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Yahoo
30-04-2025
- Health
- Yahoo
National Child Abuse Prevention Month: East Texas psychologist shares signs of child abuse to keep adults educated
TYLER, Texas (KETK)– An East Texas licensed psychologist shared her expertise on what might indicate a child is experiencing abuse or trauma and how important it is for the community to stay educated to prevent and address the abuse. In honor of April being National Child Abuse Prevention Month, KETK news talked to UT Tyler Associate Professor of Psychiatry and Behavioral Medicine and Licensed Psychologist, Dr. Stephanie Simmons about the signs and symptoms of a child experiencing abuse. Henderson County declares April as Child Abuse Prevention month Simmons said the type of child abuse determines what signs parents, educators and healthcare professionals should look for. The different types of child abuse includes physical, neglect, sexual and emotional: Frequent injuries Unexplained bruises Complaining of pain Afraid to go home or see their parents Lack of reaction to pain Malnourishment Poor hygiene Bad fitted clothes Dirty clothing Excessive crying Sudden anxiety and depression Knowledge of sexual behaviors beyond what is expected for the age of the child Possible physical injuries Depression Anxiety Crying Aggressive behaviors 'The biggest thing we want to pay attention to is anytime we see an extreme change in behavior with a child, that might bring up some red flags and something we want to play close attention too,' Simmons said. Simmons explained how important it is for adults to remain calm especially if the child confides in them about the abuse and to not 'sugar-coat' the situation. 'Be very upfront with kids, let them know that you believe them, that they're being brave for telling you and always remind them it's not their fault,' Simmons said. 'Ask clear questions, it doesn't do much good to sugar-coat these things.' Once an adult is aware of the suspected abuse they want to make sure it is getting reported to the appropriate authorities such as the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services (DFPS) and law enforcement as necessary, Simmons said. 'Typically as individuals we don't have the authority to actually intervene or investigate child abuse, so we always want to be reaching out to those agencies and organizations to make sure the proper procedures are followed,' Simmons said. Preventing Child Abuse: Five Must-Ask Questions Before Enrolling Your Child in any Activity Simmons said the more trusted adults watching out for the child the better to protect and help them from an abusive situation. 'The phrase 'it takes a village' I think this is very much the same idea and that the more that are keeping eyes on the child and are aware of what's going on the better,' Simmons said. 'Kids interact with a lot of different people their parents, teachers, coaches, doctors so the more people that are aware of those signs the more the likely things are to get noticed, reported and addressed.' Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed.
Yahoo
22-03-2025
- Health
- Yahoo
Their Kids Said They Were Trans. Then CPS Came Knocking.
Morgan Davis started this job because he wanted to protect kids. The 52-year-old had been an investigator with the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services (DFPS) for less than a year and had come out as a transgender man shortly before starting his new job. Then Texas Gov. Greg Abbott issued an order demanding the department investigate parents of medically transitioning transgender children for abuse. A "number of so-called 'sex change' procedures constitute child abuse under existing Texas law," Abbott declared in the February 2022 letter, which he sent a week before the Republican gubernatorial primary. Because DFPS "is responsible for protecting children from abuse," he continued, " I hereby direct your agency to conduct a prompt and thorough investigation of any reported instances of these abusive procedures in the State of Texas." At first, the directive seemed hard to believe, especially since medical transition for minors—interventions such as puberty-blocking medication, cross-sex hormones, and surgeries—were legal in Texas. Texas legislators would eventually ban medical transition for minors, but that was more than a year in the future. "Everybody thought this was a political stunt," Davis says. Within a day, Davis' department already had a case. According to Davis, it originated with a DFPS employee with a transgender child who was forced to report on her own family. "The first thing I knew about the case was that it was a co-worker," Davis says. "I just couldn't believe it. Most of us get into [this line of work] because you wanted to be the protection that you didn't have. And here we were." Davis ended up investigating the family himself. "If somebody had to do it, I wanted it to be me," he says, because "I really thought at the time I could protect the family—but also if there was any abuse that was happening, I would know." On the day of his home visit, Davis says, he tried to be as nonthreatening as possible. "I had my nicest bowtie on," he says, "and I brought pastries, to try to make it look like I was just showing up for a visit." But he was still self-conscious: He was an agent of the state, after all, one with the power to separate a family or keep it together in the name of child protection. "At the end of the day," Davis says, "it doesn't matter how trans or how nice [I was]. At the end of the day, I was an investigator." Accustomed to deeply dysfunctional families, often living in chaotic, poorly maintained homes, Davis was struck by how normal and harmonious this family seemed. To his relief, the family had consulted with