Couple facing abuse allegations fight to keep custody of children

10/24/99

By Diane Jennings / The Dallas Morning News

A high-pitched wail echoes through a dilapidated East Dallas house - the sound of the Ramirez family tearing apart.

Inside, Bonnie Ramirez sobs, hugging herself in despair. Her husband, Tomas, walks like a condemned man down the driveway, a trusting toddler in his arms, a confused 5-year-old clinging to his leg.

Allison V. Smith / DMN Slideshow

Tomas murmurs reassuringly, then hands the boys to strangers - investigators from Child Protective Services, responding to allegations of abuse and neglect. At the same time, the couple's four older children are taken into custody at school, with no chance to say goodbye.

"Please," Bonnie pleads tearfully. "Don't take my babies."

The Ramirezes aren't alone in their agony - last year social workers took about 6,900 kids into custody in similar heart-searing scenes.

By law, the fate of those children must be decided within a year, giving a family 12 months to patch itself together or be ripped apart forever.

This is the story of the critical year in one family's life, of what happens when people have too few coping skills to care for their kids.

To protect their privacy, the names of the parents and children have been changed.

Dec. 7, 1998: The complaint

The CPS hotline rings with a complaint about the Ramirez family - the 12th in two years: "10-year-old boy has dark red marks all around his neck where mother choked him. He also has a large knot on his back, between his shoulder blade and arm, where mother hit him. . . . The 7-year-old girl said mother threatened to kill her.

"The house is unlivable. . . . Electricity is on, but there is no gas or water, and consequently no heat. . . . "

The complaint sounds urgent. It takes a week for Dallas workers, who struggle under staggering caseloads, to check it out.

Dec. 14: The removal

Bonnie Ramirez, a 34-year-old mother, has her hair pulled haphazardly back from her face, revealing a knife scar. She has a sick feeling when CPS investigator Claudia King shows up at the rickety house.

So does Ms. King.

"It's not a pleasant thing," the veteran CPS worker says. "You're going into a home where people are not going to be happy with you because you're gonna take their children."

Ms. King and Ms. Ramirez are meeting for the first time, but the decision to take the kids is hours old, based on family history and impromptu interviews with acquaintances who corroborate violent episodes.

Bonnie's husband, Tomas, is a wiry 50-year-old with a wispy mustache and goatee. The couple have six children - Lynn, 11; Bobby, 9; Maria, 7; Victoria, 6; Mark, 5; and Zachary, 21 months.

Bonnie feels sick because this is not her first brush with CPS. Fifteen years before, the agency permanently removed two other sons after her boyfriend beat them with a belt.

"He got mad at me, and he took it out on the kids," Bonnie remembers. Then 19, she agreed to place the infant and 5-year-old with relatives. She was young, and their father was in prison. "Ninety-nine years to life is a long time to wait," she says.

So when Bonnie learns why Ms. King has come, she turns defensive, offering to let her check the two boys at home for bruises or scars. She acknowledges that the family has no gas service, but she points out that an electric space heater warms the bedroom where the children watch television and study on mattresses.

A trash bag covers one window; blinking Christmas lights forlornly decorate another. Holes pockmark the walls, a sink pipe gapes open and electrical sockets are exposed - but the place is rent-free, Bonnie says, if they fix it up.

Until then the family gets by, hauling water from across the street for the toilet, using an electric hot plate to cook and heat bath water. The family's food consists of a sack of potatoes, a bottle of oil and a jar of creamy peanut butter, but Bonnie says she's applying for food from the Women Infants and Children nutrition program the next day.

"Who do you turn to for emotional support?" Ms. King asks, sounding like a talk show host.

"God," Bonnie says, pointing heavenward.

"How is your relationship?" Ms. King asks, referring to Tomas.

"We argue like everybody else."

"Is it physical?" Ms. King pushes.

"He hit me three or four years ago. He was drinking."

When Ms. King asks about beer cans in the kitchen, Tomas says he drinks only occasionally because he has cirrhosis. The cans belong to one of his eight adult children from his first marriage, he says.

Ms. King inquires about drug use, which the Ramirezes deny. Then she asks about the five domestic-violence police calls in two weeks. Again, Bonnie and Tomas insist there's no problem.

