facilitated communication performed during the 1990s found zero validations across 183 tests.

It looked as if the technique had been debunked. Professional societies put out formal statements questioning or condemning its use. In late 1993, ‘‘Frontline’’ aired a special that told Betsy Wheaton’s story, among others, and suggested that facilitated communication was an elaborate display of what psychologists call the ideomotor effect, in which an external suggestion or a person’s beliefs or expectations trigger unconscious movement: The facilitator was guiding the typing, even if she didn’t know it. In early 1994, ‘‘60 Minutes’’ ran a similar exposé called ‘‘Less Than a Miracle.’’ Public funding for the technique in schools started to dry up. Attendance at Biklen’s workshops in Syracuse dropped sharply.

Facilitated_Communication_Prisoners_of_Silence from Dr Bob on Vimeo.

Even Anne McDonald’s story turned out to have a set of complicating facts. Before the ‘‘string’’ and ‘‘quince’’ test that won her case in court, she was subjected to a series of investigations that came to different, often contradictory conclusions. Cheryl Critchley, a freelance journalist, has documented several harrowing accusations made by McDonald and Crossley’s other typers. McDonald said the hospital superintendent had tried to smother her with a pillow, and another young woman said he had forced a noxious liquid down her throat.

The backlash against facilitated communication ‘‘was horrible,’’ says Anna’s mother, Sandra, who still acts as a facilitator with clients and testified in an F.C.-­related sexual-­abuse case in Michigan as recently as 2008. (She also travelled to Australia in 2005 to meet with Crossley and McDonald.) ‘‘In the early 1990s, people were so excited, and we were able to get a lot of people going on at least some communication. Then came the pushback, and a lot of schools said you can’t do it anymore and literally took away the only communication system that had ever worked for many of their kids.’’

D.J. is about five feet tall, with skinny arms and legs and the lolling head of a punch-drunk boxer. He has a tendency to rock from side to side and to bang his face against his knees; his nose looks as if it has been broken once or twice. When he is anxious or upset, he puts his hands in his mouth and bites them, leaving open sores. In a better mood, he likes to play with plastic coat hangers or scoot over to the refrigerator for a snack. D.J. loves to eat; he loves to be outside; he loves to look up at the ceiling lights.

Sitting at the keyboard, D.J. also seemed to have a lot to say. His messages were simple and misspelled at first, but his skill and fluency improved. Eventually he could hit a letter every second, and if Anna guessed the word before he finished typing, he would hit the ‘‘Y’’ key to confirm. Anna brought books for him to read, Maya Angelou and others, and discovered that he read like a savant — 10 pages every minute. (She turned the pages for him.) They discussed the possibility of his enrolling in a G.E.D. program.

As D.J. came into his own, Anna kept her mother posted on his progress. In the spring of 2010, Sandra asked if D.J. might like to give a paper for a panel she was organizing at a conference of the Society for Disability Studies in Philadelphia. The panel was on Article 21 of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons With Disabilities, which lays out the right to freedom of expression and opinion. D.J. wasn’t sure he could do it, Anna said, but she convinced him he should try.

For the next six weeks, they worked together on his presentation — a one-page essay that D.J. wrote with Anna’s support and constant feedback over many sessions at his adult day program. In early June, D.J. travelled to the conference with his mother and brother, and then Wesley read D.J.’s paper to an audience of some 40 people. ‘‘The right to communication is the right to hope,’’ the essay said. ‘‘I am jumping for joy knowing I can talk, but don’t minimize how humiliating it can be to know people jump to the conclusion I am mentally disabled.’’ In Philadelphia, Anna and her mother typed with D.J., too, and introduced him to other users of facilitated communication. Two of D.J.’s fellow typers on the panel, Jacob Pratt and Hope Block, had just become engaged. They had been going on ‘‘supported dates’’ — flirting with each other through F.C., planning get-­togethers, negotiating intimacy — for about a year.

Anna found that her relationship with D.J. was getting deeper, too. All the time they spent working on the essay, all the books they read together and all their conversations had changed the mood between them. ‘‘I began to gradually be aware that I was having romantic feelings,’’ she would later testify. ‘‘I became aware of things when he wrote the essay. It wasn’t all that original — people who had had the same experience had said similar things — but with all the spelling mistakes, he had a way of putting things.’’