lawyers. An attorney sat in on Davis' interview with the child, a transgender girl around 15 years old. The family also refused to sign a form releasing their child's medical records—a move that further protected them from state prying. It was hard not to feel frustrated by the situation. Davis had found a functional, loving family whose only error—in the eyes of the state of Texas—was that the parents had sought and received controversial but legal treatments for their child. Davis says the home visit concluded without incident and the case seemed like a "slam dunk." But his supervisors told him he could not close the case, that it needed to be sent "up the food chain." "I called my buddy and I said, 'I can't make this stop. I'm not going to be able to make this stop,'" Davis says. "It sounds dramatic, but I really did: I walked in an investigator, and I walked out an activist." Since the state was investigating parents for legal behavior, lawsuits swiftly followed. One was filed by the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) on behalf of the LGBTQ+ group PFLAG and several families. "Governor Abbott's directive unduly interferes with the state Legislature's sole authority to establish criminal offenses and penalties," said the June 2022 petition in PFLAG v. Abbott. "The Abbott Letter outright claims that 'a number of so-called "sex change" procedures constitute child abuse under existing Texas law,' despite the fact that the Legislature has failed to pass" legislation to that effect. It's not clear exactly how many people DFPS investigated as a result of Abbott's order. But six families ultimately joined two ACLU-backed lawsuits challenging the new policy. The plaintiffs described nerve-racking home visits and investigations that dragged on despite turning up no evidence of abuse or neglect. One parent, identified as "Samantha Poe," said Child Protective Services (CPS), a division of DFPS, continued investigating her family even after receiving a letter from her 13-year-old gender-questioning child's psychiatrist confirming that the teenager, Whitley, was not receiving any medical transition treatments. "Without my prior knowledge, a CPS investigator contacted a teacher at Whitley's middle school to ask about Whitley," Poe said in a written declaration submitted with the PFLAG v. Abbott lawsuit. "The teacher told me they were contacted and that they told the investigator Whitley is well cared for and Whitley's every need is being met. They also shared that they told the investigator that they had called CPS about other students they suspected were suffering from abuse at home, but received no response." These probes were part of something much larger. During the last decade, a full-blown gender war has erupted in America. While much of the controversy relates to transgender adults, a particularly fraught element of the debate focuses on gender-dysphoric kids. The question of what exactly to do when children say they're transgender should be dominated by rigorous science and parental judgment. Instead, it has been clouded by politics. In recent years, state-run medical agencies in such countries as Sweden, Norway, and Great Britain have recommended restricting medical transitions for minors, arguing that the risks outweigh the potential benefits. Twenty-four U.S. states have passed laws banning gender transition treatments for minors, and two others—New Hampshire and Arizona—have banned surgical procedures while keeping other treatments legal. While doctors suspicious of these treatments stress the lack of strong evidence supporting their efficacy, other physicians argue there is plenty of evidence that they work, often claiming that the controversy is driven by transphobia rather than legitimate medical concerns. In Texas, the state responded to the dispute by siccing CPS on parents. Meanwhile, parents in several Democratic-controlled states say they have faced CPS investigations for resisting their children's medical or social transition. When the state intervenes because officials dislike how parents are choosing to handle a child's gender dysphoria, that does not protect vulnerable kids. It shifts decisions on a difficult issue from parents—the people who know the children best and love them most—to impersonal, often politically motivated bureaucrats. What to do about childhood gender dysphoria is a live question, and a difficult one. But it's a question the state is ill-equipped to answer for individual families. "I think there should be a very thorough evaluation of every child, young person," says Erica Anderson, a clinical psychologist and former president of the United States Professional Association for Transgender Health (USPATH). "I've been for a long time now urging caution that we need to be very cautious about which kids go on to puberty blockers and cross-sex hormones." Anderson, herself a transgender woman, has spent much of her career helping evaluate gender-dysphoric kids and their families seeking possible medical transition. "I've been critical of others who feel differently than I do, and in a sense, in my opinion, treat gender dysphoria or gender questioning as a medical condition," she adds. "I don't think there's evidence to support that view." The modern debate over transgender-identified youth can be traced back to the 1990s, when the first cohorts of gender-distressed children were treated with what became known as the "Dutch protocol": medications to prevent the onset of puberty, followed by cross-sex hormones, then surgeries in adulthood. As the Dutch protocol began spreading throughout Europe and the United States, the number of minors referred to gender clinics was fairly low. From 2011 to 2014, for example, fewer than 500 kids per year were referred to the U.K.'s main youth gender