Sometimes my head is as dense as a solid block of ebony.
20
I have a big red file folder that I keep for special occasions. Sometimes it’s full of documents, sometimes it’s empty, but either way what’s inside is not as essential as the file folder itself. I clutch it close to my breast as if it contained nuclear launch codes, or the phone number of a decent Chinese restaurant, or anything else important enough to belong in a big red file folder.
“What’s in the file?” said Beth as we waited in the hallway of family court for Theresa Wellman.
“Just some information Phil Skink unearthed.”
“Did he get anything on Bradley Hewitt?”
“He’s working on it.”
“Then what’s in the file?”
“Oh, look,” I said. “Here comes our client.”
Theresa Wellman, with her hair done and her dress subdued, approached us warily.
“Are we going on with it today?” she said.
“Of course we are,” said Beth. “Now you’ve got the firm of Derringer and Carl on your side. Bucking the odds is what we do. You’re the first witness. Are you ready?”
“Oh, I’m ready. I love my daughter more than anything in the world. I just want to see her and hug her and take her home.”
“I’m going to be asking you the questions, Theresa,” I said. “There might be some things you don’t expect.”
“Like what?” she said.
“Stuff about your past and how things are going now.”
“What things?”
“It’s best if we do it all in court. You don’t want to seem rehearsed. But whatever happens, Theresa, you have to trust that I’m doing what I can to help you.”
She eyed the big red file folder I held at my chest, bit the bottom corner of her lip. “Why should I trust you?”
“Who else do you have?”
“It will be fine, Theresa,” said Beth. “As long as you can convince the judge that you’ve really changed, we have a great shot for some sort of joint custody.”
“Can we trust the judge?”
“Judge Sistine is impeccably fair and absolutely fearless,” I said. “She might be wrong, but never for the wrong reasons.”
“Just tell the truth,” said Beth. “If the judge thinks you’re hiding anything, it can really hurt your cause.”
“Okay. I’ll try.”
“Trying isn’t good enough,” I said. “Whatever happens in there, it’s okay to show your anger, it’s okay to show your sadness, it’s okay to show the whole gamut of your emotions, but tell the truth.”
“And you think the truth will get me back my daughter?”
“It’s the only thing that can,” I said.
There was a bustle in the hallway as a small crowd came our way. It was led by a tall gray man in an expensive suit. He was accompanied by a lovely younger woman who held on to his arm, three men with dark suits and briefcases, and a perfectly coiffed man swathed in sharkskin. This last I had dealt with before. His name was Arthur Gullicksen, and the material of his suit was entirely appropriate.
“Victor?” he said as he approached. “I’m surprised to see you here. I thought Beth was handling this case.”
“She’s my partner,” I said, “which means we work together on everything. She asked me to help, and so here I am.”
“That’s just fine,” said Gullicksen, letting his gaze stray from my eyes to the big red file folder. “Have you met Bradley Hewitt?”
“No, I haven’t,” I said.
After Gullicksen made the introductions, the tall gray man said, “I’ve heard about you, Mr. Carl.” His voice was incredibly deep and rich, almost as rich as his suit.
“Nothing bad, I hope.”
“So many of us, I suppose, hope in vain,” he said. He didn’t smile as he said it, and yet his expression wasn’t unkind. It was as if all of us were together in an unpleasant situation that was not of our own making, all of us but one. When he turned his gaze upon Theresa, something shifted in his expression. Theresa seemed to wilt under his attention, until she turned and fled into the courtroom.
“She just wants to be able to spend time with Belle,” said Beth.
“You think that’s best for my daughter?” said Hewitt.
“A girl needs her mother,” said Beth.
“But not that mother,” said Bradley Hewitt.
“Do you have a second, Victor?” said Gullicksen.
I glanced at Beth, who nodded me on, and so Gullicksen and I huddled at the far end of the hallway, out of earshot of the rest of the crowd.
“You know, of course, that this is a mistake,” he said. “I could understand a motion like this coming from Beth. She has a reputation for not worrying about political realities, but I’m surprised to see you involved.”
“We are representing a woman who simply wants to live with her daughter again. What political reality am I missing?”
“Mr. Hewitt is an intriguing man, with connections to the highest levels of government.”
“And he used that power to force a mother to give up her child.”
“He used that power to protect his daughter from a woman who didn’t know how to care for her. All your client wants now is the money that comes with custody. Be aware that my client will continue to protect his daughter by any means necessary.”
“Is that a threat? Because I’ve been expecting one, Arthur, from the moment I got involved.”
“Not a threat at all, Victor,” said Gullicksen. “Just a friendly piece of advice. Mr. Hewitt is willing to allow supervised visitations for your client.”
“She already turned that down. We want joint custody, fifty-fifty.”
“Too bad. I hate to keep a mother from at least seeing her child. What’s in the file you so carefully clutch to your chest?”
“Oh, odds and ends,” I said.