She had also grown more involved with D.J.’s family. When P. came down with walking pneumonia and needed urgent care, Anna showed up at the hospital. At one point, P. baked a pie for Anna’s family. ‘‘I could have called her Aunt Anna or Cousin Anna,’’ Wesley said during a deposition. ‘‘She was like family.’’ In October, P. went with Anna and D.J. to a second conference in Milwaukee. The paper that he gave there, read aloud by Anna’s father, ended up being published in a peer-­reviewed academic journal.

That fall, D.J. started sitting in on a 400-­level course in African-­American literature at Rutgers. A Rutgers undergraduate named Sheronda Jones, recruited by Anna, used F.C. to help him do his homework. ‘‘He pretty much read the books,’’ Jones remembered in a statement to the police. ‘‘I can’t tell you what he read. And he typed out the information.’’ She added, ‘‘I know because one of my roommates was in the class with him, and they pretty much wrote some of the same things.’’

A man who had been said to have the mental capacity of a toddler was now on the conference circuit and taking college classes. At last the world could get to know D.J. and understand his mind. ‘‘He’s an extremely ethical person — it’s one of the things that impressed me about him,’’ Anna said in court. ‘‘You know how you can meet somebody who’s extremely physically attractive, and then when you get to know them, they have such a horrible personality that they don’t really look attractive to you? It works the same way in reverse. If somebody has an interesting, engaging mind and good heart and a beautiful soul, that is transformative. It shows through, and you love the person. And so you love being close to them, and you love the body that they’re in, because that’s the body that they have.’’

Even as Anna came to feel this transformation, even as it seemed to her that D.J.’s world had opened up, her relationship with his family was not as stable as it seemed. One problem was that no matter how much progress D.J. made with Anna, his typing never worked with his mother or brother. They spent many hours training in F.C., but neither had success. Anna typed with D.J.; Anna’s mother typed with D.J.; Sheronda Jones typed with D.J. But somehow, P. and Wesley always failed.

Wesley remembered that he would take hold of D.J.’s arm, and they would type a single word together: the. Then nothing. Anna, he recalled, would tell him: ‘‘You have to keep practicing. You have to sit down and work with him and just continue at it. D.J. prefers to facilitate with some people more than others.’’ P. said that when she tried to grab D.J.’s hand, he would pull it away or scratch her. Anna told her to stop mothering him.

In January 2011, Wesley grew so frustrated that he went online to find the video about F.C. that Anna had shown in class two years before. He wanted to see how people helped the woman in the film. ‘‘I was looking for a model to pattern myself after,’’ he said during a deposition. But when he started searching, he came across a different film — not ‘‘Autism Is a World,’’ but the ‘‘Frontline’’ investigation from 1993.

Other things raised Wesley’s suspicions, too. Some of D.J.’s messages didn’t seem as if they came from him. D.J. typed with Anna that he didn’t like gospel music, but Wesley knew his brother loved to sway in church, doing what Wesley called the ‘‘Stevie Wonder dance.’’ D.J. also typed, through Anna, that he enjoyed red wine — especially from a label called Fat Bastard. But Wesley spent Communion Sundays with D.J. and said he never showed much interest in drinking wine. ‘‘It seemed very class-­based,’’ Wesley said. ‘‘It seemed very much of what she liked but not what [D.J.] liked.’’

While Wesley harboured private doubts, P. began to feel put off by Anna’s interventions. They quibbled over the clothes D.J. wore and the records he listened to, and they debated ­whether D.J. should find his own place to live. I’m his mother, P. said. Let him be a man, Anna told her.

In March 2011, Anna invited D.J. to Rutgers to give a presentation about his disabilities. Students asked him questions:

‘‘What are your hopes and dreams?’’

D.J. typed that he would like to go to college, become a writer and work in disability activism.

‘‘Would you like to be in a romantic relationship?’’

‘‘I want that more than anything,’’ D.J. answered. ‘‘But I don’t know if that’s possible for people with disabilities like mine.’’

