by Susan Rohrer
Berg raised a hand. “Objection. Relevance?”
Flynn turned to the judge. “Since doubt is being cast on my client over having been questioned, it goes to establish Shana Fischer’s willingness to entrust Grace’s care to yet another woman who has been questioned in this investigation.”
Judge Simons sat back. “Briefly, Counselor.”
“Thank you.” Flynn turned to McTier. “This administrative assistant, Rene Cox. Has she been cleared?”
McTier nodded. “Not completely, but her husband backs her alibi.”
“So, Kevin Cox has also been questioned?”
Judge Simons waved at Flynn. “Move on.”
Flynn compliantly tipped his head. “Going back to my original question, did Shana Fischer voice any specific safety concerns in allowing Grace to leave with her mother?”
“Well, no. Nothing about safety, but—”
“That’ll be all, Detective.” Flynn headed back toward his seat.
Laurel dropped her gaze. Flynn had done well. Suddenly, she became aware that the judge was studying her.
“Mr. Flynn,” the judge said. “This being the less formal venue of family court, I wonder if I might speak directly with your client.”
Flynn whispered an encouragement into her ear. Laurel took a breath. “Yes, I’d be happy to speak with you, Your Honor.”
Judge Simons leaned in her direction. “Ms. Fischer. That’s Ms. Laurel Fischer, for the record. I’ve been going over the transcripts of the prior custody hearing’s findings, and it makes me wonder. Can you tell me—have you sought any sort of psychological care or counseling since the last custody decision?”
Laurel’s heart raced. All she could answer was the truth. “No. I haven’t. I live on a budget and I honestly don’t believe I need it, since I’m of completely sound mind.”
Flynn patted his hand on her arm. “Your honor, if I might interject for the benefit of those less familiar with the record. During the previous proceeding, my client’s mental health evaluation was made by a single psychiatrist, paid by the opposing petitioner, an avowed atheist who is predisposed against people of faith.”
Quietly in her heart, Laurel thanked God for Flynn. Even as little as she’d been able to pay him, he was truly advocating for her.
“Ms. Fischer,” the judge said. “I’m curious. Do you still believe you see visions, and that you hear God’s voice, speaking to you?”
Laurel regarded the judge directly. Here was her chance to say what had been denied to her during the last hearing. A peace that passed understanding filled her being. “I’m just an ordinary woman, Judge. For the most part, I live an ordinary life. Yes, I interact with a God that most people in this country believe exists. The Bible so many swear on says that people of faith will see visions, and I do. It says His sheep will hear His voice, and I do. I don’t think that makes me crazy, let alone unfit as a mother.”
Laurel gazed over at Shana. In her peripheral vision, she could see Shana watching her, but the moment Laurel caught her eye, Shana abruptly averted her gaze.
Judge Simons took a moment to mull the matter over, then picked up his gavel. “After a short recess, I believe I’d like to speak to the child in chambers. No press. Petitioners and counsel only, please.”
As discreetly as she could, Shana studied Laurel down the courthouse hallway. Laurel’s lawyer had come across well, much better than his off-the-rack suit might have indicated. So much for appearances.
Now, if the judge were on the fence at all, it seemed that it could come down to Grace, and whatever she would say.
Shana ran her fingers over her throat. She’d prepared the child as well as she knew how. She’d loved her with all her heart. She’d provided for her in every possible way. But the one thing she couldn’t ever bring herself to do was to speak a word against Laurel. Even at seven, Grace would never stand for that. More to the point, it just wouldn’t be right.
Howard sidled up to Shana. “Helen is escorting Grace into chambers now, but don’t worry. They won’t start until we get there.”
“I don’t like this, Howard.” She felt her teeth clench.
Howard put a hand on her shoulder. “Relax. It’s going fine.” She told herself he meant well, but his consolations fell flat.
Shana cut her eyes toward Laurel. “I don’t know what Frank saw in her, but she must have been involved somehow, either with him or his murder. Or both. How else do you explain the phone calls?”
