by Lara Bazelon
But she hadn’t ordered a club soda, and it hadn’t been just one drink. Midway through the third, vodka on the rocks, her hand reaching for the communal basket of garlic fries, a young man appears at her elbow. He’s white, early twenties at most, in bicycle shorts and a helmet. He looks strangely familiar. Abby squints, tipsily trying to place him, and out of the corner of her eye, sees Jonathan push back his chair.
“Are you Abigail Rosenberg?”
“I am,” she says as it dawns on her how she knows him. From the courthouse.
The young man hands her an envelope that is so stuffed the flap can’t close. “You’ve been served.”
And just like that he is gone, making his way through the crowd and out the door.
At her side now, Jonathan is pulling some twenty-dollar bills out of his wallet. He throws them down on the table, picks up her briefcase and her bag, and grabs her arm. “Let’s go.”
Abby follows blindly after him, the warmth of the alcohol and camaraderie replaced by an icy fear. It’s late now and overcast, the sky starless. Abby leans against the brick wall of the building and pulls out the paperwork with trembling hands. Court forms. A temporary order, ex parte, granting sole physical and legal custody of Macallan Rosenberg Mulvaney to petitioner Nic Mulvaney. Stamped and filed today. She drops it like it’s on fire and Jonathan bends to pick it up, scanning the contents as she pulls out the next document. In re Macallan Rosenberg Mulvaney, petition by the biological father seeking—Jonathan takes it out of her hands. More paper. A declaration under penalty of perjury, notarized and signed by Nic. She tries to read but the words are moving like inchworms across the page. Immediate and irreparable harm—fell asleep in the bath on several occasions with infant. Jonathan snatches it away from her. “We are not doing this here. We are walking to my car. We are driving to your house.”
She trails behind, panting with near-hysteria and the effort of keeping up with Jonathan’s long strides in her high heels for two endless asphalt blocks.
In the parking garage, they climb the stairs to the third floor and Jonathan hits a button on his key chain, unlocking the doors to his black Audi sedan. When they are inside, the doors shut, Jonathan turns on the overhead light, pulls out the paperwork, and starts reading from the beginning.
Cold sweat breaks out on Abby’s forehead as her stomach churns. “I think I’m going to be sick,” she says.
“Use the trash can by the elevator,” Jonathan says without looking up.
She opens the car door and runs, vomiting into the foul-smelling bin until there is nothing left but a string of spittle hanging from her lower lip. Pulling a tissue from her purse, she wipes clumsily at her mouth, accidentally tugging at the scab, which immediately starts bleeding again. She fishes deeper into her purse before finally locating a mini-pack of Cal’s wet wipes. Tearing it open, she pulls one out and presses it hard against her lip.
Back in the car, Jonathan passes her a box of Altoids and Abby takes three, sucking hard. It takes a second wet wipe to staunch the bleeding and she focuses her mind on succeeding at that task as she waits for Jonathan to finish reading. When he does, she reaches for the paperwork, but he shakes his head firmly before turning the engine on and pulling out of the parking space.
Friday, March 23, 2007
8:30 p.m.
1710 Vestal Street
Los Angeles
As soon as Jonathan parks in front of her house, Abby is out of the car, running to the front door. The living room is terrifyingly tidy: the playpen and the bouncy chair are gone. She goes into the bedroom and flips on the light switch. The crib and the changing table are gone. Empty hangers rattle in the closet when she opens the sliding door. Nic’s shoes are gone. She rakes her hands through the half-full bureau drawers looking for any sign of Cal—his striped socks, his Elmo blanket, his onesies. Gone. Abby sinks down onto the floor and pounds her fists into the bed. Nic had made it that morning, as he always did. Sheets so taut you could bounce a quarter off them. Abby starts pulling off the pillows, pulling off the bedspread, then the sheets. She is crying, then wailing.
Jonathan comes in, stands behind her, and pulls her to her feet. His hands grip her shoulders as he speaks. “I need you to listen to me.” His eyes search hers. “Can you do that?”