That was the moment Anna knew she couldn’t keep her feelings to herself. ‘‘I wanted to put my arms around him and say: ‘You can have that. I love you,’ ’’ she later testified. A week later, at his afternoon day program, Anna finally told D.J. how she felt. ‘‘I love you, too,’’ he typed. She said she had known that for a long time, and he said he had known it, too. And then he typed, ‘‘So now what?’’

They went back and forth on this question. ‘‘He grilled me on how much I really loved him, how committed I was to him, how I felt about my husband,’’ Anna wrote in an account of their relationship that she compiled six months later at her lawyer’s request. D.J. wanted to know if she would someday marry him. ‘‘I said: ‘Please, I love you very much, but please don’t ask me that just now. I need time to think through everything.’ He said that he was sorry. He didn’t mean to push that hard. It was childish of him.’’

After many hours of discussion and several visits to the day program, Anna finally convinced D.J. that she meant all that she had been saying. ‘‘O.K., I believe you really do love me,’’ he typed. ‘‘But are you physically attracted to me?’’

‘‘That broke my heart all over again,’’ she said in court. ‘‘I said, ‘I’m in love with you the whole way.’ Then he said, ‘Kiss me,’ and I did. He said, ‘Kiss me again.’ I kissed him again.’’

D.J. typed, ‘‘Do you think it’s even possible with my cerebral palsy for us to make love?’’

They met the following Sunday at D.J.’s house, while his mother was at church. They tried to kiss while lying down on D.J.’s bed, on the theory that it would be easier, given his impairments. But D.J. kept sitting up, and then he lowered himself onto the floor. Anna offered him the keyboard and asked if anything was wrong. Nothing’s wrong, he typed, he was very happy, but also overwhelmed — he needed a minute. Anna said O.K., and D.J. scooted out into the hall. ‘‘Look, whatever we’re going to do, you set the pace,’’ she told him. ‘‘You call the shots. This is all about what feels right for you. I just love being close to you in whatever way works for you and for your body. No pressure.’’

A few minutes later she was naked.

‘‘I’ve dreamed about this,’’ he typed.

At his request, she said, she pushed down his pants, loosened his diaper and performed oral sex on him. They never finished — ‘‘I was close,’’ D.J. typed — but they had tickets for a disability-­related film festival at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. They were going to see ‘‘Wretches & Jabberers,’’ a 2010 documentary about F.C. produced by Douglas Biklen, the founder of the Syracuse institute.

A week later, Anna recalled, the couple tried to have sex in Anna’s office at Conklin Hall, with condoms, a blanket and an exercise mat. It didn’t work, and they ended up just sitting on the floor together, Anna talking and D.J. typing. Anna asked him if he might want to see some pornography, ‘‘to see what things looked like and different positions people used and that sort of thing.’’ She said she wouldn’t want to pay for porn or watch anything offensive, but that she would be O.K. with finding free clips on the Internet that depicted couples engaging in mutually pleasurable intercourse. He demurred, typing out that in his view the women in porn are being exploited, and that, besides, Anna was more beautiful than any porn star, and he really wanted to be thinking only about her when they finally made love.

The following Sunday in her office, it finally happened. D.J. ‘‘was very happy with what was going on,’’ she said in court. If he needed to say something, he would bang the floor, and she would pause to set him up with the keyboard. ‘‘It was a few hours from getting undressed to afterglow,’’ she said. When they were finished, he typed: ‘‘I feel alive for the first time in my life.’’

It’s not that Anna didn’t know of F.C.’s checkered reputation. But like many in that insular and passionate community of users, she thought the method had been unfairly pushed aside. Anna knew it worked, first-hand.

She had watched her mother use F.C. for 20 years. In 2000, Sandra introduced her to an F.C. user with autism named Nick Pentzell. Anna was teaching at Temple University. He sat in on her classes. (She also typed with him herself.) At Rutgers, Newark, Anna worked regularly with several people other than D.J., including a nonverbal teenage boy named Zach DeMeo. Zach, now 22, has autism and lost his speech while a toddler. Like D.J., he met Anna through an older brother who was enrolled at Rutgers. Soon they were having weekly or biweekly sessions at Anna’s office. ‘‘It changed his life,’’ says Zach’s mother, Toni, a substitute teacher on Long Island. ‘‘She was so selfless and devoted. She saw us on weekends. She left her family to help my son.’’ Anna and Zach have been friends for six years, and they stayed in touch even as she prepared for trial. ‘‘She speaks to my son as an equal,’’ Toni says. ‘‘She treats him as a human being. If he told me he was in love with her, I would believe him.’’

