Family & Fatherhood

Welcome to the world of court-ordered supervised visitation, where thousands of American fathers are considered guilty until proven innocent.

A Best Life special report.

A Visit
It was a Saturday morning in June 2004, and for 42-year-old Dan Jenkins* that meant he was permitted to spend two hours with his children. Jenkins, a director of training for a major financial-services firm, knew well the rules of the court-ordered arrangement that allowed him to see his son, 14-year-old Josh, and daughter, 10-year-old Ali, for 120 minutes once a week. First and foremost, Jenkins had to arrive at the designated "visitation center" on time. Thirty seconds past the 10 a.m. start time and he'd be turned away, forced to wait at least another six days to see his kids. Leaving nothing to chance, Jenkins awoke early in his Natick, Massachusetts, one-bedroom apartment, where he lived alone, surrounded by pictures of what was once his suburban home and happy, stable family. He grabbed his car keys from a bookshelf filled with dusty model rockets he'd once built with his son.

The visitation center was about 15 miles away, at a Boys & Girls Club in Marlborough, Massachusetts. If you dropped in during the week, you'd have found toddlers in day care, or Cub Scouts gathering, or kids horsing around in the teen center. But on Saturdays, the former public school building was rented to the staff of Children's Supervised Visitations Inc., and the vibe wasn't nearly as social. An armed security guard eyeballed Jenkins as he entered the front door, made his way to the check-in, and paid his $60 ($30 for each hour he would spend with his children). The clerk at the check-in inspected Jenkins's bag for any proscribed items, such as sharp objects and family photographs. The CSVI staff had informed Jenkins that family pictures could elicit "confusing and perhaps painful memories for the children."

Directed into the otherwise unoccupied teen center, furnished with a couch, a few tables and chairs, a foosball table, board games, and a television, Jenkins took a seat, knowing that according to the rigid protocol, it would be another 20 minutes before his ex-wife would drop off their children. Another rule of this supervised visitation was that the mother and father could not see each other during the "exchange," to avoid conflict. While Jenkins waited, a child, who likely was arriving for another arranged visit with a parent, happened to dart into the room. Jenkins heard a CSVI employee shout from the hall, "You can't go in there. You don't want to go in there with him." The comment humiliated and angered Jenkins. He was tired of being regarded as some kind of monster, of being treated as if he were guilty of something.

At last, Josh and Ali entered the room, accompanied as usual on these visits by a CSVI monitor. As the kids put down their backpacks, the monitor, a thirtysomething woman with a clipboard, watched to ensure that their father did not initiate any physical contact. Hugging or kissing was permitted only if the children made the first move. The monitor watched and scribbled notes as Jenkins and his kids picked out a board game and began to play. She watched and scribbled notes as they talked about school and friends. She listened for any "inappropriate" discussions. If the monitor couldn't hear their conversation, she asked them to speak up.

Back before his divorce and the allegations— unsubstantiated and false accusations, the court later determined—that forced him to meet with his children like this, Jenkins used to comb and braid Ali's long curls. She asked if he would do it now. And he did, until the monitor demanded that they stop, summoning Jenkins to her for a "time-out." Within earshot of his children, the monitor informed him that she was not comfortable with him touching his daughter's hair. And then, just like that, their time together was over. Precisely two hours after it began, the monitor motioned to wrap it up. Josh understood. Resigned to the rules, he hugged his father and robotically walked from the room. More emotional and strong-willed, Ali was reluctant to leave. As much as it pained him, Jenkins prodded her to go. Ali threw her arms around him, lingering for a moment, then turned and scooted off.

As soon as his kids were gone, the monitor informed Jenkins that she would be writing him up because he'd pressured his daughter to hug him. Jenkins knew the power of the visitation report: A family-court judge might use the monitor's "facts" to terminate his contact with his kids. For a few moments, he protested. "All I said was, 'It's time to say good-bye to Daddy,'" recalled Jenkins. "There was no pressure." But Jenkins quickly remembered there was no use arguing with the visitation monitor. Not if he wanted to see his children again.

The Supervised Visitation Boom
Programs like Children's Supervised Visitation Inc. are opening with the frequency of Chipotle franchises. The United States is in the midst of a supervised visitation center boom. According to the Supervised Visitation Network (SVN), which is the association of directors and workers in the field, in 1994 (the first year of an official tally of supervised visitation sites), there were 56 member programs operating in 28 states. Today, only 14 years later, there are nearly 500 of them nationwide. By SVN's count, there are 112 member centers in California alone. As a 1999 study reports, 64 percent of the nation's supervised visitation programs are private nonprofit operations, 14 percent are public agencies, and the rest are for-profit practitioners. It's worth noting that SVN's count falls short of quantifying the trend, as not all supervised visitation programs register with the association. And centers frequently open and frequently close down. For example, the CSVI where Jenkins and his children met is now defunct.