“Don’t go there,” Howard said.
“Come on, Howard. Frank cheated on her with me, then he cheats on me with her.” Shana could feel her pulse rising. Breathe, she coached herself.
“Shana, listen to me. You don’t know that.”
Shana felt her eyes begin to moisten. “She had such a hold on him, even after the divorce. He always had this love/hate thing with her whole quasi-spiritual vibe.”
Howard glanced Laurel’s way. “It is kind of alluring.”
“Great, Howard.” She burned him with a look. “Just great. Thanks.”
His shoulders went up. “It is.”
Shana’s lips parted. This was unbelievable.
A knowing smirk curled on Howard’s lips. “It’s attractive to some people.” He leaned in close. “But I know this judge, all the way back from law school. And trust me, Shana. He isn’t so high on the type.”
Shana and Howard filed into Judge Simon’s chambers, just behind Laurel and her attorney. Shana longed for a glimpse of Grace’s expression—some affirmation of their connection—but Grace was already seated in front of them. As petite as Grace was, she was absolutely swallowed by the adult-sized leather chair.
Grace pressed on the arms of the chair and started to look behind her.
Immediately, Judge Simons leaned over her seat. “Remember, Grace. Everyone is behind you, so they can hear what you have to say. But let’s not turn around, right now. I’d like you to just look at me while we talk. Is that all right?”
Briefly, Shana caught Grace’s eye. Whether it was her position in the room or not, it felt good that Grace’s eye-line never reached as far around as where Laurel stood directly behind Grace. Shana sweetly smiled, encouraging Grace to face forward. Surely, the judge would appreciate her cooperation.
Grace turned back to face the judge. “Okay.”
The judge perched on the edge of his desk. “Grace, do you understand that you can tell me the truth no matter how hard it is?”
Grace nodded.
“Good, Grace. Now, I want you to think about it and tell me who you’d rather live with—your mother, Laurel, or your stepmother, Shana.”
Shana’s heart burned in her chest.
Grace sat back. “That’s not hard,” she said. “I want to live with my mom.”
Everything in Shana crumbled.
Wistfully, Grace pressed the leather cushion on the arm of the chair. “I know that’s how it’s going to turn out anyway.”
Howard grabbed Shana’s arm.
Judge Simons leaned down intently. “Can you tell me—how do you know that, Grace?
Grace dropped her head a little. It seemed she’d realized she might have said too much. “I’m not supposed to...” Grace’s voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s a secret.”
“Well, I know it’s important to keep secrets,” Judge Simons replied. “But this time, you really need to tell me. You see, I have a very important decision to make, and I need to know everything that can help me to make it.”
Grace squirmed in her seat.
Shana waited what seemed an eternity.
Judge Simons sat back. “Tell me. What makes you think you’ll end up with your mother, Laurel?”
Grace raised her eyes toward the judge. “Mommy told me that God said we’re going to be together. She saw it in a vision.”
Shana let out a small gasp. A sidelong glimpse at Laurel said it all. Laurel’s hand flew to her mouth. She turned to Bennett Flynn in what Shana could only describe as alarm.
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Shana raised her head. She closed her eyes and drew in a heartened breath. In ways beyond her childish understanding, perhaps Grace had just made their case.
Joe ambled out onto the courthouse grounds. There was Debra, standing there, her arms crossed. Joe slowed to a stop in front of her. “Why are you here?”
“Number One, because I read your story,” she said. “Because you’re going soft on her.”
“I am not.” He shot a look toward the other reporters, huddled on the courthouse steps. He did not have to stand for this treatment.
“Look, Joe. I am not shelling out twenty-five hundred for an homage to this woman’s sainthood.”
Joe scrunched his face. What was she even talking about? “I never called her a saint. And Number Two? I assume there’s a Number Two?” His cell phone rang.
Debra gestured toward his phone as he took it out of his pocket. “Number Two, your brother called me, because he’s trying to reach you. He says it’s urgent.”