As for D.J., once Anna decided that he could express himself — once he told her several things that she said she could not have figured out herself, like his nickname and his date of birth — then her mind was free of doubt. ‘‘I knew [D.J.] was the author of his typing,’’ she said in court. ‘‘Why would I question that?’’

Those who do raise doubts about F.C. tend to go too far, she wrote in a 2011 paper for Disability Studies Quarterly: ‘‘Although opponents of F.C. present themselves as engaging in scientific debate, some instances of continuing anti-­F.C. expression meet the criteria to count as hate speech.’’ She conceded that there were studies showing that the method didn’t work, but there were others that indicated just the opposite. The sceptics’ dismissal of F.C., she argued, their insistence that it never works, could be taken as a form of ableist oppression.

Different Supports Used in Facilitated Communication | Practitioners of F.C. steady typers by holding them at the elbow, shoulder or forearm. ‘‘It looks like a dance, like you’re not doing a thing, but you’re really doing five things at once,’’ says Marilyn Chadwick, a master trainer and Stubblefield’s own F.C. mentor. Credit Illustrations by Brown Bird DesignDifferent Supports Used in Facilitated Communication | Practitioners of F.C. steady typers by holding them at the elbow, shoulder or forearm. ‘‘It looks like a dance, like you’re not doing a thing, but you’re really doing five things at once,’’ says Marilyn Chadwick, a master trainer and Stubblefield’s own F.C. mentor. Credit Illustrations by Brown Bird Design

‘‘We just need to recognize that research does a thing,’’ Christine Ashby, the head of the institute in Syracuse, said at last year’s annual summer conference for typers and facilitators. ‘‘Research gives us a piece of information, but it’s very dangerous when that piece of information gets used to take away people’s way of gaining access to the world.’’

Almost 300 people had convened at the city’s Sheraton hotel, including parents, siblings, support staff and F.C. trainers, and about 75 typers, almost all of whom were on the autism spectrum. Most were children and teenagers; a few had cerebral palsy. In the hotel’s ballroom, the typers sat with their facilitators and listened to the presentations, or they got up and walked in circles. They also laughed and groaned and blurted out a score of chirps and mournful cries — whooo, whooo, unna-unnahhh! Unna-unnahhh!

‘‘For a really progressive view of disability, there’s no other place to be,’’ a graduate-­student organizer told me on the first day. ‘‘It’s like we’re in this little bubble. It’s an amazing bubble!’’

At one point during the conference, Ashby led a session for facilitators called ‘‘Circling the Wagons: How Shifting Definitions of ‘Research’ Keep the Voices of F.C. Users Out.’’ Before she set out on a critical review of the studies from the 1990s, she apologized, half-­joking, for the ableism of that metaphor: double-­blind. Such insensitivity was not surprising from the F.C. sceptics, she said, who are more concerned with scientific method — with cold, quantitative research — than with real, lived experience.

When stories like Betsy Wheaton’s started to emerge in the 1990s, proponents of F.C. acknowledged that their method was subject to abuse. People rushed into it without proper training and then fell victim to their own enthusiasm, Ashby said. A responsible facilitator, she explained, always checks her client’s eyes to make sure he is looking at the keyboard. She always pushes backward against his hand or arm, steadying his movement instead of guiding it. She always tries to ‘‘fade support,’’ so that he can type more independently. And when something sensitive comes up — like a claim of abuse — she checks the message with another ‘‘naïve’’ facilitator.

In Syracuse, I met several people who started with F.C. and later learned to type without support, including Jamie Burke, a young man who once worked with Rosemary Crossley and now spelled out his words to me with no one touching him. His messages were somewhat cryptic: ‘‘Law of fair and just,’’ he wrote, and also, ‘‘I love challenging my correction.’’

