With much fanfare, New Jersey officials in 2005 announced the state would pay $5 million to Bruce Jackson for the years of neglect he endured in a Collingswood home filled with adopted and foster children.

But the landmark case is now also distinguished for the extraordinary secrecy that extends to almost every aspect of Jackson's life.

An unusual order to seal his court records has placed the 25-year-old in such a protective cocoon that almost nothing can be known about his care under state guardianship, monitored by the same department that failed him in the first place.

A wealthy man by most standards, Jackson has spent the last five years in a rural group home, supported by Medicaid and Social Security. Aside from dental work and some video games, there is no evidence that his fortune, swelled by good investments, has granted him any extra privileges or comfort.

Jackson's court-appointed lawyers argue that the veil of privacy is warranted because he has been declared incapable of caring for himself and because of the notoriety of his case. His starvation by his adoptive mother, Vanessa Jackson, who went to jail for four years, was a national scandal.

In April, an Inquirer report revealed that Jackson's three younger brothers, ages 16 to 20, had been unable to see him in four years.

They are grateful to Jackson and call him "our hero" for freeing them from the abusive household into which they'd separately been adopted.

After that story was published, an advocacy group stepped in.

The intervention appears to be the first time since Jackson's records were sealed in December 2003 that an independent watchdog has looked into his care.

Disability Rights New Jersey, a federally funded nonprofit charged with investigating abuse and neglect complaints, reviewed caseworkers' records on Jackson and interviewed Department of Human Services professional staff to see if he is receiving adequate services.

Executive director Joe Young said the review, which did not include a visit with Jackson, had found no red flags. But bound by privacy restrictions, Young could say little about Jackson's care.

Educational and vocational goals are "part of his long-term plan," said Young, who could not say whether Jackson is getting tutoring or job training to help move him toward more independence.

Young also could not say why Jackson had not seen his brothers, who were adopted by James and Amber Parrish of Millville, Cumberland County, after the abuse was discovered.

The brothers, too, are mystified.

"They didn't let him come to Tre'Shawn's graduation" from high school last year, Terrell Parrish, 16, said in an interview in March after he complained of being cut off during a telephone call with Jackson. "They got him guarded like the president."

With its focus on care, Disability Rights will not look into Jackson's trust fund expenditures or an unusual will researched on his behalf.

Several advocates for the disabled said they were deeply troubled by the lack of transparency, even in the absence of allegations of mistreatment. Some argue that court records of those under guardianships should be open, especially in a case, such as Jackson's, where family cannot check in on their well-being. If necessary, medical information can be redacted.

"People who are declared incapacitated are deprived of their basic rights," said Robert F. Ruehl, a Doylestown lawyer who has had clients with guardians. Their court records should be open "because if you see something amiss, something can be done."

David Kairys, a Temple University constitutional law expert, said the question of whether the state was providing "all the services that this young man needs and deserves doesn't seem to be a legitimate area of privacy."

And lawyer David Ferleger, who fought to shutter the notorious Pennhurst State School and Hospital in Chester County and place its mentally retarded residents in the "least restrictive" settings, said Jackson's case merited "an extra level of accountability by having the reports made public."