Oldest Jackson remains cut off from his brothers

Three starving Collingswood boys, removed from their adoptive home after a neighbor saw their frail older brother rifling through garbage for scraps, have found happiness with new parents.

Seven years after the case made national headlines, and weeks after their reviled mother was freed from a New Jersey state prison, news photographs captured the now-healthy trio roughhousing with glee.

But how is their brother, Bruce Jackson, who changed their lives with his 3 a.m. foraging and his willingness to tell all to police?

His chilling account of how Vanessa Jackson fed them a steady diet of raw pancake batter, and how she would not take them to a doctor or dentist, led to neglect charges. It also triggered reform in the state's child-welfare system.

Cut off from his brothers, Bruce, 26, now lives in a state-supervised group home for the developmentally disabled in Gloucester County. Some say he is lonely and feels lost.

"They won't even let us talk to him," his brother Terrell Parrish, 16, formerly known as Tyrone Jackson, said last month. "They got him guarded like the president."

Bruce's welfare is a well-protected secret. Requests to interview him were rebuffed by Michael Critchley Sr., a West Orange criminal lawyer, who has represented many high-profile clients.

Soon after Bruce was taken from the Jackson home, he was judged incompetent, and Critchley was appointed his legal adviser. Critchley has said in past interviews that Bruce needed placement in a home because he could not live alone and was having difficulties living "a normal existence." The lawyer has waived his fees, but is reimbursed for his expenses, according to court documents.

A state guardian in the Department of Human Services was given control over day-to-day decisions pertaining to Bruce's well-being.

In 2005, Bruce received a $5 million out-of-court settlement from the state because its social workers had overlooked his emaciated condition during home visits. His brothers each got $1.8 million in trust funds.

Critchley was quoted at the time as saying Bruce might someday want to use that money to buy a house and hire a staff to look after him. But in recent weeks, when asked why that had not happened, Critchley has cited "privacy issues."

Asked about the brothers' concerns they were being denied contact with Bruce, Critchley said: "I can understand that" and said he would talk to Bruce before commenting. He did not return follow-up calls.

The last time that Bruce, Terrell, TreShawn, 20, and Michael, 15, were all together was in February 2006 at the Hall of Justice in Camden, when their adoptive mother was sentenced. She received seven years, but was released in February after four, for good behavior. Her husband, Raymond, died of a stroke while charges against him were pending.

Before the emotional hearing, the brothers embraced, and the younger ones called Bruce their hero.

"If it wasn't for him, we'd still be at the Jacksons' right now," TreShawn said, in his first newspaper interview a year later. "If he didn't sneak out and go into the trash can, we'd all be dead."

Bruce was clever enough to tell the neighbor he didn't know his name or address, Camden County Investigator Eric Wren said. Once before, when the family lived in Pennsauken, Bruce had told a neighbor that he was hungry and that his family had gone to Florida. But when he gave his address, police took him home, where a family member told them Bruce had an eating disorder.

This time, Collingswood police brought him to a hospital, where he did not hold back during questioning. Wren said Bruce was very talkative, friendly, and grateful during his two-month stay.

"He was so happy to be in the hospital. He was learning about life and all it offered," the investigator said. "The only time he got sad was when he said he missed his brothers."

Though Bruce was 19 at the time, police mistook him for a 7-year-old, since he was only 4 feet tall and 45 pounds. Since then, his weight has more than doubled.

"He should get what he wants," his brother TreShawn, a Cumberland County College freshman, said a few weeks ago. "He wants a family. He deserves it after what he did for us."

That day, TreShawn, Michael, and their adoptive father, James Parrish, had spoken briefly to Bruce on the phone. But before Terrell got his turn, a resident adviser got on the line and said Bruce was not permitted to talk with them, Parrish said.

Over the years, Parrish said, the boys have had only a handful of phone conversations with Bruce.

"He's lonely, and when he calls, he asks if we forgot about him," Parrish said. "He needs to see his family."

At Vanessa Jackson's sentencing, Bruce addressed the court to offer details of his ordeal. He did not falter when he spoke of how all his blackened teeth had to be pulled because he had never been to a dentist. He spoke of how he had gnawed on the wall because of his great hunger.

The brothers sat together, resolved to get through the experience. For years, they lived together as adopted brothers in the Jackson house.

Though Wren kept in touch with the younger brothers, who now live on a 12-acre property in Millville, he said he had not contacted Bruce because of his placement with the state and his legal-guardianship questions.

"I wouldn't even know where to start to ask permission to speak with him," Wren said.

Pam Ronan, a spokeswoman for the Department of Human Services, said "privacy rights" prevented her from confirming that Bruce might be in one of the state's group homes for the developmentally disabled. She said she could offer no comment.

Parrish, a Cumberland County youth minister, said he and his wife, Amber, were troubled. "It's almost like they're shielding him from the world, controlling him," Parrish said. "There's a lot of love between the brothers, and they miss each other."

After the aborted phone call, Parrish tried calling Bruce back, but was told he had dialed a wrong number. He called again, and this time asked for a supervisor to find out if there was a post office box where he could send pictures of Bruce's brothers. Again, he was turned down.

A reporter also called and asked for Bruce, but was hung up on. The number was traced to a group home, but a visit there ended almost as abruptly, when a resident adviser said Bruce did not live there. A sign on the door said the "common areas" inside the home were monitored by video. An unidentified resident napped in a chair.

The home was modest and in need of minor repairs.

William Tambussi, a prominent lawyer, is the court-appointed trustee of Jackson's $5 million. He donates his time.

Since the state pays Bruce's room, board, and medical costs, Tambussi said his job was to review any significant extras Bruce might need. So far, he said, he has approved Bruce's dental implants and purchase of a video-game system.

Parrish says he thinks Bruce would be happier with people who love him. A few years ago, Parrish said, Bruce asked if he could be adopted with his brothers, but Parrish told him that his age and legal status made that impossible. Parrish said Bruce called him "Uncle James."

Amber Parrish says the family longs for a reunion with Bruce. She said the brothers were disappointed when he did not show up for TreShawn's high school graduation party last year, and she's upset that lawyers must approve Bruce's invitations.

The last time Bruce visited was in October 2006, but TreShawn was then living in an adoptive home in Texas. The Parrishes have since adopted TreShawn. That fall, Bruce attended Terrell and Michael's football game, with chaperones. Afterward, the three brothers embraced and caught up, Parrish said. "They were happy to see each other.

Bruce did not act "out of the ordinary" in any way, Parrish said, but he did become upset when the chaperones ruled out plans to go back to the house for pizza.

" 'If you act like this, you won't be able to go anywhere,' " a chaperone told him, according to Parrish.

Bruce obediently got into the van, Parrish said. It was the last time Parrish saw him.