by John Decure
The highway hugged the ocean at last. The late-morning sun had peeled away the gray gloom and the sea looked invitingly deep and vast, as it always does to me. I checked the waves at sixty miles per hour, but the surf was nothing more than gutless local windswell roughed up by a building onshore. I moved over into the slow lane as I passed the Ventura Overhead, a big-wave reef which, like Holy Rollers, lies dormant most of the year. Nothing doing. Behind me, the Lincoln merged into my lane and slid behind a pickup truck full of produce. A car like that, with a big V-8, in the slow lane? I sped up again and changed lanes. The Lincoln followed me over. I could see half the face of the driver beneath the guy’s sun visor. Some tourist with a crew cut. He was following me.
Lois Nettleson’s office was situated in the middle of a tony block of adobe-style two-story facades just north of the freeway. The building housed an art gallery upstairs, a few clothing boutiques down the sidewalk, an upscale florist’s shop, and the offices of a lawyer and a psychiatrist. I parked next door to Lois’s place, directly in front of a busy little cafe with a dozen tables shielded by royal blue Cinzano umbrellas. Well-heeled women in white linen dresses ordered lunch, nibbling on focaccia from small wicker baskets. I locked the Jeep and peered over the roof, searching for the Lincoln, but it had dropped out of sight.
The reception area in Lois’s office was a compact space, but beautifully furnished and carpeted in a cool shade of aquamarine. Lois had money. Several back issues of Architectural Digest and The New Yorker had been fanned out around the tissue box. I had a hard time picturing Ty and Sue Ellen Randall catching up on the Talk of the Town while waiting on an appointment here.
A nervous man of about forty was seated on the sofa, wringing his hands as he carried on some sort of private dialogue in his head. He paid me no mind as I went by him and looked around. The back corner of the room opened to a small hallway and the closed door of Lois Nettleson’s office. Outside her office was an antique desk with a phone, an answer pad and pen, and an unfinished crossword puzzle spread across the blotter. I could hear voices behind the door, the muted sound of a woman’s sobs.
“She’s out to lunch,” the man on the couch said to me.
“Miss Nettleson?”
“No,” he said, “Kari. Girl who makes her appointments.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said, settling into the leather chair. He gazed expectantly at me. “I’m J.” I offered my hand.
“Martin.”
“I’m early,” I said. “Must be slotted after you.”
He wore a blue serge suit, wingtips and the kind of bold red foulard tie that’s a standard for accountants and finance types. His red hair was balding and cut conservatively short. On one hand he wore a gold wedding band, on the other the same kind of U.S.C. garnet Judge Foley was so proud to own.
“I’ve already seen her,” he said. “My wife’s in there alone.” He appeared ready to cry.
“Beautiful day outside,” I said. I walked to the window and peered out past a tangle of red bougainvillea, searching the street for the Lincoln. The happy clink of glasses and silverware drifted over from the cafe.
“I want to try again. Miss Nettleson’s doing her best to persuade Janet—my wife.”
“Your second time around?” I asked.
“Third—if you can believe it.” He kneaded his palms. “Even took the baby home this time. Had her room all ready for her, toys picked out. A crib . . .”
“What happened?”
“Wish I knew” The anger was welling in his voice. He sat forward to make his point with me. “The mother . . . came over after the baptism, saw Janet holding little Sarah, saw the home we’d created, how happy we were. My God. Just changed her mind. Like that”—he snapped his fingers in front of my face—“Sarah was gone.” He resumed staring at nothing.
“Why’d the mother come see you after the baptism?”
“Open adoption,” he said. “Only way she was ever gonna give up Sarah in the first place. I told Lois I thought it was a bad idea, but she said the mother seemed okay with it. Huh.” He gulped.
I picked up a magazine and pretended to read, unsettled by what Martin had to say. With all the analysis I’d given to Sue Ellen Rand-all’s position, I’d ruled out any consideration of what losing Nathan meant to the Danforths. Perhaps this was why my understanding about what had played out between them felt so incomplete.