Patience drains from Ms. King's voice like water from a tub. While they've been talking, caseworkers interview the older children at school. They confirm domestic violence.

"The kids can't stay here," Ms. King announces firmly. "They're going to stay in foster care."

"Tino," Bonnie whimpers to her husband, clutching a bewildered boy possessively. "Don't take my babies."

"What do we have to do to get them back?" Tomas asks. Then he promises: "Honey, I'll get a job. I'll get the place fixed up. We'll get them back."

Bonnie can't be consoled. Fearing that her anguish may turn to anger, Ms. King edges toward the door even before the children's meager belongings can be packed. She offers a parting olive branch. "I'm going to give you some information how we can help you," she says.

"We want the kids to be with you."

Dec. 14-21 Initial placement

The first night away from home, the kids are separated - not just from their parents, but also from each other. Finding a single foster home for six siblings is practically impossible. Lynn, Maria, Victoria and the oldest boy, Bobby, are placed in dormitories at Buckner Children's Home in Dallas. The two youngest boys, Mark and Zachary, go to the Fort Worth Assessment Center.

At a CPS staff meeting a week after the removal, Ms. King summarizes the family history, the poor condition of the house and the children.

In videotaped interviews, the eldest child, Lynn, says her father yanked her by the arm, pulled her hair and threw her down against the bed. At 11, she is solemn beyond her years, having long ago assumed the role of family caretaker.

Bobby, as sunny as his sister is sober, says their father "slammed me against the wall."

Bobby has "problems with built-up anger," Ms. King says. He's also severely behind in school, even more than his siblings. A fourth-grader who has been in and out of half a dozen schools, he can't read or write.

The children suffer from chronic ear infections, and some have hearing impairments from lack of treatment. The youngest boy, Zachary, is in the worst condition. The big-eyed imp was treated for pneumonia, ear infections and blood oozing from his penis. The blood is the result of scratching at a severe lice infestation, Ms. King tells her colleagues.

Workers groan as they look at photos. With little discussion and less hesitation, they agree to push for termination of parental rights - to take the kids from Bonnie and Tomas permanently.

"In this case, reunification is not the goal," says program director Susan McKay. There are simply too many complaints, and no previous record of success, to try to keep the family together.

In addition, though Tomas has acknowledged past heroin and alcohol abuse, the couple refuse to admit to current drug use or domestic violence. Unless they accept responsibility and seek help for those problems, Ms. McKay says, the situation remains unhealthy.

"These kids are young. They've been through too much. They don't need to keep going," she says.

Despite the termination decision, CPS will extend a slim chance to Bonnie and Tomas - a "service plan" that might, under the best possible conditions, allow the Ramirez children to return home.

The plan calls for psychological evaluations, drug assessments and counseling against domestic violence. Parenting and "anger management" classes are ordered, and the Ramirezes will need to find suitable housing.

In short, Bonnie and Tomas must quickly overhaul their lives. The odds against them are astronomical.

"In the four years I've been here, I can name on one hand the clients I've had who have been in such a situation and done everything they had to do and been a success story," Ms. King says.

"It's completely up to them. But my honest opinion? I don't see them doing it."

Dec. 22: First visit with the children

Bonnie and Tomas have a huge incentive to work miracles: six dark-haired, dark-eyed children yearning for home.

A week after the removal, the older children visit their parents for the first time. When Bonnie and Tomas arrive at a small room on the sprawling Buckner campus, the kids veer between happy and sad - jumping up and down in their eagerness for a hug, crying and smiling, bubbling over with news.

"Daddy, look, we have some new shoes," 7-year-old Maria says excitedly, plopping a spare pair at his feet.

The Ramirezes tote bags of brightly wrapped Christmas presents, courtesy of the Salvation Army. But the children already are overwhelmed by the holiday bounty showered on them.

"Every day we've been here, they give us parties," Lynn says.

"Party after party after party," marvels Bobby.

He points proudly to a new Dallas Cowboys jersey, then asks, "Like my Nikes? I got some church shoes, too - we didn't get to go to church Sunday because this boy got into a real big fight."

