Gideon - 04 - Illegal Motion

by Grif Stockley

She seems believable. The stress in her voice gives it the tinny quality of an old woman’s; however, her anxiety could be the result of fear and guilt, a combination guaranteed to add years to even the most baby-faced suspect.

  Creasing my tie, I fold my arms across my chest, not willing to make this explanation any easier for her. This case, if I take it, will be a lot simpler if she admits to hurting the child deliberately. She adds, her voice seemingly puzzled, when I do not reply, “She must of turned on the hot water. There was only a couple of inches of barely warm water in the tub when I went downstairs.”

  In silent rage I squeeze my arms, wanting to rail at her.

  If she isn’t a criminal, she is criminally stupid. Still, I could easily have burned Sarah when she was a baby. The phone rings; someone knocks at the door; lapses of attention occur with even the best parent. Yet, somebody hasn’t believed her, and despite the incompetence of many of the caseworkers, the medical support the state agency receives from St. Thomas is first-rate.

  “When you got her out of the tub, what’s the first thing you did?”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, she says, “I called nine-one-one.”

  About to nod, I check myself. This is the right answer.

  If there is any evidence of delay, she won’t have a prayer.

  My mind travels back seven years to my days as an investigator for the state and retrieves terms such as “stocking and glove burns” which are descriptive of the injury to the flesh at the water line. Too, if a child has been held down in scalding water, the buttocks will be less burned, because the porcelain won’t be as hot as the temperature of the water. A “doughnut burn” is the delightful phrase I recall.

  “How old is Glenetta,” I ask, “and why didn’t she climb out of the tub when the water began to cook her?”

  Her eyes blinking rapidly, Gina hugs herself as if she is cold and begins to rock slightly as she anticipates my reaction.

  “Two and a half—maybe the water hurt her too bad to stand.”

  It is this response that makes me think she is lying.

  Any normal two and a half year old is fully capable of climbing over the edge of a tub. I stare at this sad example of motherhood, wondering how I can get her to admit that perhaps in a moment of the never-ending stress of raising a child by oneself she might have been trying to teach Glenetta a lesson.

  “When a child touches a hot stove,” I say, “he pulls his hand away. I think the way a judge will look at this is that Glenetta would have reacted the same way.”

  Unable to meet my gaze, she lowers her eyes.

  “I don’t know why she didn’t get out.” There is defeat in her voice as if she knows what the outcome will be as well as I do.

  “How old are you, Gina?” I ask, wondering if she has some relatives who can take the child if it lives. Unless she is willing to admit what she has done and gets into intensive therapy and parenting classes, she doesn’t stand a prayer of ever getting her child back. This is a tricky situation. If she confesses, the criminal justice system will be hanging on her every word. She still could be charged with attempted murder.

  “Nineteen,” is her sullen reply. Clients of all ages expect their lawyers to believe them regardless of how improbable their story. One of my main tasks as an attorney is to administer a dose of reality without insulting the person sitting across from me assuming I want to keep the individual as a client. I would be more than happy if this girl flounced out of here in a huff; yet, she is Sarah’s age, and I can’t help feeling sorry for her.

  I flip through my Rolodex, looking for Legal Aid’s number.

  “Have you got a job? You might qualify for Le gal Services. If you do, they don’t charge anything.”

  There is a certain dignity in the posture and voice of this girl as she replies stiffly, “They turned me down.

  They say they don’t take every case even if you’re eligible financially.”

  Super. Legal Aid won’t even take it. A tab marking the beginning of the “L’s” snaps off in my hand. Cheap crap, formerly county property. I took the Rolodex with me when I left the Public Defender’s Office, rationalizing my theft with the thought that few persons would want the telephone numbers of some of the women I dated right after Rosa’s death.

  “Are you on AFDC?” I ask, picking up a confetti-size piece of plastic and dropping it in my wastepaper basket as if I want to impress this girl that I am some kind of neatness freak. Accident or not, the public will pay a fortune for the care of this child. Medicaid, I suppose. What did the state of Arkansas do before Lyndon Johnson was President?