Joe checked his caller ID. Indeed, it was Clay. No doubt, the calls he’d missed while his phone was off in the courtroom were also Clay’s. Exactly what Clay’s definition of urgent was, he could hardly imagine. Joe answered. Ah. Just what he needed. Clay started babbling nonstop about his rights being violated. He was downtown, being questioned by the police. Great.
As quickly as he could, Joe extracted himself from the conversation with his brother. He hung up, shoved down his anger and looked back at Debra. “I’ve got to go.”
Debra set her hands on her hips. “You like Laurel, don’t you?”
Joe ran his fingers through his hair and yanked at a clump. “Is that where this is coming from? You’re threatened?”
Debra bore down. “This is about the work, Joe.”
“No. This is about you punishing me.”
Debra swished her head aside, then barreled a look right back at him. He hadn’t seen her this ticked in a very long time.
She let out an exasperated breath. “You really don’t get it, do you? You don’t mean that much to me,” she said. She pointed a finger in his direction. “See, Joe, the flip side of being the monumental commitment phobic you are is that no one gets all that attached to you, either.”
“You really want to get into this, now, Debra?”
There was no stopping her. Not when she got her dander up like this.
She laughed, derisively. “You know, despite what you may have concocted in that vivid imaginative mind of yours, Joe—you represent a surprisingly insignificant part of my life. You were a momentary lapse in judgment.” She threw her arms up. “A blip. On the other hand, I am, as of this moment, still your employer. Period.”
“So—” As usual, he could hardly get a word in with her.
She wagged that finger at him again. “So, find your objectivity, find the angle, or find yourself another job.” Hotly, Debra brushed by.
Joe checked his watch. The precinct wasn’t that far away. He loathed making himself available at his brother’s every beck and call. Yet, dread still rolled over him like a locomotive. What had Clay gotten himself into this time?
Joe exited the police station with his brother. Why Clay would have opted to stage a one-man protest against Oliverio’s Restaurant for hiring Tom Zoring, Joe could hardly figure. If Clay was so amped up about Zoring getting employed on the outside, why hadn’t he shown at the parole hearing? If he had, maybe Zoring wouldn’t have been paroled in the first place.
All Joe could figure was that Clay had a mind of his own. Joe had asked Clay to come to Zoring’s parole hearing. So, naturally, Clay had refused to come. Clay had to live life on his own terms. Then, just like always, Clay expected Joe to come running when it all blew up in his face.
Joe hustled Clay down the stone steps.
“You should have seen it, Joe. Your little friend, Adele, was there, covering the whole thing.”
“Yeah, that’s great, Clay. Just great.”
Clay gestured wildly. “I got this massive crowd all whipped up, in front of Oliverio’s. Cleared out the whole restaurant. So—get this—Oliverio, he cans Zoring. On the spot. Of course, the crowd went nuts, especially when the cops came to cart me away.”
Joe checked his watch. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Really.” Clay stopped in his tracks. “I think we should sue. They obviously couldn’t arrest me. But they force me to sit there and listen to their bogus lecture, all about how Oliverio was supposedly performing a public service for some program to hire ex-cons.”
“You made yourself a nuisance. You disturbed the peace. You’re lucky they didn’t charge you.”
Clay stopped in his tracks. “Are we forgetting that Zoring is a convicted pedophile?”
Joe slapped his own forehead. “Really. Wow. I didn’t know.”
“Families go into that restaurant. Little kids.” Clay put up his hands in defiance. “I don’t care what they say. I’m the one who was performing a public service. I mean, what kind of a fascist state is this when I can’t tell Oliverio’s customers just who is in there, doing their dishes?”
Joe slumped. As frustrating as Clay was, he did have a point. “Okay. Believe me. I don’t like that Zoring is out any more than you do. But he’s out. Now, you’ve gotten him fired. There’s nothing else we can do. Can you please just let it go, now?”