"You haven't been fighting," his mother declares.

As his sisters play, Bobby ticks off other new acquisitions. "I have boxes and boxes of crackers and cookies in my dorm," he tells his parents. "I'll bring them next time.

"When we leave, we get to take all our stuff with us," he says, "even our remote-control cars."

Despite his new wealth, Bobby says there are some "nasty things" about foster care. He hates his roommates. "We have to share restrooms, and they pee all over the floor," he says.

Senior sibling Lynn wants to go home. After dutifully reporting on her sisters' behavior to their mother and inquiring about Mark and Zachary, whom her parents visited the day before, she asks, "Have you all started on the house yet?"

When neither parent answers, she tries subtlety: "Y'all need to start working on that house."

"That will take a lot of time," Bonnie finally replies.

Lynn somehow seems to know fixing the house alone won't rescue the family from foster care. "Have y'all been fighting?" she asks. The question is ignored as hugs and kisses dissolve into tearful farewells.

The longing for home is typical of foster kids, social workers say. Mom and Dad may be poor parents, but they're the only parents the Ramirez children have known.

"I have seen kids whose arms have been whipped with electrical cords until the skin is peeling down their arms," says Brandon Smith, who worked on the Ramirez case. "And it's always 'I want my mommy.'"

January-February: Therapeutic care

The children are uprooted again in the months that follow, moving to family foster homes and new schools. The three girls go to one home, Bobby to another, Mark and Zachary to a third.

The biggest concern is the children's violent behavior. Victoria, 6, often slaps her Barbie dolls viciously. Mark, 5, occasionally goes "berserko" and must be restrained "so he won't hurt himself," says Suzan DuPree, the new caseworker assigned to the Ramirez family. The angelic-looking boy threatens his foster mother and calls her "stupid asshole" so often that he upsets the entire household.

All the children are eventually rated at care level three or four - one being lowest, six highest.

Level three means the child has "frequent or repetitive minor problems ' but is capable of meaningful interpersonal relationships," according to state guidelines. Level four reflects "substantial problems; have physical, mental or social needs and behaviors that may present a moderate risk of causing harm. '"

Level three care costs the state about $58 a day, and level four care, $83. Ms. DuPree says the Ramirez children's foster parents earn every penny.

"There is no structure in these children at all," she says. "They're kids who have obviously seen things they shouldn't."

At Ms. DuPree's second meeting with Bonnie, she explains the "service plan." Then she tells Bonnie the state intends to take the children away permanently.

"I told her this was our recommendation, but that could change," Ms. DuPree says. "We could change our recommendation to reunification."

But like Ms. King, Ms. DuPree says the chance of that happening is minuscule. After weeks apart from their children, Bonnie and Tomas still fail to focus on the big picture, she says. For instance, they're concentrating on finding a place to live, not on changing their lives. Bonnie skips domestic violence counseling so she can work extra hours to afford better housing.

"She's not seeing the true situation here," Ms. DuPree says.

February-March 1999: Old habits

"It was like somebody just came in and tore my whole heart out," Bonnie says of the moment she learned that CPS planned to take the kids.

Since then, her life has only spiraled further down.

At first, she and Tomas stayed at the house, painting the interior, as if a coat of latex could make the dilapidated building habitable.

"I went and bought a shower curtain," Bonnie says. "I went and got my dishes from my sister-in-law. . . . I got a table."

Tomas got drunk. One February night, he blackened her eye, busted her lip, tore up her belongings and ripped out car wires. He went to jail briefly, and Bonnie obtained a protective order.

On a spring day a few weeks later, she is full of big, vague plans. She's earning $5.90 an hour at a grocery store, where she'll be eligible for benefits soon - but she may quit to take nurse's aide classes.

She hopes to save enough to fix the car, because her day is consumed by riding the bus from the battered women's shelter where she's staying, to work, and to parenting classes and visits. And she doesn't know where she'll live when her shelter stay ends.

"I don't stay in one place until I get to where I want to be," Bonnie says.

Where is that?

"I don't know yet," she says. "I'm still searching."

Her lone certainty is that she wants her kids.

