Gone Ballistic (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery)

by Michael Monhollon

  The computer was password protected, and it took me a few minutes to get into it. The password that got me logged on turned out to be babemagnet, no threes, no capital T at the end. There was a file on his desktop called overpass. I clicked on it and found two columns of web addresses grouped with, for the most part, variations of the word babemagnet. After that it took less than twenty minutes to get a good idea of the Woodruffs’ financial situation. They had just under four thousand dollars in a checking account, two retirement accounts with about a hundred-forty thousand between them, a mortgage balance of 219,000 dollars. I looked up the address on the Zillow website for a rough appraisal of their home. It was 265,000 dollars, which gave them a home equity of maybe forty-six thousand.

  The bottom line was that Willow didn’t have the resources to make bail herself. She might be able to afford a bail bondsman, who might only charge the minimum ten percent on a bail in six figures, but a sixty-thousand-dollar fee would leave her and Caden destitute, at least until the insurance came in. Better for her to wait it out in jail and let her in-laws take care of Caden. Of course, I wasn’t Caden’s mother. It would have to be Willow’s call.

  There was a two-drawer filing cabinet in a corner of the room. I looked at my watch. I still had time. I scooted the office chair to the file cabinet and pulled out the top drawer. It contained just what I was looking for: the Woodruffs’ financial records. Fortunately, Chris had been organized to a fault. There was a folder of bank statements he had printed off the web, a folder of brokerage statements, a folder for each of their retirement accounts, a folder that contained forms related to their health insurance, and a house folder that had the deed, the deed of trust, and a collection of closing documents. There was a life-insurance folder, too, but it was empty. Probably the policies Willow had brought me had come from there. Though I knew I could access most or all of the accounts online, I stacked the folders to take with me, including a few that were harder to identify.

  The bottom drawer had folders related to various courses Chris was teaching. Nothing of any value now that he was dead. Unless. . .No, there were no class roster and no grade sheets, graded work, or anything else that might indicate which courses of his Peyton Shilling had taken or how she had done in those courses.

  It was a quarter to twelve. I hustled the files out to my car and headed back downtown. My phone rang just as I was turning onto Cary Street. It was Paul.

  “Hey, Paul,” I said as I answered.

  “I thought we were going to go to lunch,” he said.

  Were we? “Sorry, I got tied up. I’m on my way now, though. Can you wait?”

  “That depends. Would it be okay with you if I got Carly to let me wait in your office?”

  “Sure. That would be fine.”

  “Good. Then who’s Carter Fox?”

  “Who?” Paul was already in my office, I realized. He was sitting at my desk, looking at the vase with its dozen red roses. I passed my parking garage, thinking maybe I could find a spot on Main Street more or less in front of my building.

  “The man who sent you roses,” Paul said. “Have you forgotten them already?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “So who is he?”

  “You know. That lawyer there in the Suites, the one Brooke and I got stuck having lunch with last week. I told you about him. He’s no one to worry about.”

  “Why would a man who’s no one to worry about be sending you flowers?”

  “Soft in the head? I don’t know. I certainly haven’t done anything to encourage him.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” I spotted a spot on the curb at a parking meter and angled into it.

  “He’s sure not a poet, is he?” Paul ventured.

  “He tries.”

  “Tries? ‘I get all squishy inside when I think of you’? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Obviously, the roses still rankled. “Have you ever written me poetry?” I asked.

  “I didn’t know you liked it. ‘Robin, you’re my everything. When I’m with you, I want to sing. Wide my arms I want to fling, to dress you in jewels and lots of bling. My heart begins to go ding-ding. . .’”

  “I don’t think all the lines have to rhyme. You might try rhyming couplets,” I said.

  “Maybe I can get a former English major to tutor me.” He came through the glass doors of the Ironfronts, saw me getting out of my car, and put up his phone. “There you are.”

  “Maybe you could help me carry some files up.” I walked around to the passenger side of my car. “Do you have time?” He voiced no objection, so I handed him the stack.

  As we were riding up in the elevator, I said, “I should have let you keep going, see how many words you can think of that rhyme with ding-a-ling.”

  “I was just getting started. There are all the gerunds: loving, caring, pining. . .and of course wing, sting, ca-ching, ring. . .” He shifted the files he was carrying.

  “Ring is an interesting one,” I said as the doors began to open on the second floor. “You don’t want to get married, do you?”

  Brooke and Mike were standing just outside the elevator. Brooke’s eyes went wide.

  “Wow,” Paul said. “Just like that.”

  “Not to me,” I said. “CPS would probably object because I’m representing the mother. You could marry Brooke here.”

  “What mother?”

  “What about me?” Mike said.

  “That’s right. He could marry you,” I said.

  “Representing what mother?” Paul said again.

  “Willow Woodruff has been charged with murdering her husband. A custody hearing for her son Caden is at two o’clock this afternoon. I’m looking for alternatives to the court turning him over to CPS.”

  “And you can’t take him?” Brooke asked.

  “I don’t think so. Conflict of interest. Since I represent the mother, I might put her interests over Caden’s.”

