To Hug a Porcupine

The system was a maze of adoption, placement, and licensing units and finance people. In the scheme of things, Zuclich said, she was "a little person" with no decision-making power. Her motivation was to find the boys a good home.

She did not follow up on concerns about the chicken coop, however, because it was "not my jurisdiction," and while she'd had her own suspicions about Hector Rosa, she did not pass them on because "nobody ever gave me information on things like that." When choosing paperwork to share with the parents, she says, she followed instructions and sent whatever documents her bosses picked out. During testimony, other workers described a similar runaround.

The case was set to go to trial last November — "It would have been a monster verdict," Block says — but the night before it was to begin, DCF settled with the family for $10 million, almost all of it to be put in a trust fund for the boys' future treatment. "That's unprecedented," says Block, who has handled the case pro bono for eight years. It may have also been a bargain: An economist who is an expert on institutional care estimated that the boys' lifetime care would cost $75 million if fully funded.

Debbie and Jorge fought for a stipulation in the settlement agreement that each parent receive $350,000. "We went from making over $100,000 a year," Debbie says, "and then I stopped working in my 30s, just as my career was getting under way. Now I'm in my late 40s, and it's like, 'Oh my gosh. My career is missing! My life is missing!' " The funds could also help offset costs incurred over the years, like therapeutic animals, wall repairs, and transporters.

For now, however, the award stands only on paper. Because of "sovereign immunity," state payouts are limited to $200,000, no matter what attorneys hash out. Sovereign immunity can be waived, and bigger settlements disbursed, only if a state representative sponsors and the Legislature then passes a claims bill. That happens only a fraction of the time. One claims bill that was passed this year — a well-publicized $18.2 million payout to Marissa Amora, a 9-year-old who needs permanent care after being abused under DCF's watch — had been reintroduced three consecutive years before passing.

Debbie and Jorge and their attorney say that the state became markedly more responsive after Jeb Bush left office and Secretary Bob Butterworth took over the Department of Children and Families in January 2007. They felt at least minor validation when Butterworth spoke during a hearing on their behalf. "The new policy under my administration is a policy of openness," he remarked, "and one where we admit mistakes and compensate those damaged as a result. The department could and should have done a better job."

Despite the bigwig weighing in, however, legislators from around the state, each consumed with their own constituents' concerns, declined to pass the claims bill before the legislative session ended in May. Tight budget this year, so sorry.

The main reason Debbie and Jorge accepted the settlement was an agreement that the state would send the boys away — immediately — for treatment, however belated.

Last December, after Brian and Matthew had gone, little James shipped out too. He was 13. From his new home, he spoke to Debbie by phone. She was happy to hear him show some apparent compassion when he asked how the horses were doing. Maybe the program was already working.

"Make sure you feed them," James said. He repeated it the next time they talked.

In January, Debbie was driving home from town. As she approached her property, she noticed several of her miniature horses lying on the ground. She drew closer. Bodies were sprawled on the hill.

"Ten," she says. "He wiped out ten."

The boy would later confess to swiping rat poison from a neighbor's farm and slipping it into a container of horse feed during the weeks he waited to be sent away. It was only a matter of time until Debbie fed them from that particular bag. Some of the horses they'd had since James was little. Four cats also died from the poison.

"He told his therapist that the horses got what they deserved," Debbie says. He also said he had planned to kill Debbie in one of the horse stalls. A search of the stall yielded a knife.

The boys' treatment requires parents to remain involved, so almost every other weekend, Debbie and Jorge get on a plane. But the kids, Debbie says, "still feel, 'These people need to be destroyed.' A therapist told me, 'Brian feels like if you're dead, his pain will go away.' "

When they arrive at Brian's center, he resists seeing them. Someone read about the settlement in the newspaper and told him he's a millionaire now. He scoffs at any explanation that the money is earmarked for therapy.

Matthew, Debbie says, "loves me the most and hates me the most." Seeing him can make her nervous, especially when she thinks of the chicken-blood incident. When she visits, he is seated in a chair lower than hers, and she remains close to the door.