"I ain't signing no papers," she says. She can't imagine losing them forever. Nights are the hardest, she says, because that's when the family used to pile into bed together.

"You take my kids away, you're going to have to kill me."

She's a good mother, she says, but six kids are a handful. She always wanted a big family, but not eight kids. They all arrived with little planning.

She got pregnant the first time at 14, dropping out of school in eighth grade. After that son and another were taken away, she dabbled with marijuana and alcohol and experimented with cocaine once, she says.

Then she suffered a miscarriage, and doctors told her she couldn't have more children. Somehow she got pregnant again, and Lynn was born.

Bonnie was confident she could care for the child.

Tomas, who has a third-grade education, worked as a handyman. Through the years, the family hopped from apartments to rental houses to motels and shelters, never staying longer than a year.

Lynn was quickly followed by Bobby, then Maria. After Maria, Bonnie made an appointment to have a tubal ligation but didn't keep it. She says she scheduled several more appointments, but missed those as well, ultimately bearing three more children.

Four years ago, the Ramirezes separated because of Tomas' drinking, jealousy and heroin addiction. Bonnie and the kids moved to Tyler to live with her sister and her children.

Bonnie says she had no problems with CPS, except when workers advised her to get her own place.

"No offense," she says hastily, pointing out that she is white. "The big white folks" is people like CPS, the police, the system.

"They get in your business when they're not supposed to."

Bonnie's eighth child, Zachary, was born two years ago; his biological father has no interest in the boy. After Zachary's birth, Bonnie underwent a tubal ligation.

Since then the Ramirezes have reconciled sporadically.

Bonnie has supported the children by working intermittently, getting public assistance and help from church friends.

"My kids didn't want for nothing," she boasts.

She sounds like a pitchman for personal responsibility when she says that providing for children is a parental obligation, not the government's or charity's. But "if somebody really needs the help, I don't see it's going to hurt them to help.

"Probably somewhere down the line, I paid taxes," she adds, sounding affronted.

CPS officials say that they have offered help but that Bonnie never used their services and the agency couldn't follow up as the family bounced from town to town.

Last fall, Bonnie and Tomas reconciled again. This time the family moved to Dallas, where he worked in construction for $9 or $10 an hour.

Bonnie acknowledges that the house the CPS visited wasn't safe but says she thought it would do temporarily. The domestic violence allegations still puzzle her.

"Two times he's given me a black eye, out of 14 years," she says. She can't explain the repeated police calls.

She insists that neither she nor Tomas abuse the kids. She spanks them occasionally, if, for example, a youngster darts into the street, she says. And she admits yelling, "I'm going to kick your ass" if the kids are "getting on my nerves."

"But that's a normal reaction for anybody."

Instead of taking away her kids, social workers should have found the family decent housing "and just kept checking with us," she says.

"I don't feel anybody's kids should be taken from their parents because they're having hard times," she says. "It's not about 'having.' It's about love and security."

Though she doesn't think she needs the CPS classes, she says she'll take them and maybe the nurse's aide training. All classes and counseling are free, but "I really don't feel like I'm getting no help," she says.

She no longer looks to Tomas for support, saying they've separated for the last time. Still, she says, she can do whatever needs to be done to get the kids back by herself.

"I think I can do this," she says. "I'm not one to give up as easy as they think I am."

March-April: Reality dawns

Bonnie arrives at her last parenting class 40 minutes late with Tomas in tow. Staff members are nervous because Tomas came to class once before and was drunk and disruptive. A staffer who saw Bonnie's battered face in February reminds her of the protective order, but Bonnie breezily assures her the couple is just meeting to talk about the kids.

The teacher discusses stress reduction methods with the class - go bowling, do crossword puzzles, take a walk - bizarre-sounding tips, considering the weighty problems that brought these parents here.

At session's end, Bonnie receives a certificate of completion. Tomas must re-enroll.

Three weeks later Bonnie and Tomas are together again, this time in court for a periodic judicial review of their case.

The assistant district attorney tells Judge Hal Gaither that CPS wants to terminate the Ramirezes' parental rights.

"We intend to fight it," Bonnie responds.

Because the Ramirezes have no money, Judge Gaither appoints attorneys for them - one for each parent, because they're unsure whether they've reconciled or not.

