The courtroom held its breath as the 13-year-old boy testified, a fragile figure facing the women accused of a devastating betrayal. His story, a harrowing account of a childhood stolen, unfolded with painful clarity, each word a testament to unimaginable hardship.
Taken from his birth mother as an infant, he and his older brother drifted through the foster care system, finally arriving at the Burlington home of Becky Hamber and Brandy Cooney in 2017. What should have been a haven became, instead, a place of shadows and fear.
Five years later, his brother was gone. Now, he was the sole witness, tasked with recounting the horrors within those walls – a house described not as a home, but as a place of unrelenting control and alleged abuse.
The details were chilling. A boy, already vulnerable, forced to wear a wetsuit indoors, confined to his room for nearly all hours, meals timed and regulated with ruthless precision. He spoke of being locked away, restrained when he expressed anger, and subjected to relentless physical exertion as punishment.
His world shrank after the pandemic, school replaced by isolated homeschooling. The outside world became a distant memory, his life increasingly dictated by the rigid rules imposed by the women who were meant to care for him. He existed, he explained, within the confines of his room 92% of the time.
When first responders found his brother, he was unresponsive, soaked and shivering in the basement, wearing a wetsuit. The pathologist could not determine a cause of death, leaving a void of unanswered questions and a weight of unbearable grief.
During cross-examination, the boy, accompanied by a support dog, faced a relentless barrage of questions. Accusations of fabrication, suggestions of a motive for financial gain – each attempt to discredit his testimony met with a quiet, unwavering resolve.
Photos of elaborate meals and seemingly joyful moments were presented, images shared online with a jarring hashtag. But the boy stood firm, insisting the smiles were a facade, the food a distant memory. He recalled a diet of blended meals, a stark contrast to the images displayed before him.
The lawyer suggested the wetsuit was a response to incontinence, but the boy vehemently denied it. He refuted claims of violent outbursts, explaining that frustration built from endless confinement and exhausting exercises. He challenged explanations for injuries, questioning how self-inflicted scratches could mirror the marks left by zip-ties.
The questioning turned to a lawsuit, a claim for financial compensation. The implication was that his testimony was driven by a desire to secure money for his mother. The boy’s response was immediate and impassioned, a fierce defense of his brother’s memory.
“Please don’t just remember me,” he had written to his therapist, a letter read aloud in court. “But remember (my brother) and everything that he could do to live as long as he could. He meant everything to me. And Becky and Brandy didn’t do anything to help him.”
His words hung in the air, a heartbreaking plea for justice, a desperate attempt to ensure his brother’s suffering would not be forgotten. He testified not for money, but for a brother lost too soon, and for a truth that demanded to be heard.
