A shelter shaken

Two former clients of CASA, a Citrus spouse abuse shelter, say they were mistreated. CASA supporters say the charges are outrageous.

By JIM ROSS

© St. Petersburg Times, published August 6, 2000

INVERNESS -- Terri Daugherty slipped into the bedroom and woke her three children. We must leave, she told them. Quickly. Now.

It was 10 p.m., maybe 10:30. Daugherty can't remember. But it was raining. That much she remembers -- the rain and the wind. It was a strong wind, the kind that made that August night seem dangerous.

The children must have wondered why they were going so suddenly. But they didn't ask.

They shuffled out the door, into the rain, into mom's beige Mercury Topaz. Daugherty drove east on State Road 44, raindrops beating against the windshield. She stopped at Wildwood for gas. The car's tank was near empty.

Daugherty had $12 in the bank. She pumped until the meter said $10, then went to pay. But the truck stop didn't accept her electronic benefit transfer (EBT) card, and the ATM inside the store required a $20 minimum withdrawal. Could things get any worse?

Daugherty called her father in Ocala. She had called him earlier, desperate for a place to stay the rest of the night. Come over, he had said.

But Daugherty had traveled as far as she could. Dad, please come get us.

A sympathetic store manager bought hot fudge sundaes for the children, who were still dressed in their pajamas. Only Brian, then 2 years old, abstained from the sweet treat. He had been running a fever all day and had gone to the doctor's office twice. Brian slept in his mother's arms until his grandfather arrived.

Terri Daugherty said she was a victim of domestic violence at the hands of her husband. Her hasty dash into the night, her fear and frustrated helplessness, would be familiar to anyone who has been beaten and forced to run off.

But one part of this story doesn't fit the stereotype.

Daugherty wasn't fleeing an abusive husband that night. She wasn't even fleeing her own home. She was leaving the Citrus County spouse abuse shelter, the place where she and her children had been living for two months.

The Daughertys had to leave. They had no choice. The shelter staff kicked them out.

The abuse shelter is supposed to help people like Terri Daugherty and her children, not hurt them. So why did management "exit" the family into the rainy darkness almost one year ago?

The question has been at the heart of a vicious attack against -- and an equally vicious counterattack from -- one of Citrus County's most beloved institutions: the Citrus Abuse Shelter Association, better known as CASA.

Daugherty, 42, said her only sin was getting in the way of a petulant staffer, Aimee Dirscherl, who Daugherty said was on a power trip.

"How could they throw me out in the middle of the night like that?" Daugherty asked. "And in a storm?"

Daugherty and another former client, Noel Coulson, said that wasn't Dirscherl's only display of poor behavior. The women said that when they were in the shelter during the summer of 1999, Dirscherl verbally abused them and even bumped against them.

Such behavior was permitted, the women said, because Dirscherl was close friends with CASA's executive director, Sandra Ashley. CASA officials acknowledge that Daugherty's ouster was unusual. But they said Daugherty was yelling, almost violent, during a dispute with Dirscherl that night.

Daugherty was removed to ensure order and safety, Ashley said. Ashley wasn't at the shelter that night, but she ordered the Daugherty family's ouster after hearing a telephone report from Dirscherl, who was serving as shelter manager.

Ashley said staff couldn't wait until morning. They must protect all shelter clients, even if that means kicking one out. Daugherty was so irate that evening that violence was a distinct possibility, and other shelter clients indicated they might want to leave.

"Our experience teaches us that it (problems) will escalate," Ashley said.

And besides, Daugherty wasn't thrown defenseless into the night: She had a car and a place to go.

Dirscherl has strongly denied the charge that she harassed or abused the two former clients. She said she acted professionally toward them and all the women she helped.

The former clients' complaints, according to CASA officials and their supporters, are part of an attack launched by bitter former employees, some of whom were fired. Those employees have drawn Daugherty and Coulson into their clutches, preying on the former clients' psychological weaknesses. "These people (the former employees) were backstabbing, undermining," said Seamus Allman, a licensed mental health counselor who does contract work for CASA. He worked with the disgruntled staffers.

This battle has elicited strong words because the stakes, and the emotions, are inherently high. People who seek help at spouse abuse shelters are enduring tragic, dangerous chapters in their lives. The people who help them there often have experienced whirlwinds of their own.

CASA critics say this kind of client betrayal, from an agency designed to assist a most vulnerable population, is abhorrent and must stop.

CASA supporters say the charges are outrageous, false and might diminish community support of an organization that Citrus County desperately needs.

Set aside the emotion and the rhetoric and a few questions still persist: Which version of events is accurate? Is this a plea for help from women who have been wronged by a group that is supposed to help? Or is it a witch hunt designed to smear an honorable agency?