Jamie proves that the method works, Ashby said during the ‘‘Circling the Wagons’’ session, but the sceptics claim that he would have learned to speak and type anyway and that F.C. might even have slowed him down. ‘‘Simply achieving success means you didn’t need support in the first place,’’ Ashby said with exasperation. ‘‘Several years ago, one of the biggest F.C. sceptics offered something like $100,000 to any F.C. user who would go and pass his double-­blind test,’’ Ashby said. ‘‘Do you know how badly I wanted to get one of the people I know and love to go do that? Just because I wanted to stick it in his face and use that money to do good work in the world. But I would never subject somebody to that.’’

‘‘No!’’ cried a facilitator in the room.

‘‘Who would do that?’’ Ashby said, shaking her head. ‘‘That is the most inhumane thing I’ve ever heard of. You go in to see this person who despises you, who thinks you are incompetent and incapable. And you go perform in front of them, like a show pony. And if you can do it, then he’ll still say that you probably weren’t autistic to begin with.’’

The proponents of F.C. have argued from the start that when typers fail in formal testing, it’s because they become confused or feel antagonized; they freeze up in the face of inquisition. Mainstream experts have no patience for these evasions. If the method works for someone, they say, then have that person tested — and don’t claim that he hides his skills only under careful scrutiny. Yet their admonitions go unheeded by a growing number in the autism community. Ashby said that she has seen a resurgence of F.C., but that ‘‘it’s happening much more carefully this time.’’ Recent surveys of parents, caregivers and special-­education teachers find that less than 10 percent now use facilitated communication. The practice has even made its way back into pop culture, too. In 2013, the memoirs of a Japanese teenager with autism, who is an F.C. user, were translated into English by the novelist David Mitchell and his wife, K.A. Yoshida, as ‘‘The Reason I Jump.’’ On ‘‘The Daily Show,’’ Jon Stewart called it ‘‘one of the most remarkable books I think I’ve ever read.’’

Meanwhile, because of past scandals, facili­tated communication has been quietly rebranded. In 2010, the Facilitated Communication Institute in Syracuse changed its name to the Institute on Communication and Inclusion. ‘‘We need to do more on F.C., but we can’t call it that,’’ said John Hussman, a major donor to the institute who runs a $6 billion mutual fund and whose son uses the technique. He had just given a talk on the neuroscience of what is now often termed ‘‘supported typing.’’ ‘‘We have to come up with some other name to fly under the radar and maintain credibility,’’ he said.

At the conference, I interviewed, through typing, a teenager named Matt who spoke only in echolalic phrases — things he had heard and couldn’t help repeating. ‘‘Aunt June will be right back!’’ he kept shrieking. ‘‘Nobody’s having bread! Where’s Aunt June?’’ But with a facilitator’s left hand on his shoulder and her right hand beneath his armpit, he spelled out a sober proclamation: ‘‘I came here to affirm a commitment to facilitated communication. I would spend life locked in a prison of silence without it.’’

Later that afternoon, I met a 20-year-old man named John who had a prominent under bite. John had been assessed as having the mental capacity of a 3-year-old, but using F.C. he could write poetry. His father handed me some printouts of John’s writing (‘‘The place to discover the ember of love is worlds away but so close/in the land of the nonverbal autistic’’), then grabbed John’s finger so we could have a direct exchange. ‘‘Know that we are intelligent,’’ John’s finger typed into the keyboard.

‘‘We figured out that he taught himself to read at age 3 by reading a dictionary,’’ his mother said. ‘‘Now he’s a senior in high school.’’

Wasn’t she worried by the studies showing that F.C. doesn’t work — that the messages aren’t always real?

‘‘From a parent’s perspective, who cares about the research?’’ she replied. ‘‘The research will work itself out. In the meantime, I want to talk to my son.’’

Before Anna showed up at D.J.’s house that Memorial Day in 2011, she warned him that his mother and brother might be upset by their relationship. They might even ban her from seeing him, she said, and as his legal guardians, they had the right to do so. ‘‘They would never do that to me,’’ D.J. typed back. ‘‘They love me too much.’’

