There had to be an explanation for this.
Janet blinked her thoughts back to the young man poised nervously on the edge of her couch, hands fisted against his legs. “Shouldn’t those witness lines be filled in?” he ventured. “And the name of the people who adopted the baby?”
Janet lifted her hand from the offending paper. “Rogelio, if what you’re telling me is true, there are numerous problems here. Every state has adoption laws that must be followed exactly. A birth couple doesn’t have to know the name of the adoptive couple. But one of the laws in California is that a birth mother and father must meet with an LCSW—a licensed clinical social worker—twice. I was the LCSW for the Welk Adoption Agency. Mrs. Shawna Welk was the director, but she was not a trained social worker. That’s why she teamed up with me when she opened the agency. The only other way to handle adoptions is to use an attorney.” She paused. “Did you ever see an attorney?”
“No.”His eyes remained fixed on her. Janet saw the hope swirling over his features and winced. “So I was supposed to meet with you twice?” he pressed.
“Yes. And when you signed this document, I and two witnesses were to be present.”
He gripped his hands. “So the adoption wasn’t legal.”
She inhaled deeply, wrestling with the answer. “This piece of paper is not legal. But I’ll need to check the file and see if other papers make it so.”
“But how could there be any other papers? I didn’t sign anything else, and I never—”
Janet held up a palm. “I hear you. But I’ll have to see the file.”
He pressed his lips together and glanced away, clearly upset that she wouldn’t simply accept his word. “How long will that take?”
“A couple of days. The file is at social services in Sacramento. All the files from the agency were sent there when it was closed.”
“Sacramento? How will you get it?”
“I know people in the social services office. I had to deal with them quite a bit in sending all the Welk agency files to them. I can call someone tomorrow and ask her to look at the file, just tell me what’s there. Then if necessary she can send me copies of documents.”
“Okay.” He straightened his shoulders. “I’ll come back tomorrow evening and see what you found out.”
“No, call my office.” She scooted forward in her chair. “You have to understand, this is after my work hours.”
Rogelio rose as she did. His lanky frame was a good six inches taller. “I can’t; I work all day at gardening. Unless I call you during my lunch hour. That means you’d have to find something out in the morning.”He gazed down at her, resolve in his expression.
“I’ll try, but I have lots of other work to do.” Janet hoped her words sounded more firm than her legs felt as she walked him into the hall. There had to be a way out of this. As she pulled open the door, for sheer argument’s sake she asked, “Rogelio, if you work all day, who would raise your baby?”
“My grandmother will help.” Contrition laced his voice. “She wanted to care for the baby all along.Kristin had said she could, and she was so excited. It was all she had to look forward to after my mom died. But then Kristin said she could give me all this money…” He averted his eyes, a tangible cloud of guilt descending over him.When he turned back to Janet, lines etched his forehead.“I have to get the baby back for my grandmother. She cries every day.”
Janet’s palm grew damp against the door handle. She understood the importance of extended family in Hispanic culture. It was an emphasis she found sorely lacking in so many white American families. She imagined her own grief if her daughter were to snatch a baby from her grandmotherly arms in such a way. Then she thought of the adoptive parents of Rogelio’s baby. Talk about snatching a baby out of a mother’s arms. If this adoption truly were illegal, Janet would find herself in the midst of a battle to take a seven-month-old child away from the only parents she had ever known.
“And Kristin? Would she be a part of the baby’s life at all?”
Pain crossed Rogelio’s face.He traced a fingertip down the wood paneling of her door, considering his answer. “I want us to be a family.” His eyes cut to Janet, as if his own words surprised him. His mouth opened again, then closed abruptly.
Making no comment, Janet ushered him out to the porch. She watched Rogelio move down her sidewalk with lean agility, then fled into the house. Closing the door, she sagged against it, exhaustion trailing unknown fears down her limbs. “Shawna,” she moaned, “what have you done?”
EIGHTEEN
“Hi, Dad,” Brett mouthed.
Through the glass in the visitors’ room, his father smiled ruefully. They both picked up their phones.