Abby forces down a sob and nods her head.
“Nic went to court earlier today and convinced a judge he needed a temporary custody order for Cal, effective immediately. These orders are hard to get and they don’t last long. On Wednesday, there will be a hearing in front of the same judge where you can tell your side of the story. That’s three business days from now.”
When Abby gasps, Jonathan holds up his hand. “Until then, you can see Cal, it just has to be supervised.”
“Supervised?” she repeats stupidly.
“It looks like you can spend unlimited time with Cal as long as it is in the presence of a responsible third party.” Jonathan pauses. “The order lists a CPS social worker. And me. You can go with either of us to pick him up and you need to stay with one of us the whole time you’re with him.”
Abby looks at Jonathan. She had expected sympathy but his gaze is clinical. His coldness makes her stomach drop. “You knew,” she says. “Oh, my God, you knew he was going to do this.”
“I didn’t know,” Jonathan says evenly, “but I thought it was a real possibility.”
“You’ve been talking to Nic, you’ve been helping him. You Judas motherfucker—” she struggles away from him but he holds on “—how could you do this—”
Jonathan cuts her off, “I haven’t been helping him. But he told me. About what happened in the bath. He was angry, but mostly he was terrified. Ever since, I have been trying to talk him out of it.” Jonathan’s mouth is set in a tight line. “I warned you, Abby.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Goddammit, you should have seen this coming.”
Abby, forcing herself to keep looking at him, stifles a sob.
“When we go to court, you will have the opportunity to argue that the order is unnecessary. That Cal isn’t at risk when he is alone with you.”
“Of course he isn’t.” Now she is yelling. “I’m his mother. This is insane.”
“Be quiet and listen to me. From now on you are going to practice being the most reasonable person in the room. Because that’s who’s going to win in court. Right now, Nic is coming across as pretty fucking reasonable. You, not so much.”
“What if we get this—this thing reversed,” she asks shakily. “Then what?”
“The court will order some kind of joint custody pending review of Nic’s petition for permanent custody. That could take weeks or months. It’s hard to get sole custody, especially for the father. He would have to prove that you are unfit.”
“Of course I’m not—”
“You, in the meantime, will take the rest of your maternity leave. All of it. And you will allow Child Protective Services to inspect your home. You will submit to a custody evaluation from a psychologist. You will cooperate with them. You will play nice. You will be nice. To everyone. Including Nic. You should assume from now on that everyone is watching everything you do, even when you are alone. You will not drink. We’ve been here before, after Rayshon, but you have a lot more to lose now. You’ve never actually hit rock bottom, but if this isn’t it, then I don’t know what’s below it. So not one sip. Nothing. Don’t give the Child Protective Services people any more ammunition than they have already.”
The doorbell rings and she starts. “Maybe that’s Nic. ” She turns to leave and Jonathan tightens his hold on her. “Stay here.”
He walks out of the bedroom, shutting the door firmly behind him. She hears muffled voices, a man and a woman, then Jonathan’s voice pitched loud enough for her to hear, “Let’s talk outside.” The sound of the front door closing, then silence. She stands there, frozen for a moment, then realizes f
rom the sudden overwhelming ache in her breasts that she needs to let down. Her breast pump, is it in the car? She shuts her eyes, trying to remember. Jonathan had taken her bag along with her briefcase when they left Weilands. She’s almost certain. She opens the door, walks out into the living room, then stops when she looks out the glass door.
Jonathan is standing on the porch, his back to her, talking to two uniformed police officers. The man, middle-aged, paunchy, his sandy hair cut close, is nodding intently. His partner, the woman, her dark hair in a slicked-back bun, is writing something on a notepad. She looks up. For a brief moment they make eye contact, and then Abby turns, walks back into the bedroom, and turns off the lights. She stands in the corner, shaking, her back pressed up against the wall.
A few minutes later she hears the front door open and close. Jonathan reappears in the bedroom. He pushes the heap of bedclothes aside, then gestures for her to sit next to him on the bare mattress.
