On an early September morning in Largo, Florida, 21‑year‑old Charisse Stinson staggered into a hotel lobby, claiming her two‑year‑old son, Jordan Belliveau Jr., had been abducted. She alleged a stranger had knocked her unconscious and taken Jordan. A panicky Amber Alert flashed across the state—and then, three days later, rescuers discovered Jordan’s body, brutally left in woodland, the kidnapper never found. The grim outcome reversed the narrative: Stinson ultimately confessed to striking Jordan in a moment of frustration, causing fatal head trauma—and dumping his body to hide the truth. The trial and sentencing later sparked a landmark reform—“Jordan’s Law”—aimed at protecting vulnerable children. This three‑page story unfolds like a cinematic novel: from the eerie calm of Largo woods to the chaotic courtroom and the quiet aftermath of law‑making, it honours the boy’s memory and warns of systemic failures.

CHAPTER ONE: THE HOTEL, THE LIE, THE SEARCH

The reception desk of the hotel was quiet at first, just the hum of vending machines and the distant chime of an ice dispenser in the hallway. It was 1:30 a.m. on a humid September night in Largo, Florida—thick air clinging to the walls like sweat. The night staff, bleary-eyed, glanced up as the young woman stumbled through the automatic doors. Her name was Charisse Stinson, just 21 years old, but her face was drained and tear-streaked.

She collapsed to her knees and choked on the words:
“My baby... someone took my baby.”

What followed was chaos.

Charisse claimed she and her toddler son, Jordan Belliveau, had been attacked by a stranger—an African American man named “Antwan” who’d offered them a lift, only to brutally knock her unconscious and disappear with her son. She said she’d only just regained consciousness. Her voice was cracking, breathless. She held her stomach like it hurt.

Emergency services were summoned immediately. An Amber Alert lit up across the state—buzzing phones, scrolling news banners, and posters showing Jordan’s bright, smiling face: a two-year-old boy with a mop of curly hair and eyes that radiated joy.

Search dogs were dispatched. Detectives traced the route Charisse claimed “Antwan” had taken them. Surveillance footage from local businesses was reviewed. But none of it aligned with her story. There was no “Antwan.” There was no vehicle matching her description. No one remembered seeing her out that night.

Still, the search was relentless.

Volunteers combed through underbrush, ponds, alleyways, car parks. Social media swelled with hashtags and heartbreak. Missing children’s groups rallied to amplify the message. The whole of Largo seemed to ache with collective panic.

Then, three days later, the Amber Alert was deactivated.

Jordan’s body had been found in a wooded area not far from where his mother was last seen. He was wrapped in a bloody blanket, his tiny legs curled unnaturally, a healing injury on his chin, and blunt force trauma to his head. An autopsy revealed a skull fracture, a leg fracture, and scalp wounds caused by repeated blows. There was no stranger. No Antwan.

Only Charisse.

CHAPTER TWO: THE INTERROGATION AND THE FALL

The interrogation room was stark: fluorescent lighting, beige cinder block walls, the faint antiseptic smell of a place too used to trauma. Charisse sat motionless, her wrists trembling slightly in their cuffs. For hours, she denied wrongdoing. Officers pressed harder, and slowly, like air leaking from a balloon, the lies gave way.

She didn’t mean to kill him, she said.

Jordan had been acting out. He’d become difficult since returning from foster care. That day, she lost her temper. He had said something that reminded her of his father—Jordan Sr.—and in a moment of fury, she struck him with the back of her hand. He fell, hit the wall, and didn’t get back up.

Charisse panicked.

She described how Jordan began to seize—his little body jerking, his eyes rolling back. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t call 911. She didn’t drive him to the hospital. She waited. Hours passed. Then, fearing the consequences, she wrapped his body in a blanket, carried him to a wooded clearing, and laid him down.

“I didn’t bury him,” she confessed. “I just... left him there.”

Later, she returned to the hotel and staged her story—deliberately choosing a man’s name (“Antwan”) who would fit a stereotype and deflect suspicion. She made herself the victim.

But her story never held. And under the pressure of mounting evidence—CCTV gaps, mobile location data, inconsistencies in time—she broke.

In the courtroom, as photographs of Jordan’s body were shown to the jury, audible sobs broke from the gallery. Women wearing “Justice for Jordan” T-shirts held hands tightly. Some prayed. Others simply wept.

The prosecution didn’t ask for the death penalty. Charisse’s legal team entered a plea agreement. She pled guilty to second-degree murder and making a false police report. She was sentenced to 50 years in prison.

AFTERMATH: A LAW IS BORN

Jordan’s short life had not been quiet.

He had bounced between foster homes after reports of domestic violence and neglect in his family’s household. Multiple caseworkers had flagged risks. There had been therapy referrals, parental assessments, home visits. But none of it had been enough.

In the aftermath of his murder, lawmakers in Florida introduced Jordan’s Law—a sweeping legislative package designed to reduce caseworker overload, improve child protection alerts, and tighten up the response to vulnerable children at risk of abuse.

The law passed in 2020.

It was too late for Jordan, but his name now lives on in state legislation. His story became a painful lesson in what happens when warning signs are ignored—and when a child falls through every safety net.

Charisse Stinson will likely spend the rest of her life behind bars. But the boy whose smile once lit up news alerts has become more than a headline. He has become a symbol.