“How’s the ranch?” Darren Welk asked.
Brett focused on his dad’s large, powerful hands. Some things never changed.How often had they discussed the same thing at their own kitchen table? Seemed as if most of his life their relationship had been played out in details about the ranch. Fields, crops, transplants, harvesting, packaging.When would they ever learn to talk?
“Things are going okay; I called Rudy just before I came here. Field six is almost done with harvesting.We got those holes patched in the irrigation in field four. The only main problem now is that Rudy heard Chef Mate’s messing with their prices again.”
Darren Welk’s fist hit the table in frustration. “How many times do we have to put up with this? Delgadia’s nothing but a cheat!”
Enrico Delgadia was the owner of Chef Mate, the most successful prepackaging company in Salinas. As crops were harvested, they were immediately sent to Chef Mate for packaging and shipping to stores in the form of ready-to-eat salads and vegetables. Delgadia wasn’t a convicted felon but it wasn’t for lack of trying. He’d been charged with numerous illegal activities over the past few years— money laundering, tax evasion, price fixing—and had somehow managed to weasel out of them every time. Brett agreed with his dad; you couldn’t trust Delgadia. All the same, Chef Mate was the packaging company with the highest efficiency and best distribution, so like many other Salinas ranchers, the Welks put up with its owner.
“Don’t get all riled up yet; Rudy’s not through talking things over with him.”
Darren’s face was hard. “You tell Rudy not to agree to anything until he gets through to me.”
“Yeah, okay, Dad; you know he’ll call you.”
Darren gripped the telephone.“How’s a man supposed to run a ranch from jail, huh? What do they want to do, break me?”
Brett’s throat tightened. Silently he watched his father, feeling the familiar kaleidoscope of emotions in his gut. Fear, loneliness, bitterness, guilt. Sometimes he thought the ambivalence would crush him.How to love a father, want to reach out to him, while images of one night’s crime crawled like roaches through your mind? If only they could talk about it. Sometimes Brett was hit by the inanity of it all—both of them knowing bits of the truth but saying nothing.
“Never mind,” his father growled, “I’ve got other things to think about now.”He raked fingers through his hair.“I could have strangled that Tracey today. Skinny little money-grubbing—”
“Dad, stop.You don’t do yourself any favors by looking angry all the time.”
“I’m not angry all the time! I’ve sat like stone in that courtroom for two days now, not showing one emotion on my face! Don’t you tell me what to do, boy.”
Brett flopped back in his chair and regarded his father in utter weariness. His throat clenched once more. Amazing, this sudden weakness within himself. He hadn’t cried since he was a kid. His father had taught him that crying was for sissies.
And he wasn’t about to cry now.
“I gotta go, Dad,” Brett said quietly.
The frown lines in Darren Welk’s face flattened. He rubbed his forehead. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Can’t stand to be in here for long.”
Brett made no comment.
“What’re you gonna do the rest of the evening?”
> He shrugged. “I don’t know. Get something to eat.Watch some TV in the hotel room. Try to sleep.”
His father snorted.“You make it sound not much better than life in here.Don’t be so down in the mouth, Brett; at least you’re a free man.”
This was freedom?
Three hours later Brett sprawled on the hard mattress of his hotel bed, eyes fixed mindlessly on the television. The dregs of fast-food burritos lay heavily in his stomach. His whole body seemed weighted, his head thick. Disjointed scenes filtered through his head. His parents together, so long ago.Working alongside his dad on the ranch. The nightmare of his life ever since February. The trial.
Kerra.
Her face wafted into his thoughts like the scent of spring rain. Those blue eyes against smooth, tanned skin, the lines of her jaw. Brett smiled to himself. She had a way of tilting her head to look at him sideways when she talked.And when he talked, she listened, her gaze fixed on him with concern and … something else. Compassion. Understanding.
Selfishly Brett hoped that old lady latched on to Kerra’s aunt again tomorrow.Maybe Kerra would go to lunch with him again.
CHELSEA AND KERRA DUG into shrimp appetizers at their outside table in Sausalito, overlooking the bay. The evening had remained warm. Sailboats lazily floated near Angel Island and around Alcatraz.