“You trying to adopt?” he finally asked me.
“No, somebody I know had problems, too. I’m just here to see if I can help.”
“Hope you brought your checkbook,” Martin said.
“Lois expensive?”
“Yeah. But not half as expensive as it is to support an ignorant girl who thinks she just hit the lottery.”
“You think you got taken?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. We never cared about the money. Maybe that was the problem. We just wanted Sarah.” His eyes were wet and he lowered his face in shame.
I began to doubt my mission. Perhaps the social worker’s report was true. What if the Danforths were just like Martin, willing to give anything to have a child, and Sue Ellen was just what the department and Nelson Gilbride said she was, a game player, a fraud? It could have been Martin, not the Danforths, writing those checks and painting the new room for Nathan. Perhaps I was here on behalf of another misguided lottery winner.
“How much money are you talking about?” I said.
Martin thought about it first. “Twelve grand the first time,” he said. “With Sarah, we paid a lot more. The mother was depressed. I paid the rent, food bills, got her cable, prenatal, even paid for her shrink. Fifteen thousand, I’d say. She was very comfortable.” He stared out the window. “Ironic.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m the one who paid for the shrink, wanted her to be on solid ground. That’s supposedly how she decided she wanted to keep the child. A ‘breakthrough’ in therapy.” He exhaled a weary gallows laugh.
“Maybe this time.”
“Know what’s the worst thing?” he said. “We’re so set on this, we’d do anything. And they know it. They can see us coming a mile away.”
The door to the inner office opened and a sharp-looking middle-aged brunette in black slacks and a bone-colored blouse stepped into the room, leading a red-eyed Janet over to Martin. We stood and Martin held out a hand to Janet, who smiled gamely.
“Let’s do it,” Janet said.
Martin folded his arms around Janet and kissed her head. “You know where to reach us,” he said to Lois Nettleson, who nodded. “Let’s go,” he told Janet. “So long, J.—best of luck.”
“J.?” Lois Nettleson said, sizing me up with probing eyes. She was twenty years my senior but still slim and very attractive. A plastic surgeon had erased the wrinkles from her face, and her high forehead was perfectly smooth.
“Where have I heard that name before?” she said as if she were the only one in the room. She walked over to the desk and flipped through the message pad. “Here we are.” Her nails were painted with clear enamel and beautifully manicured. “I don’t remember making an appointment to see you.”
“You did, but you didn’t,” I said, smiling. “I’m Tony, your expectant young dad.” I shook her hand. “The noon consultation.”
“How deceitful. Nelson told me I should expect to hear from you before the trial.”
“Man thinks of everything.”
“You know I’m testifying next week.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Why can’t this wait until then?”
“I’m not fond of surprises.”
“You don’t look like a lawyer.” Her tone was observant, but I felt like she was leering at me. “Too tan. Too . . . alive. Not pasty enough,” she said. “My ex is a lawyer. Very pasty.”
“I don’t mean to take up much of your time. Just a few questions is all.”
“Why should I talk to you?”
“Why not?” I said. “You’re not a party in this,
just a witness. I trust you’ll go in there and tell the truth.”
“Of course.”
“I’m just trying to find out all I can, so I won’t make an ass of myself next week.”
“You represent the lovely Sue Ellen Randall.”
I nodded.
“You’re helping her get the baby back.”
“I’m trying to keep the court from controlling the baby’s destiny. Come on,” I said, “there’s no need for a standoff. You’d really be helping clarify the situation for everyone on the case.”
“Nelson won’t be pleased.”
“Listen,” I said, “Mr. Gilbride represents the Danforths only. But you’re different. You worked for both couples. You don’t owe Gilbride a damned thing.”
“I don’t owe you a damned thing, either.”
“I think you do,” I said. “You’re part of this case, like it or not. I’m only after a few straight answers. Please. That’s all I ask.”
We sat down together on the sofa. “I’ve got a hair appointment at twelve-thirty,” she said.