  “I get a little,” she admits, “but my caseworker said it’ll be stopped. And I’ve been waitressing off and on at D.Y.”s since I was sixteen.”

  “The place on the interstate to Memphis?” I ask, surprised.

  Could this plain, almost country-looking girl be a hooker? D.Y.”s makes it into the news from time to time for general rowdiness and an occasional drug bust. Clan told me just a couple of weeks ago he used to eat free at D.Y.”s for a period of time during which he represented some prostitutes who operated out of there. Maybe Gina has us confused. If so, I need some serious work. Clan is obese and his thinning hair in the last couple of years has gone squirrel gray.

  “It’s not as wild as people think,” Gina says loyally.

  “And the food’s great. You can ask Mr. Bailey.”

  Shit! I should have known. I was going to dump her on Clan and he beat me to it. No wonder Julia set this up.

  Now is the time I ought to run her off. Yet, I remember from my many years as a caseworker, few lawyers in Blackwell County know anything about juvenile court (Clan included) or have the desire to learn, since there is no money in it. I pull a legal pad from the right-hand desk drawer and realize to my dismay that Julia has gotten white tablets again. They’re cheaper, she says. Probably better for the environment, too, but after yellow, a white tablet is like trying to write on a neon sign.

  “How many times have you been convicted of prostitution?” I ask bluntly, sore that Clan is punting this one without even asking me.

  “Never!” she says emphatically.

  “Mr. Bailey has got me off twice. He would have helped me, but he says you’re the real expert in this area.”

  Child abuse defense attorney—a charming specialty, one I’m sure that will lead its practitioner to the upper echelons of Blackwell County’s legal elite. I begin to make some notes.

  “He means I used to work for the Division of Children and Family Services. Actually,” I say, hoping this girl will take the hint, “I’ve never tried a case as a lawyer in juvenile court. ““That okay,” Gina assures me, crossing her long legs, her best feature.

  “I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  Thanks for the vote of confidence, I think. Clan, you owe me one.

  “How much money do you have?”

  “Two hundred dollars in cash,” she says, and begins to reach into her purse, a scarred black piece of plastic junk that wouldn’t find a buyer at the lowliest garage sale.

  Feeling the beginning of a dull headache, I massage my forehead. Will private practice always be this pathetic?

  After two years I ought to be attracting a better clientele. Every time I think I’m about to break through to another level, I endure a dry spell or wallow around with cases like Gina Whitehall’s. Just say no, I think, but she looks so vulnerable and young I can’t bring myself to turn her down. Knowing I could get stuck out at juvenile court for most of a day, I say gruffly, “I’ll need at least a thousand.”

  Knowing she’s hooked me, she reaches into her wallet and peels off four fifty-dollar bills and lays them on my desk. Her business is strictly cash and carry.

  “I’ll pay the rest before trial.”

  I grab up the bills and slip them into my wallet. Now at least I won’t have to stop at the bank before I leave for Fayetteville.

  “I’m just signing on for the juvenile court case,” I sa
y pointedly.

  “If you get charged with anything in criminal court, you’re on your own.”

  She nods, and as I watch her read through my standard retainer agreement, I realize I am being paid with the earnings she receives as a prostitute. I wonder who her customers are. Mostly truckers probably, but who knows? As innocent and natural as she looks, she might attract a diverse group of customers.

  For the next forty-five minutes I get as much information as I can. At least she has brought the petition and the affidavit of the caseworker, a woman by the name of Sheila Younger. Based on the allegations of the department, it is clear that the case will turn on the opinion of a burn expert. The documents recite in water at a temperature of 140 degrees from the faucet the child would need to have been exposed only about five seconds to receive full and partial thickness burns over forty percent of her body. The mother’s story that the child was left briefly in the tub is considered inconsistent with the evidence, obviously a reference to the medical opinion of a doctor at St. Thomas, where the child was taken by ambulance. As an artfully drawn complaint, the petition leaves a lot to be desired, but since a probable cause hearing has already been held, there is little to do now but go forward.