clinic, and not all of those kids received medical intervention. Children in this earlier cohort had typically experienced severe gender-related distress from a very young age, and most were natal males, according to Anderson. But things began to change in the late 2010s. "Not only are there an increase in numbers of kids coming to gender clinics—and there are more gender clinics, particularly in North America—but the composition of the population coming to the gender clinics has changed from a fairly homogeneous group of kids to a very heterogeneous group of kids dominated by natal females," says Anderson. These changes prompted some professional misgivings. "There are some of us who feel that we don't have a sufficient evidence base to decide which of these heterogeneous kids are best suited for medicalization," Anderson says. "There's pretty widespread acknowledgment that some of the gender clinics, at least in the United States, do a very poor job of assessment," Anderson says. "The assessment in some cases consists of a brief interview with a mental health person, often a social worker, and then the patient is assigned to see the physician who can prescribe puberty blockers or cross-sex hormones. In my opinion, having a short half-hour—even an hour—interview one time is insufficient in evaluating these kids who are coming to gender clinics." According to a 2022 Reuters investigation, more than 120,000 American kids were diagnosed with gender dysphoria from 2017 through 2021. Still, only a small minority received medical intervention. Around 15,000 adolescents received hormone therapy during this time, and around 5,000 of these kids were placed on puberty blockers. Surgical interventions were even rarer. Reuters found that at least 776 minors with a gender dysphoria diagnosis received mastectomies—also known as "top surgery"—in this period. Just 56 received genital surgeries. Anderson says that thorough assessments are so important because puberty blockers and cross-sex hormones can bring worrisome side effects, such as severe sexual dysfunction and infertility, not to mention the unknown developmental risks of delaying natural puberty. In light of these risks, several countries have pulled back their youth gender medicine programs. Many leading U.S. medical organizations, on the other hand, have rejected the criticism. (Anderson herself resigned from USPATH after the organization considered barring its members from speaking to the press.) As more than two dozen red states have banned at least some medical transition treatments for minors, many blue states responded with policies of their own. In 2023, Washington state lifted the requirement that youth shelters notify a minor's parents if the child left home to seek medical transition. School districts around the country, as well as the state governments of New Jersey and California, have discouraged teachers from informing parents if their child socially transitions at school. Anderson is concerned about the possibility that CPS will intervene when parents won't consent to a child's medical transition, especially if the child's other parent disagrees. "There are some child protection workers who are given to believe…that the failure to consent to medicalization, to gender intervention, is abuse," she says. "So then the nonconsenting parent then gets accused of child abuse or neglect." Sure enough, even as Texas officially demanded that CPS investigate the parents of transgender kids, families that express skepticism about social or medical transition for their children sometimes face a less formalized, but no less invasive, state scrutiny. Parents who resisted pursuing transition for their children have found themselves under CPS investigation after an overzealous teacher or school administrator reported them to the authorities. Sarah (not her real name) and her husband were initially very supportive when their 12-year-old daughter came out as trans. The couple, who lived in California, used her new name and pronouns, let her dress in male clothes, and consented to giving her puberty blockers. "We were told the famous line: 'Would you rather have a live son or a dead daughter?'" Sarah says. "And when your kid is suicidal, nothing [else] matters at that point. At that point I was naive and trusted the medical advice. I thought the people in the field knew better than me and was desperate and terrified to lose my daughter." Although Sarah says she and her husband fully affirmed their daughter's new identity and even agreed to an increased dosage of puberty blockers at their doctor's suggestion, the child's mental health continued to deteriorate. "We found that every step that we took…made her mental health worse," Sarah says. "She might have temporarily been happy, but then it faded and then her mental health [problem] manifested back up. It was never really resolved….We were living in crisis management, not knowing if I was going to wake up and find her dead in her room the following morning." Sarah knew something had to change. "I came out of the work force at the height of my career," she says, "and then started really pounding the pavement and saying to myself, 'OK, the definition of insanity is to do the same thing but expect a different outcome.' I knew I had to do something different." Sarah eventually found a psychiatrist for her daughter who neither uncritically accepted nor uncritically dismissed the idea that she was transgender. Sarah says her daughter's mental health improved significantly after she worked with this new therapist, who took an "exploratory" approach to gender distress. She came off the puberty blockers and began going by a more gender-neutral name. "I was able to sleep at night," Sarah says. "I wasn't up at night constantly patrolling and