“You’re kidding,” I said. She wore her hair short, with thick bangs and a forward curl just off her shoulders—a very cosmopolitan look. “It’s perfect already.”
She blushed. “You’re just saying that.”
I held up a hand in pledge. “No, I mean it.”
Lois liked my gesture. “Ask your questions, Counselor.”
“How does your business work?”
She started with a brief history of the privatization of adoptions in California, then described the counseling and parent-matching process in which she specialized. I leaned forward in my chair when she touched on the concept of open adoptions.
“Open adoption can be wonderful, really,” she said, brightening.
“Wonderful?” I said. Was she serious? “Sorry, but that’s not the first word that comes to mind.”
“How do you mean?”
“Look at the Danforths and Randalls. How did you expect them to ever get along watching that kid grow up?”
“Hard to say what works,” she said. “I’ve had couples from more disparate backgrounds than theirs hit it off very nicely.”
“I see.” I didn’t believe her.
“It can be awkward.” She walked over to the desk and returned with an opened pack of Benson & Hedges. “My only remaining vice,” she said, snapping open a chrome lighter.
“So why do it if it’s not likely to work?” I asked, still thinking about the trembling Martin. “Seems like people on both sides can get shredded.”
“We’re dealing with a very high demand for white babies these days.”
“Desperation is a big factor.”
She regarded me as one would an equal. “Off the record? Of course the parents I bring together have little in common.” She took a luxuriant drag from her smoke. “How could they? One pair wants to give up the child, and the other wants a baby more than life itself. It’s a dynamic that doesn’t breed a lot of trust for each other.”
“Strange bedfellows,” I said.
Lois straightened up and glided to the window. I found myself attracted to the way she moved.
“Open adoptions are just another option,” she said, “not the ultimate solution. They can make certain arrangements work when they’re not otherwise viable. And for people who live on the hope of having a new baby, another option is a good thing.”
Lois’s last remark sounded vaguely like a sales pitch, the kind I’d heard from Nelson Gilbride in the hallway the day I’d taken the Randall case. I reckoned that, like Gilbride, she was highly adept at her trade.
“Were you surprised Sue Ellen changed her mind and backed out of it?” I asked.
She paused and blew out a tiny jet of smoke. “At first I wasn’t. She was never behind the idea of giving up that baby. Her husband was a lot more sure about it. Unemployed, dead broke, no education, lousy prospects. A real no-account fella.”
“Then the open adoption must have been a critical aspect to her.”
“Oh, it was. Sue Ellen was very concerned about the terms and conditions. We spent a lot of time on that. Did you know she wouldn’t agree to place the baby unless she could hand Nathan over to Kitty herself, right there at the hospital?”
“I hadn’t heard that.”
“She was apparently quite adamant about it.”
“You weren’t at the hospital when Nathan was born.”
She shook her head no. “Can you imagine, after all Kip and Kitty had done for her?” she said.
“She was giving away her own child. So she wanted to hand him over to his new mother. What’s so unreasonable about that?”
“Kitty has a full-time nanny who’s very capable. I don’t see why—”
“She was guilt-ridden about abandoning her child,” I said. “So they did some nice things for her. So what? You make it sound as if the Danforths were specially entitled.”
This woman saw the Danforths’ perspective as if it was all she was capable of seeing. She was going to hurt my case, that much was clear. But there could be no advantage gained by alienating her.
“You knew Sue Ellen wasn’t behind the adoption, Ms. Nettleson, am I right?”
“Call me Lois,” she said. “I wouldn’t argue with what you said.”
“So tell me, Lois, why shouldn’t Sue Ellen have wanted to reclaim Nathan? Why is everyone crying fraud now? She never wanted to give Nathan up in the first place.”
Lois Nettleson appeared troubled. “It makes more sense when you hear Nelson explain it.”
“I’ll tell you where you’re getting lost here, if I might,” I said. “Gilbride says Sue Ellen defrauded the Danforths because she accepted their financial support, yet all the while she had no intention of ever giving up the boy.”
