Krause acknowledges that there was a struggle during a fight, but he "picked her up, she struggled, and she fell out of my arms and landed on her back on the kitchen floor. I put her in her room gently." He claims to have a document from Marin Child Protective Services that absolves him of abuse, but then says he can't provide it and, at the last minute, that his attorney has it.
The custody battle lasted for about five months. In the end, based on the recommendations of evaluator Oklan and attorney Acevedo, Shapiro gave full custody of Alanna to Marshall Krause. Simone-Smith was granted supervised visits, though she says her attempts to see Alanna were "stymied" by Krause. Mother and daughter kept in close contact by phone, though their first supervised visit did not occur until Christmas Day 1996.
Courtesy of Alanna Krause
Alanna (center, as a toddler) became "property to be
divided" during her parents' contentious child custody
battle in 1993.
Robert Davis
Alanna believes her $135 million lawsuit will send the
message that children need a voice in family courts.
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"Family court proceedings were complicated," Alanna says, reflecting on the case. "Custody was like dividing assets. I was a leverage tool, a point of contention. Yeah, it got crazy. I'm not going to say my mom was a perfect angel. She made mistakes, but she was well-intentioned. There were 100 times where turns were made in the wrong direction."
Alanna pulls up a chair in her dorm library and settles herself confidently into it. She looks like any college student in a white blouse and flared jeans with a bohemian print, but she appears especially steady and focused, as if she'd been preparing herself for this discussion.
At the mention of her father's name, Alanna's words become angry. "He's the kind of guy who would stand up and fight for civil rights for his entire life but deny even the most basic civil rights to his family," she says. "He could be whatever persona benefited him the most. He's always wearing a mask. I never felt he was being real."
But when pressed, she admits that her time with her father wasn't all bad, as if she knows that being too spiteful might come off as unbecoming. "I did have a relationship with my father," she concedes. "As a kid, it seemed he knew everything. I get my love for the Constitution from him, much as he didn't follow it himself. Whenever I hear NPR, I think of him. He would always have it on in the car, and I used to think it was so boring.
"The truth is, I don't hate him. I cut him out [of my life] in self-defense. I really feel that I will get hurt if I get anywhere close to him."
She searches for an analogy, her hand waving in the air. "I mean, how cool are black widows? They're really cool! But you're not going to hang out in a room with them. Because they're dangerous."
Krause says he also has fond memories of his time with Alanna, though his recollections are strangely vague. "We both liked games and fun," he says from his home office, his lips pulled into a sharklike smile. "Birthday parties, going places and doing things. Reading, discussing politics and social issues."
Alanna hasn't spoken to her father in about three years, and Krause must ask a reporter how his daughter is doing and what she's majoring in at college. If there are fuzzy images of happier moments between father and daughter, they are of times many, many years ago.
After the custody dispute, Alanna went to live with her father in a house on a private, unpaved street in San Geronimo. Alanna, then 10, says he often left her on her own. "My dad was always going to meetings, and he'd stay overnight at other women's houses. Our house was in the middle of the forest. I was totally alone in this big, dark house."
Krause says that he doesn't know what Alanna means when she says he stayed at women's houses, and that he always found "companions" for her if he was not going to be home. About her aloneness, he says, "That's such a subjective thing. If she felt that, then it was true. Maybe it was more than she felt comfortable with. But I don't think she made a big deal out of it [then]. If she had, I would have done something about it."
Bored and sometimes scared by herself, Alanna would call her mother. They spent marathon sessions on the phone, singing songs or playing math games. Alanna also buried herself in books, reading comics and fantasies, and, she claims, "the entire psychology section of the library." "Books saved me," Alanna says. "We didn't have a TV. We were in the middle of the woods. I rented shelves of books. I read voraciously, and I'd disappear into a book. Then I was no longer in that situation." She came to see the library as a refuge, and sometimes when she'd try to run away, her father would find her there.
When Krause was at home, Alanna claims, they argued constantly, and sometimes these fights became physical. In 1995, the physical discipline made its way outside their house. Alanna was in the sixth grade, and Krause became upset with her at her junior high school because he saw a poem that she'd written about loving her mother. He pushed Alanna against a wall, and a teacher called Child Protective Services after watching Krause "swearing at Alanna, grabbing her by her shoulder or arm, and shoving her about," according to juvenile court documents.
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