checking in on her…and opening the doors to make sure she was OK. I didn't have to do that. I actually got sleep." Sarah's daughter still had ups and downs, though. According to Sarah, her daughter, then a high school freshman, went to the school counselor at one point and expressed some confusion and distress over her shifting gender identity. Sarah says the school counselor told her daughter that the counselor would have to call CPS. "So then my daughter gets scared and she texts the psychiatrist, and the psychiatrist warns me that this is coming," Sarah says. "Probably hours later, I get a call on my voicemail from Child Protective Services. And we were panicked when we received that phone call." Sarah hired an attorney to sit in on the eventual CPS home visit, and she ultimately was able to have her case fully closed. But the experience was still terrifying for the family. Sarah says that her daughter, now a student at a women's college, no longer identifies as trans—a claim that is corroborated by her daughter's social media presence. Sarah declined to make her daughter available for an interview, telling Reason in an email that "this topic is still rather triggering/upsetting for her," adding, "We don't want to put her through this again, but are sharing our story to hopefully help other families." "We hear from many, many, many more families than we have the ability to bring lawsuits," says Vernadette Broyles, president and general counsel of the Child and Parental Rights Campaign. Broyles specializes in cases like Sarah's, as well as cases where trans-identified kids are actually removed by CPS. She says that she's worked on at least 15 cases that involved trans-identified children—cases that ranged from CPS investigations, child custody disputes, and parents who objected to a social transition at school—though her organization has provided "support or advocacy" to substantially more parents. "It's so important for judges to recognize that these children are better in the hands of their parents," Broyles says. "And parents need to have the freedom to do what they know to be in the best interest" of their children. In March 2022, a Travis County, Texas, judge granted a temporary injunction in Doe v. Abbott, halting the enforcement of Abbott's order. But just over two months later, the Texas Supreme Court narrowed the scope of the injunction significantly, limiting it to the plaintiffs in the case. In September, a different temporary injunction was issued in PFLAG v. Abbott, this time barring DFPS from "investigating members of PFLAG, including but not limited to Plaintiff Families, for possible child abuse or neglect solely based on allegations that they have a minor child who is gender transitioning or alleged to be receiving or being prescribed medical treatment for gender dysphoria." While both injunctions are still embroiled in legal battles, with the state appealing the decisions, they were still regarded as a major victory for trans youth and their families. "Today, families of transgender kids in Texas who are members of PFLAG National find shelter from Gov. Abbott's unjust order," Brian K. Bond, executive director of PFLAG National, said in a September 2022 press release. "Every LGBTQ+ person deserves respect, dignity and the right to access the care they need when they need it." Less than a year later, Abbott signed Senate Bill 14, which prohibited Texas doctors from providing medical transition treatments to minors. The Texas Supreme Court upheld that law in June 2024, rejecting the argument that it violated parental rights guaranteed by the state constitution. That month, Texas filed petitions with the state Supreme Court, seeking to overturn the previous injunctions. Despite a few victories for families investigated by CPS, the broader public fight over how to address gender dysphoria in minors—especially when it comes to medical interventions—is not going away anytime soon. "One of the reasons why this is so hard, why we have a very divided set of circumstances here, is that traditionally, courts have relied on medical experts to determine [what's] necessary in terms of the treatment of children," says Naomi Schaefer Riley, a senior fellow at the American Enterprise Institute who focuses on child welfare and foster care. "You can now get a medical expert to testify that if this child does not receive gender transition treatment they're going to commit suicide. But you can also get a medical expert to say cutting off a child's genitals is child abuse." The vast majority of the parents who find themselves in these difficult situations sincerely want what's best for their children. They know their kids better than anyone else and love them more fiercely than any social worker or teacher ever will. Parents in this situation would do nearly anything to take away their children's pain and help them grow into happy, healthy adults. The last thing they need is misguided state intrusion into their lives. Davis ultimately resigned from DFPS. He says after a brief period working under the new regime, he realized he was unable to continue working for an agency that was wasting time and resources on politically motivated investigations of loving families with transgender children. "I'm working nights, weekends, holidays, and I'm trying to keep these kids safe," he says. "And you want me to do what? You want me to go into homes that you know are safe?…This is wrong." The post Their Kids Said They Were Trans. Then CPS Came Knocking. appeared first on
Yahoo
08-02-2025
- Yahoo
Newborn baby surrendered by parents at Garland fire station