“That’s right.” She looked at me seriously.
“Sounds like fraud, doesn’t it? Problem is, he’s only partly right. Unconsciously, Sue Ellen never did fully intend to go through with the adoption, that’s true. But did she plan it that way, as a scheme? Of course not. She was goaded into giving up that boy by the promise of a wonderful compromise, an open adoption. She could still see him occasionally, watch him grow up, know how he was doing. She believed more in the concept of open adoptions than you or Gilbride probably do. You just told me how important the open adoption terms were to her.”
“So was the money.”
“What money?” I said. “They supported her until she had the baby.” My central arguments for trial next week were beginning to emerge and take shape, and I sensed I was using the moment as a practice session. But I had to be careful not to go too far with Lois before she even took the stand.
I took a slow breath and flashed my best reasonable guy smile on her. “I think everyone pushed her into this. Gilbride, the Danforths, even Ty. And you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lois said. “You don’t know adoptions.”
“All right, but it wasn’t fraud. I do know that.”
Lois stared out the window, the cigarette smoke trailing over her shoulder like a breezy scarf. “I see your point.”
I walked over and shared with Lois the view out to the street. No sign of the silver Lincoln. “Will they go to jail?” she said.
Did Lois actually care about her poor clients as well as the wealthy ones who paid her fees?
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Fraud is a specific intent crime. You can imagine how tough it would be to prove intent in a case like this.”
“I see.”
Gilbride must have been counseling Lois lately, trying to color her perceptions of what had gone down between the Randalls and the Danforths. He’d be unable to help her next week, though, when she took the stand.
“When are adoptions final?” I asked.
She told me about the necessity of an adoption report from the state approving the adoption and the law in California giving natural mothers six months after the baby’s birth to ulti
mately decide. This I knew, but she surprised me with something more.
“Of course,” she said, “if you get the mother’s signed consent before six months is up, it’s final.”
I hadn’t known that.
“Sue Ellen had never signed over consent?” I said.
“You catch on fast.”
Had Sue Ellen signed off, the adoption would’ve been a done deal. But how did she know to withhold consent? And how did she hold off Gilbride and Lois? They must have relentlessly squeezed her. I sensed a major weakness in one of the county’s arguments: Sue Ellen had acted within the law.
“I guess you see Sue Ellen’s refusal to sign a consent form as further proof that she set out to cheat the Danforths,” I said.
“And you don’t? She had plenty of chances to execute the documents but always had a quick excuse as to why she hadn’t yet signed.”
But it was Sue Ellen’s right not to sign. I saved this thought for my cross-examination.
“Oh! I’ve got to dash,” Lois said, checking her thin gold watch. “I’m late. Marco hates it when I’m late.”
“Thank you for your time,” I said. “One last thing. May I get a copy of the adoption agreement, the contract between the Randalls and the Danforths? My client seems to have lost the copy.”
Lois did a playful double take. “She did, did she? Poor, confused child.”
“Pardon me?”
“There is no contract. It’s illegal in California to have a contract for a baby.”
“So the consent requirement . . .”
“Two different things. I’m sorry, but I’m just fresh out of time.” She smiled, charming me again.
“It’s been a pleasure,” I said, shaking her hand. “I’ll try to be nice to you next week.”
“You’d better.” Her eyes openly surveyed the breadth of my shoulders. “You’re a bright young man, J. Good luck.”
She went back to the receptionist’s desk and brought me a beige business card with gold lettering in fancy scroll. A Santa Barbara phone number was handwritten in pink marker across the front. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. “My direct line. Call me if you need to talk again.”
I walked back toward my car, reflecting on Lois Nettleson’s ambivalence toward the Randall adoption and feeling at least some faith in Sue Ellen again. And the card—was this Lois’s home number? She didn’t seem to be coming on to me, or was she? On one level she’d certainly welcomed the attention. I’d have to confer with Jackie about this matter.