Some weeks after the blow-up that ensued, P. called Anna on her cell phone and asked her to explain herself. ‘‘Well, look,’’ Anna said. ‘‘I was not pleased to realize that I was feeling that way. I didn’t think it was professional. I mean, I’m married and all that stuff — it wasn’t something that I was looking for, and so I just kind of really, really repressed it.’’ She added that D.J. was the only person she had been with, other than her husband, in more than 20 years.

Anna and her husband married in June 1989, when she was still a teenager in college and Roger was 24, a tuba player for the Detroit Symphony Orchestra. They had a son six years later and a daughter a few years after that. In 2010, when Anna first began to fall in love with D.J., she and her family were living in a modest house in West Orange, N.J.

 Stubblefield’s former office on the Rutgers campus in Newark, in a photograph introduced as evidence at her trial. Credit Essex County Prosecutor’s Office

Stubblefield’s former office on the Rutgers campus in Newark, in a photograph introduced
as evidence at her trial. Credit Essex County Prosecutor’s Office

‘‘The marriage wasn’t great,’’ Anna later said in court, ‘‘but I wasn’t at a state of wanting imminently to end it.’’ Eventually, she said, it came down to a choice of hurting Roger or hurting D.J. ‘‘There wasn’t any choice. I wasn’t going to hurt [D.J.].’’

Roger declined to be interviewed for this article, but in testimony at a pre-trial hearing, he said he realized that his marriage was in jeopardy only when ‘‘the prosecutors came and banged down the door.’’ Even then, he and Anna went to couples’ counselling. The therapist’s first words, he said, were, ‘‘Anna, you must stop dwelling on this relationship with [D.J.].’’

Roger may have hoped that she would follow that advice, but when he went through the browser history on their home computer, he found that Anna had been looking up real estate listings. In a fury, he took the 12-page account of her relationship with D.J., the one she had written for her lawyer, and emailed it to D.J.’s family and to the prosecutor’s office. ‘‘If you’re so proud of this so-­called relationship,’’ he remembered thinking, ‘‘then let the whole world know.’’

A ridge of high pressure slid into New Jersey right after Memorial Day, pulling sticky air up from the Gulf of Mexico. Temperatures surged into the triple digits in early June and stayed there, kicking off what would be among the very hottest summers in the state’s history. Barred from seeing the man she loved, not sure if his family would ever reconsider, Anna became desperate.

‘‘I just wanted to follow up with [D.J.] as to why I wasn’t there today,’’ she said in a voice-mail message to P. a few days after they first discussed the relationship. The next week, she tried again: ‘‘It’s Anna. Wondering if things are going to work out. … ’’

Finally, Anna went to D.J.’s house one evening, uninvited, so she could speak with his mother face to face. She parked outside just before 6 p.m. and waited for P. to arrive from work. ‘‘We have to talk,’’ she said when P. headed past her to the door.

‘‘About what?’’ P. said.

She phoned Wesley and took Anna around to the back porch, so the home health aide wouldn’t hear what they were saying. There, Anna promised to sign a formal declaration saying she would leave her husband in five years and marry D.J.

‘‘Anna, go home to your children,’’ P. responded.

When Wesley arrived and saw what was going on, he confronted Anna with his doubts about the typing. ‘‘If you believe that [D.J.] can do this F.C. thing, then if I ask [D.J.] a question, he should be able to give me the right answer.’’ Anna agreed to the test, and Wesley asked, ‘‘Who is Georgia?’’

With Anna’s hand on his, D.J. typed an answer, very slowly, over several minutes: ‘‘Georgia in high school worked for Mom.’’

Georgia, who died before Anna got to know the family, was D.J.’s ‘‘auntie.’’ She had often cared for Wesley and D.J., helping out when their mother was at work. Wesley said later that Georgia was D.J.’s other mom, that he loved her as much as anyone and that she made the best scrambled eggs and toast in the world.

Then Wesley said he had a second question, and Anna objected.

‘‘Well, this is just a follow-­up question,’’ he continued. ‘‘Tell me who Sally is.’’ Sally was a nickname that D.J.’s family used for Georgia.

Now D.J. typed, with Anna’s help, something about ‘‘Mom’s little nephew,’’ but the answer trailed off. As Anna remembered it, Wesley shook his head and said he hoped Anna could work out her marital difficulties. (In court, Anna’s lawyer argued that the answers to Wesley’s questions were correct: Georgia had ‘‘worked for Mom,’’ in the sense of helping her with child care, and she was ‘‘Mom’s little nephew’s kin.’’)