The Brief Garland police say a couple went to the North Garland Fire Station on Thursday evening and surrendered their newborn baby. The baby was checked out at a hospital and was found to be in perfect health. The mother is also said to be doing well. Since the baby met all the criteria for the Texas Safe Haven Law, the parents will not face any criminal charges. GARLAND, Texas - Parents of a newborn baby surrendered their infant at a Garland fire station. What we know Garland police say on Thursday around 5:45 p.m. a couple went to the North Garland Fire Station to give up their baby. Paramedics took the baby and its mother to a hospital and found the newborn to be in perfect health. The mother is also said to be doing well and is stable. The parents are not facing any criminal charges. What they're saying Garland police are commending the parents for making the tough decision to safely and legally give up their infant. Police say it's a critical reminder of the resources and support available for parents facing difficult life circumstances. "We want to reassure parents that they have a legal and safe option to bring their newborn to a designated Safe Haven location," said Garland Police Chief Jeff Bryan. "This ensures the baby receives immediate care and the opportunity for a safe future." What we don't know We don't know how old the baby was, but the Texas Safe Haven Law criteria require the baby to be 60 days old or younger. It's unclear why the parents had to surrender their baby. However, no explanation needs to be given under the Safe Haven Law. Since the parents are not facing any criminal charges, their names were not released. Dig deeper Established in 1999, the Texas Safe Haven Law (also known as the Baby Moses Law) allows parents to legally surrender a newborn baby as long as they're 60 days old or younger and are unharmed and safe. The infant must be dropped off at a Safe Haven location, like fire stations, hospitals or EMS stations. While a mother may voluntarily provide some information about why the baby is being surrendered, no explanation is legally required. A flyer from the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services (DFPS) explaining the law states, "No questions asked. No Police. No Prosecution." Once the baby is medically cleared, DFPS will take custody of the newborn. More info can be found here: The Source Information in this article comes from the Garland Police Department, the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services and the Baby Moses Project.
Yahoo
07-02-2025
- Yahoo
Foster child death linked to state-contracted home prompts criminal investigation
The state has shut down a residential treatment center in northeast Texas, three months after one of its charges — an 11-year-old boy — died in an incident that foster care officials and local law enforcement are investigating. The boy died in a Greenville movie theater during an outing the day before Thanksgiving, according to three people who are familiar with the investigations. Other boys who lived at the center told Joe Sterner, the Lone Oak school district's police chief, that the boy had complained about a stomach ache and had sustained a head wound in recent days. 'I guess when they were about to head out to go to the movies, he was in the bathroom, crying real bad that he was hurting real bad and they still told him to get on the van,' Sterner said. It is not known if the child died from an underlying illness related to stomach pain or from a wound that he had on his head before he entered the Greenville movie theater. The boy and his fellow housemates watched the movie and by the time it ended, the child was dead, one of the people familiar with the case said. 'The lights came up and the child had blood coming down his nose and he was deceased,' said one source, who spoke on condition that their name not be used because they do not want to hurt their professional relationship with the Texas Department of Family and Protective Services, which oversees the state's foster care system operations. It is not clear if Thompson's staff members who accompanied the children to the movie theater, sought medical treatment for the child. The Texas Health and Human Services Commission, which oversees licensing of foster care facilities, said Thursday that Thompson's Residential Treatment Center license has been revoked. 'HHSC determined Thompson's Residential Treatment Center posed an immediate threat to the health or safety of children,' Jennifer Ruffcorn, commission spokesperson said in an email. DFPS moved quickly to terminate its contract with Thompson's Residential Treatment Center, but the action was also made quietly following dozens of previous deficiencies alleged in state records and by nearby residents. The residential treatment facility, or RTC, where the boy was staying is one of dozens contracted with the state to house and treat the most traumatized and mentally ill foster care children. News of the child's death surfaced publicly for the first time Monday at a Senate Finance Committee hearing focused on the state budget. DFPS and the Hunt County Sheriff's Department are each investigating the boys' death. Both agencies declined to publicly speak about their separate inquiries. A DFPS spokesperson confirmed that the boy, whose name has not been released, died on Nov. 27. The death occurred six weeks after the state won a legal battle in federal court that removed the judge presiding over a 14-year lawsuit against Texas' child welfare system. The Tribune made several unsuccessful attempts to reach the facility. Public records suggest it is owned by Chaun Thompson, who spent seven years in the NFL playing first for the Cleveland Browns, then the Houston Texans until he was sidelined by an injury in 2009. He also could not be reached. The Tribune was able to reach Julie Fox, who according to LinkedIn, was Thompson's treatment director from November 2009 through December 2024, but she declined to comment. The Tribune learned of the child's death from a passing comment made by state Sen. Angela Paxton more than two hours into Monday's Senate Finance Committee hearing. Senators and Texas Health Commissioner Cecile Young and her chief financial officer, Trey Wood, were discussing a budget proposal that would add regulatory staff for inspections of long term care providers. 