The dispute cries out for an independent referee. And it has one, of sorts: the Department of Children and Families, the state social service agency whose duties include monitoring spouse abuse shelters.

Children and Families has investigated the former clients' complaints, but has stopped short of fully endorsing or completely dismissing either side of the war.

The agency ruled that CASA, when serving these women, did not violate the terms of its state contract. The chief investigator, however, wrote a letter to the chairwoman of CASA's board of directors saying that management problems were evident and may require the board's attention.

Established in 1983, the Citrus Abuse Shelter Association Inc. is the only organization of its kind in Citrus County. Its offices in Inverness and Crystal River are places where battered women and men come for counseling and support. Its shelter in Inverness is the place where endangered spouses and their children seek refuge from personal storms.

CASA is a busy agency. During the 1999-2000 fiscal year, the agency sheltered 187 clients, counseled more than 1,000 people and developed more than 1,200 "safety plans" for endangered people, according to agency records.

"I was given compassion. I was given a feeling of security," said Rosario Rivera, a former CASA client who lives in Inverness.

"It's a place where you can come to terms," said Ingrid Turner, a current client who also lives in Inverness.

Turner and Rivera were two of eight clients whom CASA leaders invited to speak to a reporter. Similar testimonials are as plentiful as they are sincere.

Complaints, on the other hand, are uncommon. Ashley has been a CASA employee for seven years, including four as executive director. She said she has never received complaints like the ones Daugherty and Coulson have lodged.

Clients aren't the only ones patting CASA on the back. The Citrus County Sheriff's Office, county government and the State Attorney's Office offer effusive praise.

The United Way of Citrus County also has spoken -- with its checkbook.

Dawn Arline, the agency's executive director, attended a recent interview session with CASA leaders and a reporter. She took the occasion to announce that the United Way had increased CASA's annual funding 25 percent, from $28,000 to $35,000.

"That shows, certainly, the respect that the United Way board has for CASA," Arline said.

United Way has not independently investigated the complaints from Daugherty or Coulson. But Arline has confidence in CASA's leaders and its board of directors, both of which have deemed the accusations meritless.

Arline said no one filed a complaint with her -- a step that she thinks any legitimate critic would have taken.

But Daugherty and Coulson have complained in other forums: CASA's board and Children and Families.

Helping them have been several former employees -- some were dismissed; others resigned -- who became disillusioned with CASA and now want to shine the spotlight on its practices. They have many complaints, but their primary concern is the mistreatment of clients, specifically Daugherty and Coulson.

"Ms. Ashley could have stopped this problem as it happened but chose not to," said one of those former workers, Jennifer Smith. "She was fully aware of this shelter abuse."

CASA fired Smith. Officials there said she disclosed a confidential report to a client, a charge that Smith denied.

Smith also denied manipulating Daugherty or Coulson, as CASA staff have alleged, or exaggerating claims of staff wrongdoing. The other former workers offer similar denials.

"I don't have to add anything (or) over-exaggerate. The story stands on its own," said Elaine Smith, no relation to Jennifer Smith, who recently quit her CASA advocacy job because of the problems she witnessed, particularly Dirscherl's treatment of Daugherty.

Elaine Smith has spoken to the Children and Families investigator who handled the complaints from Daugherty and Coulson. Why didn't Smith step forward or quit long ago?

Because nothing would have been done, she said, echoing the response of her colleagues.

"My life would be hell there. Haven't I seen it?" Smith asked. "They (Children and Families investigators) don't understand."

Coulson, 57, of Homosassa, went to a Catholic church on July 10, 1999, to receive the sacrament of reconciliation. When she was finished reciting her sins and explaining what kind of abuse she was suffering at her husband's hands, the priest told her to visit CASA.

Coulson did. She checked into the shelter that day, alone, for what would turn out to be a one-month stay. From day one, she said, Dirscherl gave her grief when serving as shelter manager.

"She would scream and she would call me names," Coulson said. Names like bag lady, drug addict, bad mother.

"It was all verbal and mental abuse," Coulson said.

And sometimes more. She said Dirscherl got up in her face, even bumped her from time to time, when making a point. Being forced from the shelter was a regular threat.

Coulson is gaunt, and life's tragedies have taken their toll on her psyche. But she is no coward. Coulson said she has endured spouse abuse and worked as a corrections officer.

"Aimee Dirscherl scared me more than anything on the face of this earth," she said, bursting into tears.

Daugherty, who stayed at the shelter while Coulson was there, said she witnessed the verbal abuse and physical intimidation. Likewise, Coulson said she saw Dirscherl treat Daugherty poorly.

Why would a counselor do such things?

"It's a power and control thing," said Linda Rouse, who worked for CASA when Coulson and Daugherty sought shelter there.