‘‘Thank you for everything you’ve done,’’ P. said.

‘‘Don’t thank me for what you’re taking away,’’ Anna said.

Wesley walked Anna to the door, and she drove off. But as soon as she turned the corner, she had to pull over; she was shaking too much to drive. Wesley later told the police that Anna had been so distraught, he was afraid that she might be suicidal or that she would ‘‘go home and do something to her kids.’’

‘‘That was the worst day of my life,’’ Anna later wrote.

 Stubblefield collapsed onto the defense table this month after she was convicted of aggravated sexual assault and told that further bail would be impossible. Credit Jonno Rattman for The New York Times

Stubblefield collapsed onto the defence table this month after she was convicted of aggravated sexual assault and told that further bail would be impossible. Credit Jonno Rattman for The New York Times

The next few weeks in Newark were even hotter than the ones that came before. At a zoo just down the road from P. and D.J.’s home, keepers fed the cougars ice pops made of blood. As the scorching summer days went by, Anna heard nothing more from D.J.’s family. She grew depressed and couldn’t eat; she said she lost 20 pounds.

At the beginning of August, in a final reckless measure, she wrote an email to the director of D.J.’s afternoon day program. She said that D.J.’s family was ‘‘unsure’’ if she could see him anymore, but she asked if she could visit just one more time. ‘‘It’s a mess, and really frustrating for me, because it has more to do with issues within the family and who gets to make decisions about [D.J.],’’ she wrote. Could she just come in ‘‘quietly,’’ so she could tell D.J. why she disappeared? She had to let him know that she still cared about him, that she was trying to fix the situation.

The director called the family right away. Wesley and his mother had been ready to let matters rest, but when they heard about the email, they decided to take action. On Aug. 7, Wesley wrote a letter to the dean of faculty at Rutgers, Newark, and told her that Anna was harassing his family. He cast his complaint in terms that harked to Anna’s scholarship in racial justice: ‘‘Her continued attempts to see [D.J.] and her insinuation that my mother and I do not know what is in [D.J.’s] best interest is insulting and straddles the racial assumptions about the capacity of black parents to properly raise their children.’’

He had accused Anna of turning into her own worst nightmare. ‘‘White people uphold white privilege in ways that they repress,’’ she once wrote. Even when they mean to help, they behave ‘‘in ways that are disrespectful and that undermine the self-­empowerment of the people whose space they invade.’’ Had Anna done the same to D.J. and his family? A professor of ethics who wrote passionately about the rights of the disabled was accused of sexually assaulting the person she was most determined to protect — a black, disabled man; a child of a single mother; a member of the most vulnerable among the vulnerable.

In mid-­August, D.J.’s family went to the police, and when P. spoke to Anna for the last time on Aug. 22, their phone call was recorded.

‘‘Yes, [D.J.] wanted to be physically involved with me, and I wanted to be physically involved with him,’’ Anna said. But, she continued, ‘‘our relationship is not just about or primarily about the sex part. We love each other very, very, very much, and I wouldn’t have sex with somebody that I didn’t love.’’

P. listened carefully from her end of the line, as did two detectives from the Essex County Special Victims Unit. Anna didn’t know it yet, but her relationship with D.J. and the ‘‘least dangerous assumption’’ from which it began — that he was mentally sound and thus capable of consent — had put her in a very dangerous spot.

‘‘Were you really serious about this?’’ P. asked, baiting her for details.

‘‘Yeah, I am,’’ Anna said, her voice shaky. It had been two months since she had seen D.J., and she was miserable. ‘‘I mean, you have to understand, literally, I’m lucky if I get through 20 minutes of any day without thinking about him. That’s how much I miss him.’’ She went on, ‘‘If — if — if I did things like bite my hands, I’d be biting my hands right now, too.’’

How, she wondered, could something ‘‘so special and so incredible for both of us’’ have been turned ‘‘into some kind of horrible, wrong thing?’’

