by John Decure
I had heard enough. “Suit yourself.” I pushed through the door as if I resented it being there.
Sue Ellen Randall was just rounding the corner near the phones when she spotted me. She wore a blue skirt down past her knees and a ruffled white blouse under a white sweater. Looped under one of her arms was a puffy carry bag made out of blue material adorned with tic-tac-toe patterns.
“Mr. Shepard,” she said running to me. She saw the lump above my eye. “Did Ty do that?”
“We had a talk,” I said. I took her arm and turned her back toward Foley’s court. “Trial is about to begin. What’s in the bag?”
“Diapers, a bottle, a few new toys I got for Nathan. Pacifier.” I said nothing. We reached the courtroom door and stopped. “Thought I’d need his things,” she said, patting the bag.
“Right.” My stomach gurgled. I pictured a cadre of tiny gremlins doing laps in there, banking hard along the walls like cyclists locked in a velodrome.
“I believe in you,” she said.
The gallery was filled to capacity. Ken Jorgensen, Gerry Humbert and several of the usual attorneys took up the back row. A few people I didn’t recognize sat in front of them. The Danforths were there, Kitty talking on her cell phone and Kip nervously adjusting his cuff links. Nelson Gilbride was up at counsel table, chatting with Belinda and Lily Elmore, Nathan’s court-appointed lawyer. Their backs were turned to Sue Ellen and me. Shelly Chilcott was on her phone with a call blinking on her other line. The bailiff leaned back in his chair at his small desk, reading The Sporting News. Boris Kousnetsov sat at counsel table, poring over the social worker’s report, as if one more pass might yield a new insight. Poor Boris. He looked like death this morning in his brown worsted suit. Foley had not yet resumed the bench.
“Hello J.,” Boris said. He nodded to Sue Ellen. “Where is the father? Is he out of jail?”
“In the hallway,” I said.
Boris hurried off to locate Ty Randall. I opened my briefcase and began setting out my notes and legal pads.
“Well, Mr. Shepard, good day to you,” Gilbride said with his usual transparent charm. He was attired in a black three-piece suit with a muted burgundy tie. The gold pocket-watch chain dangled gracefully from his vest pocket.
Gilbride handed me a blue-backed motion to disqualify me as Sue Ellen’s counsel, then looked over the still-visible water spots on my jacket. “Just come in from the beach?” he quipped.
I inspected his somber duds the way one might eye the smoldering aftermath of a head-on collision. “Who died?” I said. “You help carry the casket?” Sue Ellen fought to suppress a smile.
“Very good,” he said. “You’re quite the humorist.”
“You’ve got to be kidding with this thing,” I told him, flipping through his motion. “Since when do you give a damn about what kind of representation my client is getting? My duty to provide competent representation is owed to Sue Ellen Randall. You have no standing to even assert such a motion.”
Gilbride didn’t answer, but I knew why he’d made the motion to disqualify me. He was thinking a step ahead, as usual. Of course he didn’t care about Sue Ellen receiving adequate counsel. He’d seen some of the talent hanging around this place. Lonely Boris, confusing one child with another. Ken, back there in the gallery, presently applying spit to what looked like a breakfast burrito stain on his tie. Lily Elmore, the small-fry specialist who sometimes didn’t even bother to interview her clients. Not that I was the best lawyer in the building, but Sue Ellen could have done a lot worse for herself.
What if I was disqualified? The trial would have to be continued to give the lawyer who replaced me time to get up to speed. The Danforths would hang on to Nathan several more weeks, which, with bonding an issue, would heighten their advantage.
Judge Foley came out and listened to argument on the subject of Gilbride’s motion. “This young man’s conduct has shown that his judgment is impaired,” Gilbride lectured the courtroom, “and his lack of ethics is a matter of professional concern. He’s taken advantage of his position as trusted counselor, taken . . .”
The words pounded hammerlike at the back of my skull. I’d never be able to show my face in this courtroom again if I got the hook in this case.
