The Douglas Kennedy Collection #1

by Douglas Kennedy

  When I emerged from the stall, Deirdre Pepinster regarded me with nervous distaste, looked at her watch, and said, “We’d best be getting back.”

  I managed to swill some tap water around my mouth before we left. When we reached the court, I saw a look pass between Deirdre and Ginny Ricks.

  Then the court clerk announced the entry of the judge. We all stood up. The side door opened, the judge walked in. He sat down. So did we. After clearing his throat, he began to speak. He spoke nonstop for just five minutes. When he was finished and the courtroom was empty, Ginny Ricks leaned over to me and said, “Well, that’s about as bad as it gets.”

  TEN

  THE JUDGE DIDN’T look at me as he talked. He seemed to be speaking to some nether place, located on the floor just beyond his desk. But his crisp voice was aimed directly at me.

  His “judgment” was brief and to the point. After due consideration, he saw no reason to change the initial ex parte order—and therefore he was allowing this custody order to stand for the next six months, until the final hearing regarding residence could take place. However, he was adding a few provisos to the original order. Though he concurred that the safety of the child was paramount, he also ordered that “the mother be allowed weekly supervised contact at a contact center within the borough of her residence.” He also commissioned a CAFCASS report, to be filed five weeks before the final hearing, which he fixed for six months’ time, “at which time the matter will be decided once and for all.”

  Then he stood up and left.

  Lucinda Fforde leaned over and proffered her hand to Paul Halliwell. From the brevity of the handshake and the lack of conversation between them, I could sense that this was a mere end-of-hearing formality. Then she and her attorney hurried off, a quick nod to Ginny Ricks, hearing finished, job done, on to the next human mess. My barrister had a similar approach. He packed up his briefcase, picked up his raincoat, and left hurriedly, muttering “We’ll be in touch” to my solicitor. Even though he had only been parachuted into the case today, he too looked decidedly embarrassed by the outcome. Nobody likes to lose.

  Deirdre Pepinster also stood up and excused herself, leaving me and my lawyer alone in the court. That’s when she sighed a heavy theatrical sigh and said, “Well, that’s about as bad as it gets.”

  Then she added, “Like Paul Halliwell, I’ve always said about cases like these: I can only play the hand I’m dealt. And I’m afraid you’ve dealt me a busted flush. Had I only known . . .”

  I wanted to respond to her—to tell her exactly what I thought of her. But I kept myself in check.

  “I just need,” I said, my voice shaky, “a translation of what the judge just said.”

  Another weary sigh. “A residence order is exactly what it sounds like. The court decides with whom the child should reside—and in this instance, the judge has decided to maintain the status quo of the last order. Which means that your husband and his new partner will have custody of your son for six months—which is when there will be what the judge called ‘a final hearing,’ at which time you will be able to argue your case again and hopefully work out a more favorable custody arrangement. For the moment, however, as he said, you will be granted supervised contact at a contact center—which essentially means a room in some social services office in Wandsworth . . . where you will have an hour to be with your child once a week, under the supervision of a social worker, who will be there to ensure that the child comes to no harm. CAFCASS stands for Child and Family Court Advisory and Support Service. And the CAFCASS report which he commissioned means that, in the ensuing six months, the court reporter will be investigating your background, and that of your husband and his new partner. And to be absolutely direct about it, given the case they have compiled against you, I honestly don’t see how you will be able to change the court’s opinion. Especially as, by that time, the child will be overwhelmingly settled with his father and his new partner. Of course, should you wish to instruct us to take the case . . .”

  I raised my head and stared directly at her.

  “There is absolutely no chance of that,” I said.

  She stood up, gave me another of her supercilious shrugs, and said, “That is your prerogative, Ms. Goodchild. Good day.”

  I was now alone in the courtroom. I didn’t want to move from this spot. A court had declared me an unfit mother. For the next six months, my sole contact with my child would be a weekly sixty minutes, with some social worker standing by in case I went psycho. And Ginny Ricks was right: given the evidence stacked against me—and given the wealth and hyper-social standing of Ms. Dexter—the chances that I would be granted custody of Jack, or even permitted to see him on a regular, unsupervised basis, were around nil.

  I had just lost my son.

  I tried to fathom that—to reason it out in my head.

  I had just lost my son.

  I kept playing that phrase over and over again in my head. The enormity of its meaning was still impossible to grasp.

  After ten minutes, the court usher came in and told me I would have to leave. I stood up and walked out into the street.

  I made it to the Temple underground station. When the train came hurling down the platform, I forced myself against a wall and clutched onto a waste bin—to ensure that I didn’t pitch myself under it. I don’t remember the journey south, or how I got back to the house. What I do remember is getting to the bedroom, closing all the blinds, unplugging the phone, stripping off my clothes, getting under the covers, and then realizing that, though I could try to block out the world, the world was still there, beyond the bedroom window, indifferent to my catastrophe.