Clay shook his head, fuming. “The guy ought to be stripped down and hung.”
“Yeah, well...” Joe felt the will to fight drain out of him. “From here on out, I think I’d prefer not to hear the man’s name again. It’s a free country. You do what you want. Say whatever you have to say. Just do me a favor and don’t drag me into it.”
With that, Joe turned on his heels and jogged toward his SUV. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about his brother. It wasn’t that he was any less horrified by the acts that Tom Zoring had committed. It was only that, for some reason Joe didn’t entirely understand, he knew he had to get back to the family courthouse immediately—not really for Kickerton Press’s sake, but for Laurel’s.
ten
Laurel took her seat in the courtroom, beside Bennett Flynn. She gazed around the gallery at the returning press. Joe was nowhere to be seen.
Now, it was nearly time for Judge Simons’ decision. Her chest ached within her just to think of what it might be.
What little she’d taken the time to eat during the recess knotted in her stomach. Worry was like that. It never did her any good. Once again, she tried to release her anxiety. She encouraged herself to live in the faith that she claimed. Somehow, everything would work out to the best. It had to.
The bailiff appeared. As he called for everyone to rise, once more, Laurel glanced behind her. There was Joe, slipping in the door. Just in time.
Laurel turned back as Judge Simons took his seat behind the bench. He acknowledged Shana and Laurel equally. Nothing in his body language gave his decision away. But it would not be long now.
Simons rested his elbows on the bench. He looked down at the case file in front of him.
Two words flew into Laurel’s mind:
Trust me.
Just as quickly, doubt reared its torturous head. Had that really been God’s voice? Or had it just been the voice of her heart, raising false hope?
Soberly, the judge raised his eyes to address the court. “Though I am sensitive to the need to expedite this matter, especially for the sake of the child, I think it would be prudent to allow more time for the investigation into the death of the father to unfold before making this ruling.”
Laurel’s breath caught in her throat. What did this mean? Did he, too, consider her a suspect?
“Therefore,” the judge said, “I am continuing this case indefinitely.”
Laurel shot a questioning glanced at Flynn.
A murmur ricocheted across the gallery.
The judge silenced the court with a rap of his gavel. “I will revisit this decision just as soon as appropriate custody arrangements can
be determined with more confidence than is possible now. Until such time, the child, Grace Fischer, will remain in the care of Mrs. Shana Fischer, who will allow supervised visits from Ms. Laurel Fischer once a week.” He banged his gavel again, and swiftly took his leave.
Laurel sat back. She grasped the arms of her chair, but it did nothing to settle the tremor that coursed through her body.
By the time Laurel made her way out of the courtroom, Shana and her attorney were already encircled by waiting press. Photographers rapid-fired pictures.
Shana looked so poised, so victorious. She spoke into the extended microphones. “Ultimately, I know for a certainty that Frank would have wanted me to raise Grace, but please be assured how personal this commitment is for me. I deeply love this child and I will continue to fight for her as my very own.”
Laurel’s vision blurred. How had this gone so wrong? She turned to flee and bumped right into a waiting journalist. Joe.
Wordlessly, Joe directed her gaze just down the hall. There was Grace, with no one but Helen Reed at her side.
As quickly as she could, Laurel pushed her way through the clash of reporters.
A microphone was shoved in her face. “Ms. Fischer, would you give us a statement about the death of your ex-husband?”
“No comment,” Laurel said.
Behind her, she heard another reporter. “Laurel, how do you feel about today’s outcome?”
She couldn’t bear to look back. She couldn’t deal with their questions, not when there was the possibility of a few precious moments with Grace. Already, Grace had seen her and was moving in her direction, her little face shining.
Laurel gathered Grace up into her arms. She rocked her side-to-side, drinking in her nearness. Cameras flashed and rolled all around them, but Laurel didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was pouring every ounce of love that she could into her daughter. It would have to be enough to last them a long while.
Grace whispered into her ear. “Mommy, did we win?”