Gilbride’s salvo was followed by a few obligatory words of support from Belinda. I stood up when Foley nodded at me, but Lily Elmore had begun to speak. “Your Honor?” she said tentatively.
Foley shut his eyes. “Yes, Miss Elmore.”
Lily looked around at the silent courtroom. The court reporter’s fingers floated just above her black keys, poised at the ready. “I’d just like to say that I think . . .”—suddenly, Lily seemed to forget what she was saying—“well, it’s just . . . disgusting.”
Foley drummed his fingers on the open court file. “Thank you, Miss Elmore,” he said. “Let’s hear from Mr. Shepard. You understand, Mr. Shepard, that technically it’s unfair for me to decide on this motion without you having had a chance to respond in writing. Of course, I’d have to put over the trial.” Gilbride and Belinda exchanged glances to my left. “But I’ll rule on it today if you’ll waive time and respond orally now. I can tell you,” he said, holding up his copy of the motion, “it doesn’t look like a motion you’d need to file a written response on.”
He was saying he’d shoot down Gilbride’s latest motion now if I could give him the ammunition.
“I’ll argue it now,” I said.
I kept it brief, starting first with an explanation of what had actually happened that day in front of Arturo’s house, then with a discussion of the rules of professional conduct regarding withdrawal as counsel. I made the point that the question of bonding made it important to settle the case by trial now, not later.
“You’ve heard a lot of bad things about my client these past few weeks,” I told Foley. “I’m ready to defend her. It’s only fair that you let me fight for her now.”
“Ms. Randall,” Foley said, “are you comfortable with your representation?”
“I am,” she said. “Mr. Shepard’s worked real hard. He’s been my only friend through all this.” She glanced at Ty. “And he’s been a perfect gentleman.”
Ty had stopped picking dirt from under his fingernails and looked up at me, trying to stare me down.
“Motion denied,” Foley said to Gilbride, who was still standing beside Belinda at counsel table. “Mr. Shepard stays.”
What a relief. Now I could get after Gilbride.
“Uh, Your Honor?” I said. “Thank you, but shouldn’t Mr. Gilbride be going?”
“Your Honor,” Gilbride said, “my client, Kitty Danforth, will be testifying soon, and I just feel—”
“Feel your way to the back of the courtroom, Mr. Gilbride,” Foley said.
I smirked at Gilbride as he passed by me and through the partitions. When I faced the bench again, Foley was glaring. “Listen, gentlemen,” he said, “we have a lot of ground to cover in a short time. I will not tolerate any petty bickering from either of you.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Gilbride and I said in chorus like a pair of obedient schoolboys.
“I’ve heard your positions on this case twice by now,” Foley said, looking at the lawyers at counsel table, “so I assume you won’t be making opening arguments.” No one objected. “Good. Ten minutes, people. I need to do something for this headache. Miss McWhirter, you may begin with your case when we come back.”
Ken Jorgensen slapped his fat hands like a trained seal behind us after Foley departed from the bench. “Get ready for the main event!”
“Oh my,” Sue Ellen said breathlessly. “I feel . . . funny.”
I knew the feeling. “You’re committed,” I told her. “Get used to it.”
Eighteen
Belinda called Doreen Williams, the county caseworker, as her first witness. Williams was a stoutly built woman in her mid-forties, with a large, square jaw, a short, brown boy’s haircut and a single curl on her forehead. Her navy, knee-lengt
h dress was as formless as a shower curtain and her leather boots squeaked as she walked. Were she a man, I’d have typecast her as an ass-kicking bully. The sound of those boots coming down the front walk had surely struck terror in the hearts of more than a few parents.
Her testimony was highly predictable and almost entirely scripted from her report. But she was an important witness for the county because she set the scene for Foley, taking him through the history of the adoption of Nathan Randall, first with the Pontrellis and later with the Danforths. She was also quite fond of numbers and did a nice job tallying all the moneys that both hopeful couples had lost doing business with Ty and Sue Ellen Randall. Close to twenty grand. By focusing Foley on the big dollar figures, Doreen Williams was purposely diverting his attention from the routine nature of the actual transactions, trying to make him see Sue Ellen and Ty as heartless thieves.