  Mike said, “So you’re saying it would be convenient for you personally if Brooke and I got married by two o’clock.”

  I smiled at him. “Would you?”

  “Always ready to take one for the team.”

  Brooke shot him a look, and he pulled her against him.

  “Oh, come on,” he said. “You know I’m kidding.”

  She pushed away, and he let his hands drop. “We got along better before we were engaged,” Mike told Paul and me. “Too much pressure.”

  “Mike,” Brooke said warningly.

  He gave her a wink.

  “I didn’t think being married made any difference in foster care anymore,” Brooke said. “Does it?”

  “Don’t know,” I said. “I’m new to this. Let’s go to lunch.”

  “Can I put these files down first?” Paul asked. “It’s not that they’re heavy, but I’d feel awkward wagging them along to the James Center.”

  By way of explanation, Mike said, “Brooke and I were heading that way, thought we’d split a sandwich and have some mulligatawny soup at the Market.”

  “Mulligatawny soup sounds good,” I said.

  “And we can talk about your roses on the way. Interesting to learn you’ve got another boyfriend on the string.”

  Chapter 7

  At two o’clock I was sitting with Willow Woodruff in Juvenile and Domestic Relations Court waiting for the judge—waiting for Mindy Churchill or someone else from CPS, too, for that matter. Except for Willow and me and the deputy sheriff leaning against the side wall, the courtroom was empty.

  “What time is it?” Willow asked me. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?”

  “According to the district court clerk, we are.”

  “Maybe you should check.”

  “Let’s give it a minute. Someone will show up.”

  At 2:08 by my cell phone, someone did, a thin, fiftyish woman with wild brown hair who came in with a mass of manila folders clutched against her chest. She pushed through the bar and dumped them on the table across from
the one where Willow and I sat, then pushed an errant strand of hair out of her face, trying ineffectually to catch it behind her ear.

  “Robin Starling?”

  “Mindy Churchill?” I said, standing.

  “Yes. I was hoping to be here with one of our attorneys, but everyone’s booked.”

  I gave her a faint smile. “I’m sure this isn’t your first rodeo.”

  “No, but things usually go badly when the other side is represented by a lawyer and we don’t have one of our own.”

  “We can hope,” I said.

  She gave me a dark look. “You should keep in mind that the well-being of a child is involved,” she said.

  “It’s very much in the front of my mind, along with the thought that bureaucratic solutions aren’t always the best. May I introduce you to the child’s mother?” I stepped to one side to give them an unobstructed view of each other. “Mindy Churchill, Willow Woodruff.”

  Willow nodded. Mindy pushed again at the uncooperative strand of hair that had fallen back into her face. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Woodruff,” Mindy said. “It’s nothing personal, you understand. We just see so many of these.”

  Willow nodded.

  The bailiff came in and took his place at the corner of the bench. “Oyez, oyez, the Thirteenth Judicial District Court of Virginia is now in session, the Honorable Charles Messer presiding.”

  A heavyset man in black robes came in and took a seat.

  “Be seated.” The Honorable Charles Messer was young for a district judge, not much older than I was. He smiled at me, more warmly than I’m used to from judges. Of course, this was the first time I’d appeared before him, so there was still plenty of opportunity for me to alienate him.

  “Well, well,” Judge Messer said, still smiling at me.

  I returned his smile perfunctorily, more unsettled by his obvious friendliness than I would have been by open animosity.

  “Well,” he said more abruptly, and picked up a file. “We’re here in the matter of Caden Woodruff, a minor child.”

  Mindy and I both stood. “Yes, your honor,” we said, almost in unison.

  “Representing Social Services is Mindy Churchill. I don’t believe I know you, Ms. Churchill.”

  “I’m not an attorney. This is an emergency hearing regarding custody, and we were expecting it to be ex parte.”

  “Very well. Representing the parent is. . .”

  “Robin Starling,” I said, and he nodded, smiling.

  “Robin Starling.”

  It was like he’d seen me naked. I was starting to get seriously freaked out.

  The judge cleared his throat, broke eye contact. “Very well. Ms. Churchill, do you have an opening statement?”

  “I do, your honor. The only surviving parent in this case, Willow Woodruff, was arrested this morning on the charge of murdering her husband, who was also the father of Caden Woodruff, the minor child at issue in this case. Before calling Social Services, the Richmond police released Caden into the custody of one Vicky Roberts, evidently a neighbor of the accused. This Vicky Roberts took the child to Stonypoint KinderCare, his usual day care.” Mindy consulted her notes, then continued her statement, not telling us anything I didn’t already know. What it came down to is that Caden Woodruff had no place to go pending further investigation, and Social Services wanted temporary custody.

  When she was done, the judge nodded at me. “Ms. Starling.”

  “Your honor, Ms. Churchill hasn’t mentioned the Child Protective Resources Form that the mother and I filled out and faxed to her this morning. May I?” When he nodded, I took one copy to the bench and another to Mindy Churchill.

  She took it, pushing her hair out of her face to glance at it. “We haven’t had time yet to follow up on this, your honor,” she said.

  “I believe Ms. Starling is making her statement, Ms. Churchill.”