“They don’t have a warrant,” he says.
“A warrant? For what? There isn’t anything here.” She looks around, then adds bitterly, “Especially now.”
“Not for anything. For you.”
She gapes at him.
“They don’t have enough to arrest you.” Jonathan takes off his glasses, massages the bridge of his nose.
“Arrest me?” She repeats the words hoping they will make sense, but they don’t.
“A report has been made, an allegation of child endangerment.”
“What?” She claps her hand over her mouth, feels the sting of that stupid cut.
“If they had enough evidence they would charge you. But they don’t. They can’t prove intent.”
Her lip is bleeding again. Jonathan reaches across her body to take a Kleenex from the box on the nightstand and hands it to her.
“It only took a couple of minutes to figure that out,” he continues. “I told them that I was your lawyer and that you had nothing to say to them. We exchanged business cards. And then, as politely as I could, I suggested that they get the fuck off your property.”
She reaches for Jonathan’s hand, holds it tightly, and leans against him, breathing in his comforting, familiar smell: like linen that has dried in the sun. For the first time in weeks, Jonathan responds with his familiar warmth, leaning into her and rubbing her back with his free hand. Don’t cry, she tells herself. Be reasonable. She concentrates on her breathing, tries to think of a winning strategy. She will explain. She will make the best argument. She will get him back. She will get them both back.
In the darkness, lost in her thoughts, Jonathan’s voice startles her. “Abby, was Cal going to drown?”
She turns to look at him. Jonathan’s gaze is cold. His words are like a reckoning, allowing her to see, finally, why he has been so hard with her and how far she will have to crawl before she can climb out of a hole that is spreading wide and deep like an abyss.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
11:30 a.m.
Office of Jorge Estrada
Riverside, California
“Will Ellet, what a surprise.” Estrada comes around from behind his paper-piled desk, hand extended. His smile is friendly enough but his eyebrows are raised and his look is questioning. They shake. “Have a seat.”
There had been no traffic this time and Will had managed to get to Estrada’s strip mall office in eighty minutes. Leaving work, he had told his secretary he had a client visit scheduled at the Riverside County Jail. A lie, but a plausible one. Part of the job for the LA-based federal public defenders involves handling cases from one of the satellite offices in Santa Ana and Riverside on occasion.
Will is dressed for court, has in fact, two court appearances later that afternoon back in Los Angeles. Estrada, too, is wearing a suit and tie.
“You look well, sir,” Will says. Estrada does, in a neatly pressed suit, thick gray hair freshly cut. He looks relaxed, as if he has been away on vacation, which Will suspects he has been. When Will had driven out last week and the week before, the office had been closed.
“You look like you haven’t been sleeping.”
Will smiles, trying not to show his irritation at the fatherly smile of concern. “Stress at work, you know how it is.”
“I would have thought,” Estrada says, “that they would have given you a break.”
Will rubs his jaw. No one had offered him a break, but his caseload hadn’t exactly been punishing, either. That wasn’t what was keeping him up at night, causing him to lose his appetite, and making him snappish, even cruel, with Meredith.
“The thing is,” Will says, trying to keep his voice casual, “I haven’t been able to get in touch with Luz. She’s changed her cell phone number and she’s not staying with Father Abelard anymore. I went by Maria Elena’s house and it’s up for sale.”
Will pauses, waiting for Estrada to say something. When he doesn’t, Will continues, “She’s been through so much, as you know. And I’m—I’m concerned about her. I want to make sure that she’s okay. That she and Cristina are okay. So I thought maybe, since you were her lawyer, too, at one point, that you might have some contact information, maybe her new number or an address.” His voice goes up at the end, and he forces himself to smile, hoping to mask the tinge of desperation.
Estrada picks up a paper clip from his desk and begins prying it apart. “You haven’t spoken with Ms. Rosenberg about any of this, have you?”
Will has a ready answer for this. “Abby is on maternity leave. And she’s been, well, there have been some issues with her—her domestic situation.”