After introductions, Judge Gaither orders the case sent to mediation, as he does all CPS custody cases. Mediation is a private, informal process in which an agreement between the parents and the state can be hammered out with a professional mediator.

In the ensuing weeks, Bonnie and Tomas meet occasionally with their lawyers. Along the way, their optimism about regaining custody dims.

"It don't look good," says Tomas. He says his lawyer advised him to keep working and attending classes but warned that the chance of winning at trial is poor.

Typically, Tomas' and Bonnie's lives are still in flux - they're now living with one of his adult daughters and her four children in a North Dallas apartment. Tomas is working in construction. Bonnie has quit her grocery job.

"I needed some time to myself," she says. "I was getting stressed out between working and going to the meetings."

She has yet to enroll in anger management class or take any job training. Neither has he. Instead, they're considering joining a lawn-care company, earning $15 an hour as a team. She has a driver's license; he does not.

Their talk about regaining custody now yields to consideration of another option - placing the kids with relatives.

His sister might take some of the kids. Tomas marvels at her stable life. She works as a maid while her husband works in a body shop. They recently sold their house and bought a small ranch near Austin.

"They're always involved with their kids, you know," Tomas says. "They got 'em in soccer, they got 'em in baseball. They're always taking their time to spend with them.

"They have a barbecue," he says, sounding as if they live on another planet. "They never go out, like, drinking. They don't do things like that."

Bonnie's brother is another possibility. After all, he took one of her sons who was removed by CPS years ago. Bonnie sees that son every now and then. He calls her "Mom" and invited her to his high school graduation. She's lost track of her other boy but says she hopes to find him eventually.

She doesn't have her brother's phone number, however, and doesn't want to call her mother collect to get it.

Meanwhile, the children complain during their weekly visits about too many chores and unfamiliar food in their foster homes. But with the help of therapy, they appear to be adjusting.

Tomas is bothered by bruises on Bobby's leg. Bobby says a girl kicked him; someone else says the kids were jumping off a bike.

"How come when we had 'em and they got hurt, they think it's us?" Tomas asks.

As they search for relatives to take the kids, Bonnie voices fierce opposition to the idea of adoption by strangers.

"I'll fight it all the way," she says, shaking her head emphatically, "till I can't fight no more."

April-May: Reaching an agreement

Mediation day arrives. If an agreement is not reached today, the question of custody will go to trial. CPS rarely takes a case to trial unless the agency is confident of victory.

Bonnie and Tomas are closeted in a room with their attorneys, CPS worker DuPree, the attorney for the state, the attorney for the children and mediator Josh Taylor, a former judge.

The proceedings are informal and closed to the public. Once an agreement is signed, the results are binding.

At trial, CPS would try to prove the truth of allegations against the parents. In mediation, allegations aren't proved or disproved. Instead, Judge Taylor says, the purpose is to focus on who should care for the kids in the future.

Not having a chance to dispute allegations of abuse and neglect disappoints Bonnie. "It's a bunch of lies," she says later.

During mediation, Bonnie says, the state's attorney reminded her that witnesses would testify about the couple's lifestyle if necessary.

"I wanted to just reach across the table, grab her by the hair and slap her around, and tell her to shut up," Bonnie says.

"I said, 'What happened to the old days, when you lived in shacks and had outhouses? There was no CPS then. There was no laws you had to have water, lights and gas.'"

After 4 1/2 hours of negotiations, an agreement is reached. Bonnie and Tomas will give up rights to the children, and the state will try to place them with relatives. If no suitable family members are found, the children will be put up for adoption.

Tomas says he urged Bonnie to accept the agreement because it contains a powerful incentive - the ability to stay in touch with the kids through cards and letters. If they went to trial and lost - and chances seem good that they would lose - all contact would be cut off.

Eventually Bonnie signs the agreement. "I am tired," she sighs. "I just want this whole ordeal to be over with."

Judge Gaither says mediation results in an accord about 90 percent of the time.

"I think deep down, most of these parents know they're not capable of giving their kids a chance," he says. But they prefer to say, "'I had these kids and the goddamn government took them away from me.'"