“I have a red file folder of my own. It’s a neat trick. I couldn’t help noticing that you’re involved in a highly sensitive case involving a fugitive and a painting. I hope nothing that happens here will in any way interfere with your efforts on behalf of your other client.”
“Now, that does sound like a threat.”
“As I said, Mr. Hewitt has much influence and many friends. Including Mr. Spurlock of the Randolph Trust.”
“Let’s keep our focus on a mother trying to regain her daughter.”
“Okay, Victor, then I must ask. What do you really know about Theresa Wellman?”
“She had a rough patch,” I said, “but she says she’s changed.”
“Is that what she says?” Gullicksen smiled at me like I had just told an amusing little anecdote. “Tell me, Victor, when did you start believing in the Easter Bunny?”
21
Judge Sistine was a large, humorless woman with the forearms of a bear. She sat stone-faced on the bench, taking notes, as I questioned Theresa Wellman. I sneaked glances up at her every now and then to see how Theresa’s story was playing, but Judge Sistine was too good a jurist to show her hand. Still, I had little doubt that the testimony was having an effect.
It was Theresa doing the telling, that’s the way it is in direct examination, but it was my questions that created the setting, that decided where was the beginning, that maintained the pace, that ensured the telling details made it into the record, that slowed everything down at the most emotionally painful parts, giving Theresa the space she needed to break into tears. Nothing lubricates the wheels of justice like a few tears.
It was the classic story of a girl, sheltered and innocent, who is swept off her feet and into a fast and thrilling lifestyle by an older, wealthy man. Gullicksen objected from the start, claiming that none of this was relevant to the matter at hand, but I stated that the background was crucially important, and the judge agreed with me. So I put it all out there and on the record, the parties, the travel, the fine clothes, the luxury apartment, the important people who were suddenly paying attention. It was glamoro
us, it was exotic, it was simply too fabulous for a young girl from West Philly to turn down. A fantasy come true, with a darkness at the center, because at the center of it all was the unequal relationship between the young woman and the powerful, older man, Bradley Hewitt.
“Let’s go into some details about these parties you mentioned, Theresa,” I said. “Was there drinking?”
“Oh, yes. Wine at dinner, of course, Bradley liked his wine. Often champagne. Liqueurs after dinner and then more champagne or maybe really fine Scotch.”
“Did you drink much before meeting Mr. Hewitt?”
“My parents weren’t drinkers.”
“But you drank with Mr. Hewitt.”
“He developed my taste.”
“Were there any other intoxicants at these parties?”
“Marihuana,” she said. “Cocaine often. Pills.”
“Did you have much experience with drugs before meeting Mr. Hewitt?”
“No, not really.”
“You grew up in West Philly, isn’t that right?”
“I went to a parochial school, Mr. Carl. The nuns were very strict.”
“Did Bradley partake of drugs at these parties?”
“Not so much, but he encouraged the others. And he encouraged me. Strongly. He said he liked having sex when I was stoned.”
“And you acquiesced to his requests.”
“Yes.”
Slowly, we went through the hints of violence, the cheating, the humiliations, the verbal abuse. I didn’t have her go into the physical abuse, since there were no witnesses to it, Bradley Hewitt would just deny it, and I wasn’t quite sure if I believed it anyway. Instead we focused on the pregnancy, Bradley Hewitt’s demand that Theresa have an abortion, her refusal, the bitter end of the fantasy as the relationship died. The birth, the sporadic support from the new child’s father, his complete lack of interest in the baby, her need for more child support, the petition, the response, the fear, the decision to give up her custodial rights in exchange for a financial settlement.
“Why would you do such a thing, Theresa? Why would you agree to give up custody?”
“I thought I had no choice.”
“There’s always a choice, isn’t there?”
“He was too powerful. My lawyer said he would win. I made a mistake. What can I say, Mr. Carl? I think about it every day. I guess I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of what Bradley would do to me if I kept fighting.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t fear of what would come out at the hearing?”
“I admitted I was having some problems at the time.”
“It was more than just a few problems, though, wasn’t it?” I said as I picked up the big red file folder, opened it, looked inside.
“I was going through things,” she said.
“What kind of things?”
“I was drinking.”
“How much?”
“Too much.”
“How often?”
“A lot.”
“Every day, right? Day and night, even while you were caring for your daughter.”
“I always cared for my daughter.”
“Were you using drugs, too?”
“Not really.”
“Theresa?” I said, waving the big red file folder.
“Some.”
“How much?”
“What are you doing, Mr. Carl?”
“I’m trying to understand a crucial decision in your life. Not every mother agrees to give up the custody to her daughter. Were you addicted to drugs at the time you made that agreement?”
“I don’t think I was addicted.”
“What were you using?”
“Nothing much.”
“Marihuana?”
“Yes.”
“Cocaine?”
“Some.”
“Crack?”
“Mr. Carl, stop this. What are you doing? I just want my daughter back.”
“Were you using crack cocaine at the time you sued for child support?”