“Kerra,” Chelsea ventured, “may I ask how you’re doing spiritually? The last time we talked about it …well, you didn’t want to talk about it.”
Kerra ran her thumb and fingers up and down her water glass. “Sure, you can ask. That’s pretty much why I came here in the first place.Well, that and to rest. I had my hopes up, probably more than I should have, that somehow I’d go back home and be able to face life. Like this would be a clean break for me, you know?” Her eyes drifted to the bay. “Guess that’s a lot to expect.”
Prayers for wisdom sifted through Chelsea’s mind. Answers for another’s grief usually sounded so trite.“I don’t know if there is such a thing as a clean break after what you’ve been through. But I do know that God can heal, as long as you’ll let him. He can use time, other people, and circumstances. I’m just not sure how open you are to him right now.”
Chelsea was well aware that a streak of stubborn independence ran through Kerra. It had often played itself out in the form of rebelliousness before she’d become a Christian.With non-Christian parents, Kerra had never had any sort of spiritual training until Chelsea had begun talking to her about Jesus. Chelsea had only been a Christian for two years herself, and when she’d made the decision to follow Christ, her priorities had changed significantly. Excitement about her newfound faith had bubbled into most of her conversations, and when they’d talked on the phone, Kerra obviously had been captivated with what she’d had to say. After a few months Chelsea had prayed with her over the phone to accept Christ. Kerra’s excitement had equaled Chelsea’s.Until two months later when Dave was killed.
“I’m open to anything that’s going to make life worth living again.” Kerra’s tone was etched with weariness. She eased a lock of blond hair behind her ear and stared at her plate. “I’m tired of the why questions. I just want to move on. It’s been over a year, for goodness’ sake.” She raised her blue eyes to Chelsea. “You know what I want?” she asked almost defiantly. “I want to love again.”
The words hung over their table. For no reason at all Chelsea pictured Kerra talking to Brett Welk, her beautiful young face full of compassion. Chelsea tried to sweep the thought aside, but it clung to the corners of her mind like a cobweb out of reach. For the first time she realized the depth of her niece’s vulnerability.
Kerra’s face veiled as if she couldn’t believe she’d uttered such heresy. She looked away. Chelsea’s lips curved sadly. “Of course you do, Kerra. Of course you do.”
Their entrees arrived. Chelsea wanted to continue the conversation without pushing. Instead of focusing on Kerra, she talked about the many times that God had come through for her in the last two years—even when she’d stared helplessly into the eyes of a killer. “One thing God taught me during those times, Kerra,”Chelsea said. “He taught me that he’s always with me, no matter what happens. His purpose will be accomplished. As the Bible says, he’s our dread champion. He’s a whole lot bigger than the circumstances here on earth.”
Kerra screwed up her face. “Huh?”
“It’s from Jeremiah 20:11. ‘The LORD is with me like a dread champion.’ Jeremiah said it after he’d been beaten and put into stocks for speaking God’s word. He knew God would continue to watch over him and in time would subdue his enemies.” Chelsea searched for words to explain what the name meant to her personally.“ God is our champion, Kerra, our provider and protector.He is also fearsome, awesome, striking dread in the hearts of his enemies. He is to be both loved and revered. He works his will through situations in which many times all we can see is the mess.We have to keep our eyes on him and trust him.”
Kerra listened intently, her lips parted. A crumb of sourdough bread rested on her cheek. Chelsea reached out to wipe it away.Her niece smiled self-consciously, brushing a finger across her lips in case there were more. “Aunt Chelsea,” she declared, “you ought to be a preacher.”
Chelsea rolled her eyes. “No thanks. A wife, mother, and aunt will do just fine, thank you very much.”
“Don’t forget jury member,” Kerra teased, wagging a finger.
“Ha, ha.” That was the one thing Chelsea wished she could forget.