'Tragically, in my district, there was an 11-year-old boy who passed away this past November while he was under the care of a licensed residential treatment center which has since had its license revoked and children placed in other centers,' Paxton said at the 2:23 mark of that hearing. 'The investigation is ongoing so I will not speak to particulars of the case but I would like to just chime in on this issue as it is something very tangible and concrete in my district,' she said. Paxton declined to comment further to the Tribune. All 20 children who were living at Thompson's were removed within a week of the death and placed elsewhere, according to the agency. Interviews and a search of public records and news accounts show the facility has had problems of varying severity over the last several years. Children have been injured and there have been multiple calls for service made to the facility, which consists of two large houses side-by-side along Farm to Market Road 1564, southeast of Greenville in Hunt County. One local law enforcement officer, who asked not to be named, said it was known as 'the runaway center' because of how often police are asked to locate its residents who have run away from the facility. The state maintains a database that lists deficiencies at residential treatment centers over a 5-year period. Thompson's had 84 reported deficiencies with more than a third of them reported in the past year and 12 of them were considered the most severe. There were 117 reports, 1 assessment, 10 self-reported incidents and 69 inspections. Notably, the state visited the facility one day before the boy's death and found no deficiencies, according to the state database. Among the more serious deficiencies at Thompson's listed in the state's database include: On Aug. 4, 2023, a child was able to leave the facility because he was not properly supervised. On Aug 14, 2023, a caregiver grabbed a 14-year-old by the neck. On Nov. 1, 2023, a staffer 'engaged in a physical altercation with a 17 year old child in care. The staff actions placed the child at risk for significant harm.' On April 22, two children were involved in a fight leaving one with a black eye. On June 16, the facility failed to follow a child's treatment plan. The day before it was reported that staff failed to intervene in an altercation that resulted in a child being hurt. On July 26 and July 2, it was reported a child received a cut under his eye as a result of an altercation with another child. On Aug. 2, the facility did not restrict duties for provisional employees and supervision rules were violated. On Sept. 19, two unsupervised residents got into a fight at the facility. Thompson's file is also filled with several reports of holes left unrepaired in the walls and exposed wiring, broken windows and broken blinds. Coverage from the local newspaper, Herald Banner, also chronicled serious problems over the years. In February 2020, two boys ran away from Thompson's and were on their own for weeks before being located, according to the paper's reporting. On April 18, 2015, Hunt County sheriff's department sent deputies to investigate an alleged sexual assault of a child by a staff member there, the paper said. On March 22, 2011, the news outlet reported deputies investigating an attack on staff by several of the boys living there. The Tribune has filed a request for all calls to the sheriff's office. Residential treatment centers are inspected, licensed and monitored by the Texas Health and Human Services Commission. Depending on the level of care needed, the state pays residential treatment facilities between $52.71 to $480.86 per child per day. The agency did not release on Thursday how much it paid Thompson to run the center. It is not unusual for foster care children to run away from residential treatment centers or engage in physical altercations with each other and staff. The chronic issues found at the more than 80 residential treatment centers statewide are often subjects of the 14-year lawsuit against the Texas' foster care system. Since 2019, the state foster care system has been found in contempt of the court three times for failing to follow U.S. District Judge Janis Jack's orders to fix deficiencies. At the center of the battle are the roughly 9,000 children in permanent state custody, removed from their homes due to abuse at home, complex health needs that parents are unable to manage, or the loss of their family caregivers, among other circumstances. Many of the most vulnerable children have been left in dangerous placements including residential centers with poor supervision, the court has found. The last time a child placed in a residential treatment center died was in 2021. The reason facilities tend to locate in rural areas, former long-time Hunt County commissioner Phillip Martin said, is because there are less stringent regulations in unincorporated areas than locating inside a city. Martin said rural communities need to consider how much pressure such a facility — one that houses children with behavior issues — puts on local resources, particularly its public school system and its law enforcement. 'Yet again, the state is shutting down a dangerous facility after another tragedy. Innocent children are still dying in state care,' said Paul Yetter, the attorney for the plaintiffs in the 14-year foster care lawsuit against DFPS. 'This is not a safe system.'