May-June: Searching for homes

Bonnie and Tomas no longer attend any classes - there's no point now. But they rarely miss a weekly visit with the kids.

Bonnie hopes that Bobby will be placed with her niece and that Lynn, Maria and Victoria will go to Tomas' sister. Tomas chimes in that he has a nephew who might "take a couple" of kids, and Bonnie adds that friends might "give it a shot." Tomas even mentions asking his boss to take a child.

The older children still want to come home or live with relatives, Bonnie says, and they balk at the notion of adoption by strangers. Lynn, ever vigilant, is adamant that the girls remain together.

Bonnie and Tomas can make no promises and offer scant comfort: They tell the children to remember family phone numbers so they can call when they're older.

Bonnie is confident the kids will look for her and Tomas when they grow up. Five months have passed since she first vowed to get job training and find suitable housing. She has yet to do either.

But she's going to, she insists. That way, when the kids come back, "they'll see that we did something with our lives."

July: A father's regret, a mother's anger

Possibilities for family placement are dwindling.

Relatives have either declined to take the children or been rejected as unsuitable by CPS.

Tomas comes to one visit alone. Bonnie is staying in Tyler, where she can talk to relatives and work as a cook. Tomas now lives in Austin. Construction jobs pay more there, he says, and he can lobby his family better in person.

Tomas reiterates that he didn't abuse the children. He spanked the boys, but he was careful, he says, to use his belt.

"I didn't even hit him with my hand because I always said my hand's too heavy; it could hurt him inside or bruise him."

Tomas laments that although he encouraged his kids to get an education, he didn't set a good example.

He admits that he squandered money and was absent a lot during his junkie years and that people say he gets "kind of ugly" when he drinks.

"I didn't give them what they needed," he says.

Still, the kids love him. He displays a folded piece of brightly colored construction paper, a homemade Father's Day card from Lynn.

"Dear Dad ' I'll always love you no matter what happens. I will never forget when we had all those good times together. ' I will never forget when CPS took me away from you at age 11, 1999. Happy Father's Day. I love you."

Tomas wipes his eyes as he carefully puts the card back in his wallet.

Two weeks later Bonnie is in tears after meeting with Suzan DuPree. Bonnie is furious that 5-year-old Mark is being moved to a third foster home because he is "sexually acting out," threatening other children with a knife and repeatedly pounding his little brother.

"They want to know why my kids want to act crazy," she fumes. "Hell, they're making my kids act crazy."

Ms. DuPree reminds her the case is set for final disposition in mid-September.

"They're trying to tell me it's over with," Bonnie says angrily. She knew the kids weren't coming home but says she didn't realize the end was so near.

"I feel like I made a mistake" by signing relinquishment papers, she says. "I'm going to try to appeal it."

Despite her rising panic, Bonnie says she's almost ready for a final resolution. After eight months, "they ain't doing nothing but hurting me and the kids more," she says wearily.

August-September: Judgment day

Every time Bonnie and Tomas - together again in Austin - visit the children, an unseen clock ticks away their family's final moments.

A new caseworker, Wendy Spradley, is on the case after Ms. DuPree resigns. The girls' foster mother tells Ms. Spradley that the girls are troubled but basically good kids.

Bonnie "did something right," the foster mother says. "These girls have manners; they have faith in God."

But even after being on the case only briefly, Ms. Spradley agrees with other Ramirez caseworkers that whatever Bonnie did right wasn't enough.

Bonnie talks a good game, Ms. Spradley says, "but what does she do?" She and Tomas had five months before mediation to attend classes, seek counseling, find work and housing. They had two more months to find homes for the kids. They failed every time.

"I don't think there's any way to rehabilitate a parent who refuses to take responsibility," Ms. Spradley says.

Two days before the final court hearing, Bonnie and Tomas journey to Tyler to get statements from friends and relatives about what a good mother she is. She plans to present the statements to the judge and ask him to talk to the kids before he makes a decision.

"If he's fair," she says confidently, "he'll listen."

The hearing does not go as Bonnie hoped. First, she and Tomas arrive 50 minutes late. The proceedings are already well under way without them.