“So I read. Unfortunate that someone inside the LAPD leaked that report when they had no intention of charging her.”
More like hundreds of cops vying for the honor, Will thinks. After the Rayshon Marbury case, Abby has been about as popular with the LAPD as a low-flying seagull at a beach picnic.
Will, too, had read the coverage, finding it impossible not to take great pleasure from it. Joan of Arc, Feet of Clay? was the headline on one of the legal rags. He must have read the first sentence a dozen times: In acquitting her client of first-degree murder charges and reuniting her with her baby, Abigail Rosenberg may have sacrificed the well-being of her own child, according to a report made by the child’s father, who has obtained temporary sole physical and legal custody following an emergency filing in court. The gossip in their office was off the charts, though Jonathan and Paul remained tight-lipped. Will had made no attempt to contact Abby himself. Not after the way she had treated him. And anyway, provoking her—or being perceived as passing judgment—was begging for trouble. People in glass houses.
To Estrada, he says, “Well, there’s an ongoing case of some kind in family court, and I haven’t wanted to bother her.”
Estrada has the paper clip undone now, in a horizontal line balanced between his two index fingers. He moves it to the left, then to the right in abbreviated half circles.
“Luz and Cristina are doing well,” he says finally. “They’re safe. Luz is—” he pauses “—recovering.”
Will tries to keep the excitement out of his voice. “So you’ve—you’ve heard from her?”
Estrada smiles. “Son, I live with her. It’s all legal now.”
Will feels the blood rushing to his face. He lunges over the desk, hands grasping Estrada’s tie to pull him forward so that their faces are inches apart. “You married her? You—you’re sleeping with her?” Estrada’s hands are on Will’s forearms, his grip surprisingly strong, but Will hangs on, jerking him closer, and hears the sound of fabric ripping. “You perverted old man, you sick fuck.”
Estrada pushes Will away, sending him backward. Papers fly everywhere and Will stumbles, nearly falling before grabbing ahold of the desk edge. He is beside himself, shaking with rage.
“I didn’t marry her, I adopted her.” Across the desk, Estrada is removing his rui
ned tie and massaging his neck, but his eyes are fixed on Will, as if the look alone will keep him in place. “She’s my daughter now. Cristina is my granddaughter.” When Will just stares back, bug-eyed, Estrada says almost wearily, “Sit down.”
Will drops heavily into his seat and Estrada retakes his own seat in the battered leather chair. “I’ve known Luz for quite a while,” he says, “through Father Abelard. I’m a member of his church, too, and I do pro bono work for some of the members. Usually, it’s helping people fill out medical forms, insurance forms, reading over rental agreements, fighting evictions. Every once in a while, one of the members, or their kid, gets into trouble, and they ask me to handle that, too.”
“Luz’s juvenile case,” Will says hoarsely. “I know.”
Estrada nods. “With the white kids, it’s all about counseling and second chances. With the brown and black kids, it’s all about ‘find me the nearest juvenile hall.’ I’ve seen prosecutors and the police throw away too many people in my community. With Luz,” he says, and shakes his head, “I just wasn’t going to let them do it. Not after everything that had already happened to her.”
“She hurt that other girl pretty badly,” Will says.
Estrada nods. “For a while there it looked like maybe she’d have to do some time for it.”
“But she didn’t.”
“That’s right.” Estrada is picking up the pens that have spilled from their holder and is putting them back one by one. “It helps to have an older gentleman like myself, a fellow parishioner and quasi-pillar of the community, on the record as representing her for free. And I talked to the victim’s family beforehand, explained Luz’s situation. Turns out they didn’t want her to get thrown away, either. Because they understood, you know, that there is a bigger issue with what is happening to our community and it’s not going to be solved by locking up our children.”
“Luz kept in touch with you after?”
Estrada shrugs. “Not regularly. I would see her from time to time at services but then of course she moved away. I always told her, though, that if she needed help she could come to me. The attorney-client relationship, you know, it never really ends.”
