Review: Nobody's Child: Poverty, Justice, and the Insanity Defense in America

Nobody's Child: Poverty, Justice, and the Insanity Defense in America by Susan Nordin Vinocour
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

"Nobody’s Child: A Tragedy, a Trial, and a History of the Insanity Defense", by forensic psychologist Susan Nordin Vinocour, effectively covers exactly what the title implies it covers—and you, as the reader, mostly get what you were promised. Mostly. Vinocour sets out in her book to examine what exactly constitutes an insanity defense, both in legal terms and practical application, through the lens of a child abuse/murder case in which she was a key defense witness. The actual execution of the book, however, in terms of its persuasive power and writing level, is less successful than its lofty (and honestly, noble-minded) goals. I started the book riveted to the case study that makes up the bulk of the frame narrative, but gradually lost interest in the book entirely as the story was bogged down by a series of contextual history lessons that neither particularly illuminated the case at hand nor contributed greatly to my understanding of a complicated psycholegal concept.

The book opens with the story of Dorothy Dunn, an intellectually disabled black woman in her forties’ who is accused of horrific child abuse and neglect leading to the death of her grandson, Raymie. Raymie is found on the kitchen floor of his grandmother’s dilapidated home in a state of rigor mortis—he had been dead for three days when Dunn called an ambulance from a pay phone to come “fix” her predeceased grandson. When authorities arrived, the oddly distant woman had trouble answering basic questions and asked if she was “going to jail”. Indeed she was—to await trial for the second-degree murder of her young charge. Did the boy suffer a head injury following a fall (a theory supported by the crime scene), meaning the grandmother’s prolonged delay in seeking medical attention caused his death? Was he beaten by the grandmother, whose disregard for the child’s wellbeing went as far explicitly denying the child medical care, which resulted in his death? What exactly happened in that kitchen three days earlier, and what was Dorothy Dunn’s state of mind when it happened?

Enter Vinocour, contacted by Dunn’s public defender lawyer to psychologically assess Dunn’s mental state both presently and at the time of the alleged crime. Vinocour’s job was not so much to determine whether or not Dorothy Dunn had committed a crime, but to decide whether Dunn’s mental instability at the time of Raymie’s death would support an insanity plea. Though the term is bandied about often in fictional legal dramas, I’d never really considered what the actual legal definition of the term was, or how it would affect a criminal defense. The author, a former lawyer herself, attempts to interweave chapters on the history of this term and its evolution, from the middle ages to the present, with chapters of somewhat straightforward reportage of the Dunn case and its progression through the legal system. It’s in this call-and-response, history-versus-case-study approach that an otherwise engaging and affecting book loses its way.

Vinocour provides historical background in these alternating chapters in much the dry, pedantic way a poorly written literature review at the beginning of a research paper would. The information is synthesized from a variety of historical sources and cases and presented as evidence for the everchanging nature of the legal definition of insanity—from whether or not the defendant had a guilty mind to whether or not the accused party could tell right from wrong to whether the criminal could tell what they were doing while committing the crime, etcetera. All these arguments are incredible interesting—it’s just that the author seems unable to present them in a way that is interesting. The facts of each case are laid out on the table, briefly discussed, and then the tide of the text moves along, without really engaging the reader in a meaningful philosophical inquiry into the implications of the each of these different criterion for a person to be deemed legally “insane”. The cases she uses, while classic, are also ubiquitous—not being a legal scholar by any means, I was already familiar with several of her historical case studies, and as there was no insight into the cases, merely a presentation of the facts, I didn’t learn anything particularly from these portions of the book, and just had to kind of wade through to get back to the true-crime portions of the book. In more deft hands, the cases would have provided thought-provoking material for considering the change, over time, of what was considered “insane” versus simply “morally bankrupt” or “evil”, and whether or not those definitions served the process of “justice” in its many possible definitions. As is, these chapters grind the momentum of the book to a halt at times, and felt both stale and drawn-out.

Far more successful are the author’s chapters describing her participation in the pre-trial and trial aspects of the Dunn case. Vincour vividly retells the story of a woman and her family who were let down by social service safety nets again and again, forming a compelling counter-narrative to the prosecution’s accusations of Dunn’s intentionally callous disregard for her children’s safety and wellbeing. From CPS’s lack of intervention in Dorothy Dunn’s own bleak childhood (in which she was born mentally challenged, and was physically and emotionally scarred by parental abuse and neglect), to its continued disinterest in pursuing what seem in hindsight to be glaring, actionable problems within the Dunn family (children with high lead levels from lead poisoning, malnutrition, Raymie’s mother’s mental instability and drug use, Dorothy’s attempt to put one child in foster care only to have him returned, Raymie’s essentially being “left” at Dunn’s doorstep by CPS when there were no alternative arrangements available for his care), there’s a continual feeling that this family was allowed to fall through the cracks, and only the fact of a homicide case brought attention to a group of people who could have used the help and public interest well before the tragedy occurred. Vincour succeeds in painting a grim picture of a woman living on the margins of society and left with very limited intellectual and physical resources, to fend for herself “as best she could”. When her best was shown to be inadequate, even by her own standards, still Dunn was expected to just carry on somehow, caseworkers willingly turning a blind eye to the limitations of her childcare abilities because her children and grandchild didn’t fit the very narrow criteria to be removed from the home. An admittedly overworked, underfunded system that was ostensibly designed to protect children, support caregivers, and keep families together in the end did none of those things for Dorothy Dunn and her family.

Vincour takes special care to highlight the possibility of the media’s influence on the trial’s outcome, in spite of the promise of an impartial jury trial. The judge in this case declined the defense’s request to place a gag order on the media, leading to media coverage emphasizing the more salacious aspects of the crime that was fully accessible to the jury via the nightly news or their daily newspaper. It was easy for me, just an uninvolved party well after the fact, to read these headlines and the descriptions of the crime scene in the beginning of the book and have a knee-jerk reaction to Dorothy Dunn’s culpability in her grandchild’s senseless death. How much harder would it be for a jury in the courtroom, looking at autopsy photos of the child’s broken body, to NOT form an emotional rather an analytical reaction to the incredibly emotionally upsetting idea of a child dying in such circumstances? This was one of the more interesting takeaways I had from the book—that a public whose interest skews towards the ghoulish (read: yours truly) can often assume a false sense of being “certain” as to what must have happened based on media reporting that is well-aware of that taste for the Grand Guignol aspects of the case and caters to it specifically, in the interest of ratings/selling newspapers. If all you hear are the more nightmarish aspects of a crime, how can those evocative details fail to color your impartial view of a crime and the person accused of committing it? Now, sometimes a murderer is just an out and out murderer, legally caught dead to rights-- but in these more ethically murky waters, it’s interesting to consider how our own biases and the media’s support of those initial natural feelings of repulsion to horrible events that make us more likely to judge people whose shoes we’ll never have to walk in.

All in all, and in spite of its flaws, a stimulating look at an aspect of the legal system that, considering the everchanging nature of mental health issues and their public perception in America, deserves frequent revisiting.





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