IRENE BRACKEN HUMMED a little tune as she negotiated the turn into her narrow driveway. The rosebushes climbing the fence on her left hung pink and red against the worn wood, a proud display of her gardening abilities. She turned off the engine and smiled at the flow- ers. She could remember planting those fledgling rosebushes with Bill as if it were yesterday.
Irene slid out of her car. She checked the mailbox, looking as always for the familiar handwriting of her daughter in Arizona.Her son never wrote. Males just had a thing against writing, Irene had learned. She’d never once known her husband to send a letter to his own mother.
Nothing in the mail except a few bills and plenty of junk. Irene sighed. So much for a bit of company.
In her small entryway Irene set her purse and keys on the long table against the right wall. Automatically she looked at the picture hanging above the table—a large photo of her and Bill on their thirtieth wedding anniversary. Their heads were bent together, their hands clasped. Their daughter had said they’d posed like teenagers. Well, thought Irene, they’d felt like kids.Married three decades and more excited about each other than ever.
Irene headed into the kitchen and laid the mail on the counter. For the next half hour she puttered about, mixing a casserole of rice and chicken and sliding it into the oven, opening the mail, all the while talking to her cats. Her supper baking, she plopped herself before the television in the family room and flipped to Channel Seven.“A revealing day in court in the so-called Salad King case,” the lovely female anchor read.“That story and others coming up.” Irene settled back against the cushion, only half-watching the commercials. She sure liked that Asian gal on the news. Such shiny black hair.
Irene knew she wasn’t supposed to see any media coverage of the trial, whether in the newspapers or on TV. But she just couldn’t help it. Besides, who would know?
A few minutes later the story about the trial filled the screen. Irene watched in fascination, her bottom lip dropping as she concentrated. Milt Waking was standing by that awful-looking spiky-haired woman in the courthouse hall. He pointed a microphone at the woman’s bright red mouth. He asked a question, and the camera zoomed in to show tears standing in eyes heavy with mascara. “I can’t begin to tell you what it’s like for me to hear testimony like that,” she said. “That my sister, the sister I loved so much, is reduced to …” Her voice broke and she lay two fingers against her lips. Irene thought her dark red nail polish looked like dried blood.“That she’s reduced to a few pieces of
clothing and a tooth.” The woman’s eyes focused past the reporter as she blinked back tears. “I have to go; I’m too upset. That’s all I want to say right now.”
“Oh, look!” Irene threw out a hand. “There I am!” She watched herself walk toward the long set of stairs. “Oh my.” Did she really look like that? Like such an old woman, moving so carefully, as if she didn’t trust her own legs.
When the news was over, Irene flicked off the television and sat motionless on the couch. She felt thrilled at being on television, despite her appearance. Surely at least one of her friends had seen it and would call. Irene frowned at the black telephone sitting on the end table, willing it to ring.
It didn’t.
After a time her casserole was finished baking. Irene dished some onto a plate, poured a glass of ice water, and took both back to the family room to watch TV. She ate slowly, as was her habit, savoring the spices. Just when she was about to take the last bite, the phone rang.“Oh!” She placed the fork on her plate with a clatter. Then took a breath to calm herself before picking up the receiver. “Hello,” she said with anticipation, wondering which friend it might be.
“I have a message for you.”
She blinked and drew back her head.Whoever was calling had a serious case of laryngitis. “Yes?”
“Listen very carefully,” the voice rasped.“Vote not guilty for Darren Welk.Not guilty. Do you understand?”
Irene’s mouth opened, then closed. Her hand tightened on the phone. “I don’t—who is this?”
“Vote … not … guilty.” The gritty words sandpapered her ear. “Or you’ll be sorry.”
Click.
Irene stared unseeing at the carpet, her mind trying to land on one coherent thought. The dial tone sounded loudly. She slammed down the phone, fingers still clutching the receiver.
A dam broke in her mind, questions and fears pouring. Somebody knew her phone number.Who? Did the caller also know where she lived?
Irene’s head jerked as she sent a frightened gaze through her front window.Was someone out there watching? She saw no one in the street, no unusual car. Irene trembled. She should get up and close the curtains. Then get out of the house. But what if the caller was waiting for her to go outside to her car?
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