‘‘I wouldn’t have fallen in love with him if he wasn’t capable of consent,’’ she would later say in court. ‘‘I wouldn’t have fallen in love with him if he wasn’t someone interested in reading books and talking about them. He was my best friend.’’

Last month, Anna Stubblefield went on trial for two counts of first-­degree aggravated sexual assault, the same charge that would apply to someone who had inflicted severe injury during a rape or participated in a violent gang rape. The state set out to prove that D.J. was incapable of consent to sex or physically helpless to resist it, and that Anna either knew or should have known the same.

D.J. went to court only once, presented by the prosecutor as a ‘‘demonstrative exhibit.’’ His mother led him in, holding up his tiny frame at the armpits. She walked him down the aisle and over toward the jury, as his head rolled back and his eyes seemed to focus on the ceiling lights. ‘‘Jury, this is my son,’’ she said. Then she turned D.J. to face the judge. ‘‘Your honour, this is my son.’’ If D.J. spotted Anna in the courtroom — it would have been the first time in four years — he did not react. Anna’s lawyers later argued that the prosecutor tried to block her from his view, so D.J. wouldn’t reach for her as he used to.

Each side called in outside experts to meet with D.J.: Howard Shane of Harvard for the prosecution and Rosemary Crossley for the defence. But before the trial began, the judge ruled that facilitated communication failed New Jersey’s test for scientific evidence. That put Anna’s defence team in a legal straitjacket. Its entire case rested on the fact that D.J. could communicate through his keyboard, or that at least Anna reasonably believed he could. Now much of the evidence of that communication had been summarily tossed out. The judge ruled that Anna, and only Anna, could testify about the typing and why she thought it worked. She would have to win the jury’s sympathy alone.

On the morning of Oct. 2, after the jury had deliberated for less than three hours, a red light flicked on in the courtroom, signalling a verdict. Anna waited in her charcoal suit and sling-back shoes and the silver bird brooch that she had worn nearly every day in court. Her mother sat in the gallery, holding hands with Anna’s older brother, Michael, a computer scientist who had flown in from Wisconsin. Throughout the trial, several benches in the courtroom were filled with a rotating cast of Anna’s friends and fellow activists: Nick Pentzell, the autistic man from Pennsylvania; Devva Kasnitz, an anthropologist and former president of the Society for Disability Studies, who has a severe speech impediment; Sue Rubin, the woman from the film Anna had shown in class; Toni DeMeo, Zach’s mother. On the courtroom’s other side, P. sat with Wesley, Wesley’s girlfriend and another member of the family.

The jury found Anna guilty on both counts. D.J. was incapable of giving his consent, and Anna’s faith in D.J.’s typing — learned from her mother, sustained through academic conferences, reaffirmed by friends and colleagues — could not excuse her. In the language of moral philosophy, she was, at best, ‘‘culpably ignorant,’’ lost in a fog of good intentions.

Anna sat in silence as her lawyers argued for continuation of her $100,000 bail. When the judge explained that Anna had been convicted of two counts of a first-­degree felony and that further bail would be impossible, she collapsed onto the defence table in loud, convulsive sobs. ‘‘Please,’’ she begged, ‘‘what about my daughter?’’

‘‘I truly feel for what is a very difficult situation,’’ the judge said quietly. But Anna would be facing 10 to 20 years for each of the two times that she and D.J. had sex. The prosecutor had asked for the punishments to run consecutively. Anna, whose sentencing is scheduled for Nov. 9, could end up in the Edna Mahan Correctional Facility for Women for up to 40 years.

Though Anna’s father says that she had been training in jujitsu to be able to defend herself in prison, she seemed optimistic to the end, planning out the life she would lead with D.J. after she was found not guilty, after he was freed from P. and Wesley and after they at last could marry. ‘‘We would have welcomed him with open arms into our family,’’ Anna’s brother said.

Just before 11 a.m., the bailiff lifted Anna from her seat and cuffed her hands behind her back. As she stood, she tried to speak, but her body shook and her throat closed up amid the sobs. The word ‘‘justice’’ could be heard, but nothing more.

Daniel Engber is a frequent contributor to the magazine and a contributing editor for Slate and Popular Science. His last feature was about the quest for a natural sugar substitute.

 

New York Times, 20th October 2015