I wasted no time going back over the money issues on cross, starting by having Doreen Williams restate the big totals.
“My,” I said, “that’s a lot of money.”
“You’re darn right it is,” Doreen said. “Least you admit it.” Her wisecrack drew a flurry of muffled laughs from the gallery.
I smiled. “Now, let’s go over these numbers in terms of expenses, nice and slowly.”
For twenty minutes I broke down the impressive totals she’d quoted into essentials such as rent, grocery bills, prenatal care. “All of these expenses were agreed to by the parties, weren’t they?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” the social worker said.
“And yet, your report makes it sound like we’re dealing with stolen money. But you don’t know.”
“Objection!” Belinda shouted. “Argumentative!”
“Move on, Mr. Shepard,” Foley said.
When I was done tallying, only a hundred and forty-seven dollars were left unaccounted for. “And did you find out what happened to that hundred and forty-seven dollars, Miss Williams?”
She shook her head slightly. “No.”
“Did Ty Randall blow it at the track? Did Sue Ellen spend it on a fancy haircut? Have you tracked down her stylist yet to question her about the kind of tipper Sue Ellen was—that is, back then when she was flush all that extra cash?”
“Objection! He’s badgering,” Belinda said.
“Withdrawn,” I said. “A hundred and forty-seven bucks, Miss Williams. I agree with you. This case does involve fraud. We just disagree on who committed it.” I thanked her as if I never wanted to see her again.
We broke early for our half-hour lunch. I was too keyed up to think about eating and stayed in the waiting area just outside. When the bailiff unlocked the door again, twenty of us crowded in at the same time, dead silent.
“Well hello,” I heard a sultry voice say from behind. Lois Nettleson, the adoption broker, smiled as if she were glad to see me.
Belinda McWhirter turned just in time to see me nod affably toward Lois. “You’re insane, J.,” she muttered.
Foley resumed and Lois Nettleson stepped forth from the anteroom like royalty arriving at the palace steps. She took her oath to tell the truth with perfect posture, her right hand raised like a delicate fan. Ken Jorgensen and Gerry Humbert murmured their approval from the gallery, and the bailiff’s chair squeaked as he strained for a clandestine perve. Her outfit was gorgeous: a teal dress-suit with thin black trim that expertly set off her carefully coifed raven hair. Her earlobes sparkled with round diamonds the size of my shirt buttons. As she settled into her seat, she and I exchanged fleeting glances of acknowledgment.
I imagined what Jackie might have whispered in my ear had he been here now to observe that furtive exchange. Bone patrol, mate. You can dig it, she can dig it. Dial in quick.
Lois’s testimony was slow and thorough, Belinda asking short, pointed questions to establish a clear chronology of events. Lois seemed perfectly at ease explaining why she believed the Randalls had never intended to go through with the adoption. “The Danforths were so giving. Anything Sue Ellen and Ty needed was theirs—whatever they asked for.” She paused to consider Sue Ellen, whose face had been calm and rather stoic since trial began. “Then the money stopped when the baby went home with the Danforths. Suddenly, the Randalls wanted out. They wanted more of the good life that—”
“Objection, this is speculation,” I said.
“Sustained,” Foley said, but he shot me a hard look, as if I’d been rude to interrupt his personal guest.
So far, the county was scoring a direct hit with Lois Nettleson. I knew her words were far more damaging than those of Doreen Williams. Because Lois was an adoption broker by trade and had presided over many previous baby transactions, she could render her opinion and impressions based on her previous experience. Foley was transfixed—either with Lois’s take on the case, or simply with her refined femininity, I could not tell. During testimony, his usual practice was to hunker down and scribble quick notes as the witness prattled on, stealing only the briefest glance now and again to gauge demeanor. But with Lois on the stand, his pen was idle and his eyes stayed locked on her. Near the end of her direct, while she was describing Sue Ellen’s reluctance to sign the consent papers as another sure sign of her intent to commit fraud, Lois briefly coughed. Foley abruptly stopped the proceedings, inquiring into her health and dispatching his clerks to fetch her water with the conviction of a general sending men into battle.