CASA officials fired Rouse in April. Rouse said CASA did not give her a reason, but she previously had been disciplined for allegedly yelling at co-workers and clients, a charge that Rouse strongly denied.

"She can do whatever she wants to do there, and she likes that. She enjoys that," Rouse said.

Why would Ashley sanction, or at least permit, such rude behavior? "She is very lax . . . toward her friends," Rouse said.

CASA staff cannot discuss client information. It is strictly confidential. But Daugherty and Coulson voluntarily waived their privacy rights.

After receiving those waivers, Dirscherl and Ashley vehemently denied Coulson's and Daugherty's abuse charges. They said they acted professionally at all times. Ashley said no client ever has lodged such complaints against Dirscherl.

Deanna Strickland, a client in the shelter when Coulson and Daugherty were living there, said she never saw Dirscherl mistreat anyone.

Coulson, on the other hand, "would speak even before she thought about it," Strickland said. "She was very sick. She was very weak."

Allman, the licensed mental health counselor, said Coulson was taking 10 medications during her time in the shelter, including three antidepressants.

"She needed psychiatric care from a psychiatrist," he said.

Like others at CASA, he suggested that Coulson was being cruelly used.

"Some people like to resolve conflict," Allman said. And others, like the former employees supposedly pulling Coulson's strings, would rather instigate and fabricate, he said. Casey Gelston, who started working at CASA after Coulson and Daugherty left the shelter, said the former employees were "predatory" in their approach to those former clients.

The only charges on which CASA staff and their critics even partially agree concern the departure of Daugherty and her children, which happened Aug. 30, 1999.

There is no doubt that it happened. The only questions are how, why and what was said.

It all started with a wet diaper.

Terri Daugherty and her children ate dinner together that night at the shelter. Daugherty bathed the children, tucked them into their beds, then went outside to smoke a cigarette.

Suddenly, Dirscherl summoned Daugherty. Dirscherl, who worked in the CASA office, was serving a shift as overnight shelter manager, something she did regularly.

"She was so irate, yelling and screaming in my face," Daugherty recalled.

The cause: Daugherty had left one of her youngest son's wet diapers on a bathroom counter. This was against house rules, and Daugherty apologized.

But an apology wasn't enough that night. CASA records showed that Daugherty previously had been counseled several times about violating house rules, which required her to keep her area clean and properly supervise the children.

"She wasn't open to any kind of constructive criticism at all," Dirscherl said later.

Daugherty had experienced her share of problems with Dirscherl, but nothing prepared her for what was about to happen. Dirscherl was seething about the wet diaper.

"I'm having you exited tonight," Daugherty recalled her saying. But Daugherty didn't back down.

Rouse, who still worked for CASA at the time, was home that night. But she was on the telephone speaking to a client who was in shelter and could hear what was happening.

"I am calling Sandy and you are being exited," she recalled Dirscherl yelling.

Despite those two accounts, Dirscherl said she made no such threat. CASA policy required her to contact Ashley at home, which she did. Any order, or threat, of ouster could come only from the boss.

If anyone was out of control, Dirscherl said, it was Daugherty, who was yelling, swearing and trying to yank the telephone from Dirscherl's hand. Dirscherl said she was afraid and sensed that clients were, as well.

Ashley, trying to talk to Dirscherl on the telephone, could hear the commotion Daugherty was making.

"It scared me," she said.

After hearing her employee's report, Ashley said Daugherty and her children had to leave. No waiting, not even until morning.

"It's our responsibility," Ashley said.

Where will I go, Daugherty asked aloud. She will never forget Dirscherl's response.

"Go back where you came from," she said.

That would be Pedro, the small community south of Ocala where her abusive husband lived. The only reason she sought shelter in Citrus was because her husband, charged with abuse, knew where the Marion County shelter was.

Dirscherl remembers issuing no such retort. She said she was calm that night, in control.

Deanna Strickland was at the shelter that night. She supports Dirscherl's version of events.

"Terri came in and started screaming at her," she recalled.

Daugherty agrees that she was upset, but says Dirscherl did all the yelling. Daugherty went into her children's bedroom, woke them, and told them they were going to stay with grandpa.

How did they feel at that moment?

"Sad and mad," said Melissa, who was 10 at the time.

"Kind of sad," said Alex, then 8.

Both said they were scared.

Ashley called Elaine Smith, who had served as Daugherty's primary advocate. She asked Smith to visit the shelter and serve as official witness of her departure.

"I was very much surprised." to hear the news, Smith said. She immediately drove to the shelter.

"She (Daugherty) just gave Aimee a taste of her own medicine, which you don't do," Smith said. Daugherty "had just had it. I don't blame her one single bit."

Dirscherl told Smith not to talk, just to observe. That's the procedure that Ashley, still on the phone, wanted to follow.