  Not having a clue what to do next, I stayed in bed for hours, the covers pulled up over my head, wanting the escape of oblivion, yet being denied it. This time, however, I didn’t find myself hanging onto the mattress as if it were the sole ballast that was keeping me from going over the edge. This time, though I felt an intense, desperate grief, it wasn’t overshadowed by a feeling of imminent collapse or a downward plunge. I didn’t know if it was the cumulative effect of the antidepressants or some chink in the armorlike depressive veil. All I realized was that I wasn’t sinking any longer. My feet were on terra firma. My head was no longer fogged in. The view ahead was clear—and thoroughly dismal.

  So I forced myself out of bed, and forced myself to take a hot-and-cold shower, and forced myself to tidy the bedroom, which had become something of an uncharacteristic dump over the last few days. When I broke down—a wave of sobbing that hit me shortly after I finished hanging up the last pair of cast-aside jeans—I didn’t find myself falling into oblivion. I was simply convulsed by sadness.

  I plugged the phone back in around four. Immediately it rang. It was Sandy. From the sound of my voice, she knew the outcome. But when I detailed the findings of the judge—and the supervised access I would have to Jack—she was horrified.

  “Jesus Christ, it’s not like you’re an axe murderer.”

  “True—but they certainly gave their barrister enough ammunition to depict me as someone who was on the verge of catastrophe. And I certainly didn’t make life easier for myself by . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  And then I told her about my weekend trip to the country, apologizing for not informing her before now.

  “Don’t worry about that,” she said, “though you should know you can tell me anything . . . like anything, and I won’t freak. The thing is, surely the court must have been sympathetic to the idea that you just had to see your son—which isn’t exactly an abnormal instinct, now is it? And, like, it’s not as if you pounded on their door at three in the morning, wielding a twelve-gauge shotgun. You just stood at the gate and looked, right?”

  “Yes—but also the barrister representing me hadn’t been properly briefed.”

  “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

  I explained about the slapdash approach of my solicitor. Sandy went ballistic.

  “Who recommended this bitc
h to you?”

  “The husband of my friend Margaret Campbell . . .”

  “She was that American friend living in London, now back in the States, right?”

  Sandy certainly had a terrifying memory.

  “Yes, that’s her.”

  “Some friend.”

  “It’s not her fault, nor her husband’s. I should have researched things a little bit . . .”

  “Will you stop that,” she said. “How the hell were you to know about divorce lawyers in London?”

  “Well, I certainly know a thing or two about them now.”

  Later that evening, the telephone rang and I found myself talking to Alexander Campbell.

  “Hope this isn’t a bad time,” he said. “But your sister called Margaret at home today, and told her what happened, and how this woman—Virginia Ricks, right?—behaved. And I just want to say I am horrified. Truly horrified. And I plan to call Lawrence and Lambert myself tomorrow—”

  “I think the damage has been largely done, Alexander.”

  “Damage for which I feel responsible.”

  “How were you to know?”

  “I should have checked with other London colleagues about the best divorce firms.”

  “And I shouldn’t have accepted the first lawyer I spoke with. But . . . there it is.”

  “And now?”

  “Now . . . I think I’ve lost my son.”

  Margaret also called that night to commiserate, and to say how bad she felt.

  “Did they fleece you, those lawyers?”

  “Hey, you’re married to a lawyer—you know they always fleece you.”

  “How much?”

  “It’s irrelevant now.”

  “How much?”

  “A retainer of twenty-five hundred sterling. But I’m sure the final bill will come to more than that.”

  “And how will you cover it?”

  With my ever-diminishing funds, that’s how.

  In fact, the Lawrence and Lambert bill arrived the next morning. I was right about it running beyond the original retainer—a cool £1,730 above the initial £2,500—every expense and charge laid out in fine detail. I also received a phone call from Deirdre Pepinster. She was as laconic as ever.

  “One thing I wanted to raise with you yesterday—but didn’t think you needed more bad news . . .”

  Oh, God, what fresh hell now?

  “I checked the land registry. The house is in both your names . . .”

  Well, that’s something, I guess.

  “But before the hearing yesterday, we heard from your husband’s solicitors. Seems he wants to sell it straightaway.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “According to the law, each party who co-owns a house can force a sale. But it takes time and the divorce courts can stop it. Now, if you’d had custody of your child, that would be a different matter altogether. No court would allow the house to be sold under you. But in this situation . . .”

  “I get it,” I said.

  “They have made an offer—a settlement offer, I should say.”

  “What is it?”

  “Uh . . . Ginny Ricks said we won’t be representing you from now on.”

  “That’s absolutely correct.”

  “Well, I’ll just fax it to you then.”

  It showed up a few minutes later—a lengthy letter from Tony’s solicitors, informing me that their client wanted to expedite the divorce, and to be as generous as possible under the circumstances. As their client “would be retaining custody of his son,” there were no child support issues to deal with. As I’d had an extensive journalistic career before moving to London, his client would argue that alimony was also not an issue here—as I was perfectly capable of earning a living for myself. And as their client had put 80 percent of the equity into the house, he could also expect to receive 80 percent of whatever profit the sale yielded (but given that we only owned the house for seven months, that profit wouldn’t be enormous). However, wanting to be generous in this instance, he was offering the following deal: as long as I didn’t contest custody, I would, upon the sale of the house, receive not just the £20,000 equity I had invested in it, but the £7,000 for the loft conversion (as I had paid for this myself), plus an additional £10,000 sweetener, plus 50 percent of whatever profit the sale yielded. If, however, I didn’t accept this offer, they would have no choice but to take this matter to court, whereupon . . .