“I tried it.”
“How often did you use it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes you do, Theresa. You were addicted to it, weren’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you do know, don’t you? How much was a chunk of crack? Five bucks? And how often did you smoke it? How many times a day, Theresa?”
“I was having a hard time.”
“Constantly, right? As much as you could, right?”
“It’s a disease.”
“So how did you pay for it all, the drinking and the drugs, the rent on your apartment?”
“I lost the apartment.”
“Not right off. For a while you kept up with the rent. How did you pay for everything?”
“I had my job.”
“Until you were fired, right? For coming in late too many times.”
“I was a single mother.”
“How did you pay for everything, Theresa?”
“I found a way.”
I looked inside the file folder. “Do you know a man named Herbert Spenser?”
“No.”
“Do you know a man named Rudolph Wayne? Do you know a man named Sal Pullata? Do you know a man—”
“Stop it. What are you doing?” This is when the tears started. “You’re my attorney,” she said. “What are you doing? Did they buy you off, too?”
“You sold yourself to those men, didn’t you?”
“Mr. Carl, please stop.”
“You sold yourself to those men and to others. Countless others.”
“Stop.”
“You sold yourself while you were still caring for your daughter. She was in the next room sometimes, wasn’t she? When you drank with your clients and used drugs and sold yourself, she was right there.”
“Please stop. I’m begging you.”
“How could you do such a thing, Theresa?”
“I was out of control. There wasn’t enough money. He left me with nothing.”
“You knew you were endangering your daughter?”
“I was doing the best I could. I was sick.”
“And when you signed away your custody, you didn’t do it because the system was against you, or because your lawyer was bought off, or even for the money.”
“No.”
“You did it because you were scared.”
“I needed help.”
“You did it because at the time you couldn’t take care of your daughter like she deserved.”
“Mr. Carl, I love my Belle. More than anything.”
“And you gave up your custody to Bradley Hewitt because, quite simply, it was the best thing for your daughter.”
“I was lost.”
“Of course you were.”
“But that was before.”
“And now you want her back.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I love her.”
“But why now?”
“Because she needs me.”
“But why now?”
“Because now I know I can take care of her.”
I looked up at the judge, who was staring down with something close to pity on her face as Theresa Wellman sobbed on the stand.
“What’s next, Counselor?” said the judge.
“We’re going to talk about the treatment Ms. Wellman has undertaken, about her new job, and how she has changed her life so that she can once again properly take care of her daughter.”
“Would you like a moment to compose yourself before we go on, Ms. Wellman?” said the judge.
Theresa Wellman nodded.
“Fifteen minutes,” said the judge.
When I sat down next to Beth, Theresa was still crying on the stand.
“You were a little tough on her,” said Beth softly.
“How much of that did you know?”
“None of it is a surprise.”
; “Best thing she ever did was give up her daughter. It makes her look almost noble. It’s going to be hard to prove she deserves her back, but that’s what we’ll try to do after the break.”
“You think we still have a chance?”
“If I didn’t bring out all that crap, Gullicksen would have, and he would have been ten times as tough. Now what’s he going to do? Point his finger and call her a bad girl?”
Just then Gullicksen walked by on his way out to the hall. He nodded at me as he gestured at my red folder. “So it wasn’t empty after all,” he said.
“And if you think this one is thick,” I said, with as broad a smile as I could muster, “wait until you see the one I’ve got on your client.”
After Gullicksen had left the courtroom, shaken but not stirred, Beth looked at me with great hope on her face. “Do you have something on Bradley Hewitt?”
“Not yet,” I said. “But give me time.”
22
I had been putting it off, but I could put it off no longer. It was time to face the darkest of all my demons and to find some answers to questions that had been plaguing me from the start of the Charlie Kalakos case. It was time to visit my dad.
I didn’t call ahead, there was no need. It was a Sunday afternoon, which meant my father would be home, alone, sitting in his La-Z-Boy watching the game, with a can of Iron City in one hand and a remote control in the other. It didn’t much matter in what month the Sunday fell. In the fall and winter, he watched the Eagles. In the spring and summer, he watched the Phillies. And in the dead months of February and March, when baseball and football were both on hiatus, he watched whatever: beach volleyball, alpine skiing, Battle of the Network Stars. Just so long as he could sit and wince, drink his beer, grumble at the television. That’s what Sundays were made for.
When I arrived at the little Spanish-style house in the little suburb of Hollywood, Pennsylvania, things didn’t seem quite right. First, there was a beat-up old yellow taxicab parked right out front. Then, the front door was slightly ajar. It was not like my father to keep the front door slightly ajar. He kept his house like he kept his emotional life, buttoned up and locked tight, all to hold the world at bay. But even stranger was that I heard voices coming from his shabby little living room. It had to be the television, I figured, but it didn’t sound like a couple of announcers discussing the offensive futility of the Phillies’ lineup. It sounded almost like a friendly conversation. Between real people. In my father’s house.
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