The behavior was typical from Dirscherl, Smith said.

"She was the boss. Period," Smith said. "She had had it. She wasn't acting like she was afraid of Terri or anything. It's just Terri didn't jump as high as Aimee said, so she was out of there."

Current CASA staffers and Allman, who does contract work for the agency, don't take much stock in Elaine Smith's impressions. Allman said Smith was a complainer and not a team player.

But Smith remembers what she saw -- and felt -- that night.

"She (Terri) was looking at me like, "please help me.' And I could do nothing. And that really hurt," she said.

Dirscherl said she did not recall whether it was raining that night, nor did she recall that Daugherty's youngest son had been sick all day and visited the doctor's office. The former CASA workers have said Dirscherl was in the office earlier that day when the boy's illness was discussed.

"Aimee doesn't miss a thing," said one of those workers, Jamie Richardson, who resigned her position as an advocate.

Daugherty's allies had more questions about CASA's style.

"She's a danger? And they let her go with her children?" Richardson asked.

If Daugherty was violent, or threatening, why not call police? If the children were in danger, why not call the Department of Children and Families to remove the children from Daugherty's custody?

"Do you honestly believe, if you have a woman who is violent that this (exiting) is going to to calm her down?" Rouse asked.

"They messed up," Jennifer Smith said.

Ashley said there was no need to make alternate arrangements for the Daughertys, such as calling another shelter or securing a hotel room. Daugherty called her father from the shelter and arranged to stay at his place. She had a car to drive.

This was the best way to handle the situation, Ashley said.

Daugherty struggled to put the shelter episode behind her. But she couldn't. On Sept. 11, Daugherty vented in an eight-page letter to Ashley.

"She (Aimee) followed me around the house yelling, just like my husband used to," Daugherty wrote. "How can I feel self worth when you and Aimee, the first people I felt I could trust, let me down so badly?"

Daugherty and her children certainly benefited from CASA. They sought shelter there because Daugherty's abusive husband knew how to find the Marion County shelter. And Daugherty's parents couldn't take in four long-term houseguests.

"They have such a small house, for one, and he (her former husband) would be coming over and harassing us all the time," Daugherty said. "It was better just to go off. I was afraid of him. If I lived with mom and dad, he would find us there."

Daugherty and her children stayed two months at the Inverness shelter. Most clients don't stay nearly that long. But Daugherty was attending therapy sessions, was on a housing program waiting list and had enrolled her children in the Citrus schools. She was making progress.

In Daugherty's mind, CASA's kindness made the subsequent betrayal seem even more difficult to bear.

But the Department of Children and Families and CASA's board found no evidence of a betrayal.

Children and Families issues CASA's license and inspects the agency annually before recertifying the agency. It is the government watchdog, making sure state money is going to help abused spouses and their children.

Investigators interviewed Daugherty, many of the former employees and the current CASA staffers. They found no violation of the state contract. For that matter, they couldn't find much more than a battle between people who had vastly different perspectives and motives.

"This is not to say, however, that your allegations of Ms. Ashley's style of management are not valid," wrote Mike Hussey, contract supervisor for the Children and Families region that includes Citrus, in letters to Coulson and Daugherty.

"But the venue of your complaint" should be the CASA board.

A few days later, Hussey's colleague, Pam Blumenthal, wrote a letter to the board chairwoman.

"I do feel that some of the complaints were allegations against the management style at CASA and were issues the board may need to address," Blumenthal wrote. "My recent monitoring substantiates these feelings."

The wording was vague, and Children and Families didn't require any specific action.

But the board received the message loud and clear. Charles Davis, the Inverness funeral director and longtime board treasurer, said he and his colleagues recognized the import of Blumenthal's statement.

"That's the key player," he said.

Davis stands by the agency's performance and vouches for its people. The board's investigation, which consisted of reviewing the complaints from Coulson and Daugherty and checking the pertinent paperwork in CASA files, showed no evidence of wrongdoing.

Still, the entire episode has had a sobering effect. If there are management or oversight problems, Davis said, CASA must fix them. If there are no such problems, then the agency must find a way to better communicate with staff and clients to avoid such problems in the future.

"We're in a valley," he said. "Fortunately, there are not many. But we are in one of them."

CASA supporters worry that bad publicity born from these allegations will diminish public support of the agency.

"This service is needed," said Rivera, one of the former clients. "It would be a great loss."

Even worse, the negative information could make women reluctant to seek CASA's help and emergency shelter.

"This is not about closing CASA. It is very dear to all of us," Jennifer Smith said. "It's about cleaning CASA of permissiveness, partiality, intimidation and threats to be kicked out."

For Elaine Smith, one more factor comes into play: personal redemption.

"I feel I owe it to Terri," she said when asked why she spoke publicly. "Maybe someone will listen."

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