  “Were you having some problems toilet training Glenetta?” I ask at the end of the interview, still hoping this girl will level with me. She wouldn’t be the first parent in Blackwell County to have decided to teach her child a lesson for soiling her pants, “She’s real good about that,” Gina says, as if the child were playing quietly in the next room. If the judge will listen to her, Gina, with a little work, should do reasonably well on the witness stand. Many parents in abuse or neglect cases are their own worst enemies, floundering hopelessly as witnesses in a system that seems to entrap them even as it promises to help rehabilitate their families.

  Wise beyond her years to the game that is being played, this girl knows she is being watched and has visited the child in the hospital at every opportunity. I would prefer to believe she is motivated by her concern and love for her child, but all the same it is nice to have a client who knows the clock is still running.

  “What about Glenetta’s father?” I ask, suspecting this will be futile.

  A sardonic smile coming to her unpainted, pouty shaped lips, Gina looks at me as if I had asked whether her wedding announcement will be in the society pages.

  “I don’t think a convicted car thief with a cocaine problem is going to be the answer to my prayers.”

  I grunt noncommittally, putting my pen down and pushing my chair back from my desk. Most of the time, the practice of law is about as exciting as looking a name up in the phone book. I have fired blank after blank with questions about her parents (estranged since she announced she was pregnant, they sent Glenetta a card on her birthday) and friends (off-and-on prostitutes who supplement their income with tips waitressing at D.Y.”s or vice versa). One normal witness testifying with a straight face that she would nominate Gina as the Mother of the Year would be nice, but, as is typical with most of my criminal defendants, I expect there will not be a long line of dignitaries waiting outside the courtroom to testify that a model citizen is being hounded by the American judicial system. This case is a long shot at best.

  “Nothing is more stressful,” I say, “than trying to raise a child by yourself with no help and very little money. If you were maxed out that day and held your baby down in the water out of frustration, it’s understandable.” She opens her mouth to speak, and I raise my hand to keep her from interrupting.

  “If you go into court and admit how strung out you were that day and agree to attend parenting classes and get counseling, I think there’s a decent shot you might get her back some day. The intent of the law is to rehabilitate families, not split them up.”

  Gina clutches the tissue in her hand.

  “But it was an accident!”

  she exclaims.

  “They can’t take her from me if it wasn’t my fault, can they?”

  Almost everyone will lie under stress. The more pressure, the more lies. Yet, for some reason I change my mind and believe this girl is telling the truth. She has looked me straight in the eye and has stuck to her story.

  So why didn’t the child climb out of the tub? What about the pattern of the burns? I don’t know how to explain these questions any better than my client right now.

  “Not if it wasn’t your fault,” I respond carefully. If her kid dies, she won’t have to worry about a juvenile court proceeding.

  “Keep visiting her every day,” I advise, “and try not to piss off the nurses and social workers at the hospital.

  Just remember they’re writing down everything you’re doing and not doing and will continue to do so until you go to court.”

  Her blue eyes darkening, Gina gives me a fierce look.

  “I don’t want you to be my lawyer,” she says stubbornly, “if you think I meant to hurt Glenetta deliberately. I can find somebody else if I have to.”

  What a bluffer! I’ve always been a sucker for this line.

  Though it seldom happens, lawyers want to believe they are representing an innocent person. As I look at her, I realize that if she had a more oval face, she would be almost pretty.

  “I do believe you,” I say. Though she is surely a novice in her profession, she is quite an actress.

  She knows two hundred dollars won’t buy her much of a lawyer for a trial that will determine custody of her child and avoid a possible criminal charge. Perhaps she is telling the truth. I look at my watch again and stand up.

  “I’ve got to drive to Fayetteville this morning, so I need to get on the road. Did you get a trial date?”