Lois daintily sipped her water from a clear plastic cup. Foley then gave Lily Elmore the floor. I was hoping Lily would take up a little time with Lois—Jackie was still not back with Egan—but she had only a handful of inane questions that Belinda had already asked in slightly different forms. Foley was not pleased.
“Cumulative, Miss Elmore,” he objected on his own initiative. Five minutes later, it was my turn.
Lois Nettleson sat calmly in the witness chair. Unshakeable.
I had to try to discredit her motives and expose her bias. She’d long ago made up her mind which of the two couples she sided with in this case.
I started by getting Lois to admit that there was nothing illegal about Sue Ellen’s refusal to consent in writing to the adoption before the child was six months old. She quickly neutralized my point. “Still an indication to me, Mr. Shepard,” Lois said coolly. “Birth parents who truly want to go through with adoptions ordinarily consent early.”
“Did you make sure Sue Ellen knew what her options were? Did you answer all her questions?”
“I took great care to see that your client was happy and well taken care of.” She acknowledged Sue Ellen. “I wanted to see everyone succeed in this adoption.”
“Who paid your fees in this adoption, Ms. Nettleson?” I said, pacing behind counsel table.
“Corwin and Kitty Danforth.” She knew exactly where I was going and seemed not the least bit perturbed.
“And who represented both couples legally in the adoption?”
“Nelson Gilbride.” She exchanged nods with Gilbride.
“But aren’t the couple giving up a baby your clients too?” I said. “Even if, like the Randalls, they aren’t the ones paying your bills?”
“I know what you’re getting at.” She sat up straighter, mildly offended now. “I treated both couples with the same high level of commitment and professionalism. I’m in the people business. If I can’t get both sides, both families working together, then my services are not of much use.” As her voice trailed off, Lois expertly made eye contact with Foley to add a dash of sincerity. The gallery murmured.
“You didn’t give your fee back to the Danforths, did you?” I said.
“Objection,” Belinda said. “This is totally irrelevant.”
“What’s the relevance, Counsel?” Foley asked.
“Bias, Your Honor,” I said.
“Overruled.” Belinda crumpled back into her chair. “But get to the point soon, Mr. Shepard,” Foley implored me. Then he apologetically instructed Lois to answer the question.
I thought of
Foley’s red Porsche, imagined him and Lois scrunched into the Recaro seats, blazing down some freeway at a less-than-rebellious fifty-five miles an hour.
“No, I did not refund my fee,” Lois said.
“Of course not,” I said as if an important point had just dawned on me. “They still have Nathan. Why should you have to give them their money back? I see how this works. If the Danforths keep the baby, you keep your fee.”
“Objection!” Lily Elmore shouted, but both Foley and Lois ignored her.
“It doesn’t work that way,” Lois said. “I’m a professional, not a black marketeer. These aren’t used cars. They’re human lives.”
“Come on, Ms. Nettleson. You come here and testify just the way the Danforths and Mr. Gilbride would want you to, do everything you can to help them keep Nathan, and you’re telling me you’re a people person, that this has nothing to do with you keeping your fee?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Lois glared at me as if I’d insulted her deeply. Then she made a giant mistake: she kept talking.
One thing I tell every witness of mine before they testify is to never, ever offer free information. Listen to the question. Answer the question. Then shut the hell up. But Lois Nettleson wanted to show me—and everyone else—that I was wrong about her.
“I’m not here to protect a fee,” she said. “I’m sorry for your client, but this is how things happened. Sue Ellen and Ty never intended to give up Nathan. They cheated the Danforths out of thousands of dollars. I’m not just saying this now. We, we all saw the signs way before.”
“You all saw signs?” I folded my arms and turned toward the gallery. “Who saw the signs? You? The Danforths? Mr. Gilbride?”
She had not yet realized her mistake. “All of us,” she said.
“You said you saw signs way before. You mean, before Nathan was born?”