They confer quickly with their attorneys, then ask to withdraw the relinquishment agreements. Associate Judge Mary McAndrew denies the request.

Bonnie asks to introduce the statements from friends and family. The judge says no.

At one point, Bonnie bolts from the courtroom, sobbing with huge gulping breaths. When she returns, her attorney tells the judge that Bonnie wants a new lawyer. Again the judge refuses.

Citing the best interests of the children, the judge terminates parental rights.

It's over. The Ramirez family is officially dead.

Afterwards, Bonnie and Tomas seek refuge in the hallway. They'd been told what to expect but appear stunned by the reality of losing half a dozen children.

"They're wrong," Bonnie says, wiping her face with a giant pink bandanna. "I'm going to find out how do you appeal."

September 24: Final goodbye

The atmosphere around the CPS offices where the last visit will take place is tense.

"It's like doomsday," Ms. Spradley says.

She arrives with Lynn, Maria and Victoria a half hour before the visit. The girls have been up since 5 a.m., baking cupcakes for their parents.

During the drive from their foster home, Maria asks why this is their final visit.

"We just have to make sure the rest of your childhood is going to be healthy," Ms. Spradley tells her.

Bobby arrives next, then Mark and Zachary. Each of them is prepared for the visit through talks with Ms. Spradley, a therapist and their foster parents.

Minutes slip by with no sign of Bonnie and Tomas. Foster parents hover nearby, fretting that the Ramirezes won't show. Ms. Spradley hopes they do. If not, "there's no closure," she says.

Lynn, who has been torn between relief and anguish for weeks, glances anxiously at the elevator. She reminds her sisters not to eat the cupcakes and tells Bobby it's too early for Dr Pepper.

Bonnie and Tomas arrive at 10 after the hour, Bonnie wearing pink house slippers. Ms. Spradley talks to them briefly before they see the kids, reminding them that emotion is OK, but the kids need reassurance that they are not at fault. Tomas, she says, is glassy-eyed and reeks of alcohol.

As soon as the Ramirezes enter the small, brightly decorated room, the foster parents hurry out.

"We'll pray for you," one foster mother says softly, hugging a sobbing Bonnie.

The gathering turns into a mournful party.

Bonnie offers the kids candy and juice; Tomas hands out crumpled dollar bills.

The kids present their parents with the cupcakes and brightly colored cards and letters, then turn on a farewell video made by Bobby.

Lynn, sitting on a torn leather couch between her parents, twists her face in pain as she watches Bobby remember the good times. Tomas puts his arm around her comfortingly. "Don't cry," he murmurs. "It'll be all right."

The other children seem oblivious that this may be the last time they'll ever see their parents.

"I'm the only one [who] isn't crying," Maria says, glancing at the trio on the couch. She begs her mother to read the cards to Tomas. Lynn's is long and thoughtful.

"Dear Mom and Dad '

"I am very sad that this has happen but I will never for get you'. I hope that when I get older I will be over to find you all. I also hope that you all will get a house so when we get older we can come home to a nice warm place.

"If you all can can you all please send us some picture of you all. ' I love you all very much and so does the girls. please don't ever ever forget us. ' "

On the TV screen Bobby's video draws to a close. "I'll see you when I'm 18," he promises.

Bonnie and Tomas cry off and on. Finally they offer a last round of tight, watery hugs and kisses, before shuffling to the elevator.

The kids head back into the room to meet with their therapist.

Bonnie and Tomas head for the bus station, clutching all they have left of their children - a video, a handful of notes and a foil-covered box of crumbling cupcakes.

The children are allowed phone privileges to talk to each other. The four foster families say they will try to arrange sibling visits when possible.

Within three weeks of the children's final visit with their parents, Bonnie Ramirez called Child Protective Services twice to arrange for a post office box so she could correspond with the kids. CPS officials told her they were unsure about how to make the arrangements and instructed her to call back, a caseworker said.

More than 6,900 Texas youngsters were removed from their homes because of neglect or abuse allegations in the fiscal year that ended Aug. 31, 1998, the most recent period for which statistics are available.

That boosted the number of children in state care to more than 21,000 during the year.

About 1,800 of them were eligible for adoption, as the Ramirez children are now.