Judy Tudor talks about her job as assistant manager of Clark County's Department of Family Services. A former foster child, Tudor decided to pursue a career in social work to give back to the system she credits with saving her life. Photo by Gary Thompson.

Judy Tudor understands how terrifying it can be for a child to be removed from a parent's home and placed into foster care: It once happened to her.

"It was scary and crazy," she says. "An investigator came to my school, interviewed me, and I left the same day. I didn't have any of my clothes or anything. I had to take finals (exams) in Child Haven."

Tudor was removed from her home at 15 because of abuse at the hands of her stepfather, she says. She spent several scary weeks in Child Haven's children's shelter.

"I had to go to court," she says. "I didn't know what to expect."

Tudor eventually was placed in the home of an extended family member but remained a ward of the state until she aged out of the foster care system.

Though plenty of kids have horror stories about their time in foster care and might even end up in gangs, in jail or homeless, Tudor says the experience saved her life.

"It was a pivotal point in my life. Had I not been removed from my home, I would have gotten involved in drugs, maybe teen pregnancy."

The experience also inspired her to become a social worker so that she might "give back" to the system she thinks saved her.

"I had people who gave so much and helped me be successful," she said. "We don't always see the really extraordinary things (social) workers do every day to change children's lives."

Tudor's "giving back" has been so successful that, after spending time as a foster care case manager for the state and a supervisor for child protective services in Clark County, she was recently promoted to assistant manager of the county's Department of Family Services, supervising 130 workers who help investigate child abuse and neglect cases and place children in foster care.

"Folks internally were really impressed with her," Clark County Manager Thom Reilly says of Tudor. "Her insight with the kids and the system is something to see. It doesn't matter how much you're trained. You'll never get to that level unless you've been there yourself."

Reilly knows Tudor's history well. He first met her nearly two decades ago, when she was a foster child and he was Nevada's Chief of Social Services.

"Judy was very articulate," he says. "She said, 'I'm going to be a social worker. I can offer a lot to the kids because I've been here.' "

The first thing a visitor to Tudor's office might notice is that she looks much too young for her job.

"I get that a lot," the 33-year-old says with a smile. "I'm one of the young ones."

The second thing is that behind her desk decorated with Mickey Mouse figurines, Tudor is sitting in a wheelchair.

"It's kind of a mystery," she says when asked about the paralysis that struck her 17 years ago. "They've never been able to identify exactly what caused it."

When she was 16, Tudor suddenly lost all feeling from the chest down. Doctors eventually diagnosed her with a type of transverse myelitis, a neurological syndrome caused by inflammation of the spinal cord. The official cause is unknown but often is associated with viral or bacterial infections.

So, in addition to dealing with the stress of being taken from her parental home and placed in foster care as a teen, Tudor was forced to deal with a sudden, unexpected disability.

"You start living two tracks," she says, "one, if I wake up tomorrow and can walk, the other, if I don't."

But Tudor doesn't dwell much, anymore, on her disability. Neither does anyone who knows her.

"You don't ever think of Judy as being physically limited," says Ann Rubin, assistant director of the county's Department of Family Services. "She doesn't see anything as an impediment."

Tudor says her personal experiences with foster care and being confined unexpectedly to a wheelchair has made her especially empathetic to the well-publicized foster care case of Brittney Bergeron, the youngster who at 10 was stabbed and paralyzed in an attack in her Mesquite trailer. The girl had been left alone with her 3-year-old sister, who died in the attack.

Now 14, Bergeron has had to learn to deal with life in a wheelchair and in foster care. She has asked repeatedly to be adopted by her foster parents. The court has been criticized by some for refusing to grant the girl's wishes and terminate the parental rights of Bergeron's mother, Tamara Schmidt, who is in prison for child neglect.

The local child welfare system also has been the target of plenty of stinging criticism lately, which Tudor says she welcomes.

"If we ever feel like we're at a place where we don't need to make changes, we've probably got a problem," she says. "We should always be looking for ways to improve."

Clark County was found recently to be underreporting juvenile deaths related to abuse or neglect and criticized for keeping incomplete files and documentation.

The county also has been criticized for perhaps being too aggressive in removing children from their homes. Marlena Olivas, whose 2-year-old daughter, Everlyse, disappeared from a foster home June 10, also lost custody of a newborn earlier this month because she and her husband hadn't completed county-mandated drug treatment classes, Olivas said.

The new baby was taken by authorities, she said, despite the fact that the mother and child tested drug-free and the system already had lost one of her children.

While not discussing the specific case, Tudor says those responsible for protecting children often are criticized for "not doing enough or doing too much." It's a catch-22.

But, she says, "I can't recall a case where I feel we moved too quickly to remove a child."

She says child welfare workers have sometimes struggled to adjust to big changes in the past few years, including the integration of state and county agencies and a caseload increase of about 39 percent.

"We haven't been able to take a breath," Tudor says, adding that the local child welfare agency is perpetually short-staffed.

"We need more resources," she says. "It's a community problem. We all have to take care of children."

Even those who are often at odds with public child welfare agencies seem to respect Tudor's motivation to do just that.

Clark County Legal Services' Children's Attorney Project lawyer Steve Hiltz, who represents abused and neglected children and sometimes finds himself at odds with child welfare workers about what constitutes a child's "best interests," says Tudor is easy to get along with because her opinions are "based on a legitimate philosophy of what's right for the kids."

The child welfare system is "a horrible system to work in," he says. "Some (workers) get criticized rightly. But there are some in the system who are wonderful and committed. Judy is always responsive. She's one of the stars."

Tudor credits the sometimes overwhelmed caseworkers who she says go "above and beyond" to make sure children are safe.

"They have passion and are dedicated to working with kids," she says. "They never know what they're walking into and are often at odds with the family. It's a thankless job."

Despite the challenges, Tudor says most child welfare workers feel grateful to be just where they are. She is chief among them.

"It's been incredibly rewarding. I feel like I've achieved my goals of giving back to a system that really saved me."