  Her mouth shriveled up like a prune.

  “Thank you, your honor,” I said. “As you can see, Caden’s mother Willow has a sister in Texas.”

  “Yes, I see that. Wendy Robinson.”

  “And her deceased husband has parents in Arlington. Though I understand it takes time to deal with all the bureaucratic issues involved with placing a child out of state, the parents present no such difficulties. They are in fact on their way to Richmond now to take custody of Caden. I expect them to arrive sometime this evening.”

  “Ms. Churchill?”

  “We haven’t had the opportunity to do background checks, much less a home study. We don’t even have the proper signatures that will allow us to get started. We need time, and we ask for temporary custody to give us that time.”

  The judge looked at me, and I glanced down at Willow, whose eyes were on me, her face wearing an anxious, puppy-dog expression.

  “Your honor, the law requires CPS to make reasonable efforts to avoid the need of the child’s removal from the home. I don’t think they’ve done that here.”

  “Your honor, the child’s mother has been arrested for murder. Of course the child has to be removed from the home.”

  “Caden’s mother Willow Woodruff asks the court for me to be given temporary custody of her son Caden,” I said. “Just until the bureaucratic details can be worked out and the child’s grandparents can take custody.”

  The judge frowned.

  Mindy Churchill said, “Your honor, that’s ridiculous. There’s an obvious conflict of interest here. We need someone who will look first to the child’s interest, not someone who is representing the mother.”

  “Is it true?” the judge asked Willow. “You would like Ms. Starling to take custody of your son until your parents-in-law can be vetted by Social Services?”

  She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Judges were your honor in the courtroom, but he let the sir go. “Ms. Churchill?”

  “We very much object to such a disposition because of the very obvious conflict of interest. If the mother were to be released on bail, this would put her right back in contact with her son. You must consider that she has been charged with murdering her child’s father.”

  “Bail has been set at six hundred thousand dollars,” I said. “There’s no immediate prospect of Ms. Woodruff being able to make it.”

  “Ms. Starling herself has not been vetted by Social Services,” Mindy said.

  “Ms. Starling is a licensed attorney and an officer of the court,” Judge Messer told her.

  “At the very least we need time to do a background check on the grandparents, and before we can do that, we need the grandparents to sign a consent form and to make a written request for custody of the child. It will take too long to leave a child in the hands of the mother’s lawyer. You can’t award her custody even temporarily. You just can’t.”

  The judge smiled. He was the judge, and this was his courtroom. There was very little he couldn’t do.

  “I will happily release the child to his grandparents as soon as they arrive,” I said.

  “That would be most inappropriate,” Mindy objected. “Social Services would have to be involved in the transfer.”

  “Then I suggest you arrange to be involved.” The judge picked up his gavel and let it fall. “Temporary custody is awarded to Robin Starling, pending approval of. . .” He looked at the document I’d given him. “. . .James and Amy Woodruff as temporary conservators. The court clerk will fill out the order for you.”

  Instead of leaving the bench, the judge continued to sit there watching us. I went to Mindy Churchill’s table and held out my hand, but she only glared at me. “This isn’t right,” she said.

  “I’ll give you my address,” I said. “You can meet me and the grandparents there this evening to get whatever forms you need filled out.”

  She didn’t say anything, so I leaned over to write my address on one of her folders, then went back to my table.

  “Thank you,” Willow said, and I gave her a smile.

  “All part of the service.”

  The
deputy sheriff led her out. Mindy Churchill gathered her folders and pushed through the rail with them. She took short, quick steps, and her narrow back was rigid. Judge Messer was still on the bench.

  “Robin Starling,” he said. “You don’t remember me, do you? Chuck Messer, Virginia Law Section F. Boy, I remember you.”

  “Chuck!” I said jovially, trying hard to place him. “Good grief, I don’t know why I didn’t recognize you. It’s hard to think of one of my classmates as a judge, I guess.”

  “Well, I have gained fifty pounds,” he said modestly.

  “That’s right. You were a beanpole, weren’t you?”

  “You remember that party when we hooked arms back-to-back, and you bent forward far enough to carry me around, and people fed me chips and cheese cubes and things?”

  I placed him then. “You were hilarious,” I said. “You kept your knees pulled to your chest and had your head twisted around to get the end of your thumb in your mouth. You were like a baby in a papoose.”

  He beamed at me, clearly pleased I had remembered him. “It’s possible I’d had a little too much to drink,” he said.

  “I’ll say. I guess I’m lucky you didn’t throw up on me, getting bounced around like that.”

  “And don’t forget softball. They usually put me in the outfield, but I remember that nothing got by you at shortstop. You were a runner, too. Didn’t you win the Race Judicata one year?”

  “Two years. A stringy little One-L beat me the third year.” I had also run in the Race Ipsa Loquitur all three years, but had never placed better than third. No explanation for the difference except that maybe I ran better in the spring than in the fall, or everyone else ran worse.

  “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” Judge Messer said.

  We shot the bull for another fifteen minutes or so before people began to file in for the next hearing. “We’ll have to get together sometime,” he said. “Have lunch or something.”