  I got the point. Settle fast or be prepared for shelling out even more money in legal fees. Money that I simply didn’t have right now.

  There was one small respite in this otherwise politely couched, but completely threatening letter: I had twenty-eight days to reply to this offer before legal action ensued. Which meant that I could dodge dealing with it for a bit. Especially as I had more pressing concerns to confront right now. Like my severe lack of money. Though I was expecting an increased bill, there was a part of me that hoped that, given the negative outcome of the case, Lawrence and Lambert might have reduced their costs. What an absurd idea—and just to pour battery acid into the wound, their invoice for the additional £1,730 was marked: To Be Settled Within Fourteen Days.

  Of course, I wanted to crumple up this invoice and dispatch it to the nearest circular file. Or find another lawyer and sue Ginny Ricks for complete professional incompetence. But I also knew that if I dodged this bill, Lawrence and Lambert would not only come after me, but might let word get around that, not only was I an unfit mother, but a deadbeat to boot. So I went to the bank that afternoon and bought a £1,730 sterling draft, and posted it to Lawrence and Lambert, and sat in a coffee bar on Putney High Street, pondering the fact that my net worth was now around £2,500—enough to see me through the next few months, as long as I didn’t employ another lawyer to fight the custody case.

  I had to admire Tony’s solicitors: their offer was ferociously strategic. Accept our terms and you come out with a little money to get your life restarted again. Turn us down—and we will embroil you in a legal battle that you cannot afford, which will end up having the same result: Jack stays with Tony and that woman.

  Of course, there was a significant part of me that wanted to simply agree to their shitty terms and be done with it—to take the money, and try to find a new place to live and a job, and attempt to negotiate, over time, a shared custody agreement. But that would mean Jack growing up, looking upon that woman as his mother—whereas I would be some damaged parental adjunct, whom he would eventually come to regard as the person who had failed him by being unable to cope with motherhood. Judging from their behavior so far, I had no doubt that Tony and that woman would do their best to poison him against me. But even if, in due time, they became equitable and fair-minded, I would still have been legally blocked by them from raising my son. And that was something I simply couldn’t accept.

  “You don’t sound as shaky as I’d expect,” Sandy said that night when she phoned me.

  “Oh, I’m shaky all right,” I said. “And I find myself crying spontaneously. But this time I’m also angry.”

  Sandy laughed.

  “Glad to hear it,” she said.

  But my anger was also tempered by the realpolitik of the situation. Legally and financially, I’d been trumped. For the moment, there wasn’t a great deal I could do about it . . . except attempt to present an exemplary face to the world.

  Which meant, from the outset, adopting a certain mind-set when it came to the social workers at the contact center who were now dealing with me. I could not come across as arrogant or enraged, or someone who believed it was her inalienable right to raise her child. In their eyes, the interim hearing order said it all: I had been declared dangerous to my child’s well-being. It didn’t matter that facts had been manipulated against me by a very clever barrister, or that I had been suffering from a clinical condition. I couldn’t play the blame game here. Like it or not, I had to somehow accept that I was at their mercy.

  So when a woman named Clarice Chambers pho
ned me from Wandsworth Social Services to suggest that my first supervised visit start in two days’ time, I agreed immediately to the time she suggested and showed up fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

  The contact center was located in a grim, modern, cinder block building, just off Garratt Lane in Wandsworth. It was situated near a squat ugly tower block called the Arndale Center—which was known locally as one of the easiest places in the borough to score a vial of crack.

  Certainly, my fellow unfit mothers at the contact center looked like they had all borne witness to assorted domestic horrors, not to mention the trauma of being legally cut off from their children. There were four of us waiting on a bench in a hallway with scuffed linoleum and dirty concrete walls. My three bench mates were all young. One of them looked like she was no more than fifteen. Another had the sort of zombie eyes and shell-shocked demeanor that made me wonder what controlled substance she was on. The third woman was vastly overweight, and was about to burst into tears at any moment. We said nothing while waiting for our names to be called.

  After ten minutes, a woman appeared from a reception area, and said “Sally Goodchild,” then directed me to room 4, straight down the corridor, second door on my right. Walking down toward the room, I felt fear. Because I didn’t know how I’d react to the sight of my son.

  But he wasn’t there when I went in. Rather, I found myself face to face with Clarice Chambers—a large, imposing Afro-Caribbean woman with a firm handshake and a firm smile. I noticed immediately that this room was set up as a nursery—with soft toys, and a playpen, and animal wallpaper that looked forlornly incongruous under the harsh fluorescent lighting and broken ceiling tiles.

  “Where’s Jack?” I said, my nervousness showing.

  “He’ll be with us in just a minute,” she said, motioning for me to sit down in a plastic chair opposite her own. “I just want to chat with you for a bit before you have your visit with your son, and to explain how this all works.”