  “November seventh,” Gina says as she pushes herself out of the chair. She is tall, perhaps five feet eight. If she owns a decent dress, she will look better than the average parent who comes into juvenile court.

  “That’s not far off,” I say, having forgotten how quickly adjudicatory hearings are set in juvenile court. I walk her out to the reception area.

  “I’ll call early next week. I’m going to want to see the tub and for you to show me how it happened.”

  She gives me a wan smile.

  “Just give me a call.”

  I watch her exit through the glass double doors to the elevators and remember I didn’t give her a receipt.

  “How much is this client paying you?” Julia sneers.

  “A couple hundred?”

  My face burns with embarrassment at the accuracy of her guess.

  “Why didn’t you tell me she had been Dan’s client?” I bluster, long having subscribed to the belief that offense is more fun than defense.

  Seated, Julia cocks her head at me.

  “Go bellyache to him if you got a beef. I’m not paid to gossip with you guys.”

  “I think I will,” I say, eager to escape. Gina doesn’t seem the type to worry about receipts anyway.

  Dan’s door is rarely shut, and today is no exception. I enter to find him happily eating a bag of peanuts, his latest diet food.

  “I know what you’re going to say,” he says grinning, offering me a handful of goobers.

  “So let me explain.”

  I look at Clan and shake my head. Incorrigible is too kind a description. Instead of diplomas on the walls, Clan has tacked up cartoons. But rather than caricatures of national figures or Arkansas politicians, bizarrely displayed around him are blown-up strips of hoary, unfunny soap operas like Rex Morgan, M.D.” Mary Worth, and Apartment 3-G. Handling mainly minor criminal offenses and a steady diet of domestic relations cases, my closest friend justifies his choice of artwork as offering cautionary tales to the dozens of tormented women who frequent his office. If his clients think they have been unlucky in love, Margo, a bitchy, but glamorous executive secretary in New York’s Apartment 3-G, has been regularly duped by the opposite sex for many years. Long-suffering and underappreciated nurse June Gale will never get that lunkhead of a doctor Rex Morgan to the
altar; Mary Worth, a widow obviously celibate now for decades, fills her time by incessantly interfering in the problem-filled lives of her friends and acquaintances. The message is clear to the female visitor: if things are still this bad for women in the funny pages after all this time, they shouldn’t expect too much out of real life.

  “If I had just told you about Gina’s case,” Clan says, cracking open a peanut with his left thumb, “you would have turned it down on the spot.”

  I reach across the desk and take a peanut.

  “You’re damn right I would have,” I complain.

  “Even Legal Services turned her down on the basis of merit.”

  Clan expertly skins the reddish, papery husk from the meat with his thumbnail and pops the nut into his mouth.

  “Who would be better than an expert like yourself to represent her?” he says glibly.

  “She’s a good kid, and I kind of believe she didn’t do it.”

  One of the goobers inside the shell falls to the floor before I can extract it. I look down at the carpet and see peanuts everywhere. This must be how the diet works. It takes forever to shell the damn things, and then you lose half of what you try to eat.

  “Mother of the Year material, no doubt about it,” I crack, eating the remaining nut before it disappears.

  “She’s a whore dog, Clan. Not a lifestyle guaranteed to warm a juvenile judge’s heart.”

  “Never convicted,” Clan says modestly.

  “The Department of Human Services won’t know a thing.”

  I study the cartoons behind Dan’s head. Unlike Clan and myself, the characters, despite their problems, never age.

  “Two hundred dollars,” I bitch, “is all she gave me.”

  Clan smiles benignly as his right hand catches in the almost empty bag.

  “See, she’s just like us—just a little whore.”

  Before I walk out the door to get on the road to Fayetteville, I call Amy.

  “Gilchrist,” I say when she comes on the line, “I was gonna try to play it cool, but I couldn’t wait.” I don’t tell her that I’ve just interviewed a prostitute and started thinking of her.