Baby vs. the Bar

by MJ Rodgers

  Marc had always been a sucker for long legs, high heels and a long romantic dress—the combination never failing to set off a violin string or two in his head. But as he watched her enter the courtroom that morning, he suddenly found every red-blooded male corpuscle in his body throbbing to a steamy, sophisticated, sultry jazz beat.

  He stared, openly and admiringly, following every inch of her progress, along with every other male eye in the courtroom. Yet she gave no sign that she was aware of any scrutiny. In complete contrast to the hot pulse of her walk, her pale face and serene cinnamon eyes broadcast an ultracool calm.

  She passed within inches of him on her way to the witness stand, yet she did not as much as glance in his direction. He caught her fragrance—sweet spice kissed with pepper—a scent that enveloped his nose in one instant, only to vanish in the next, tantalizing a lot more than just his curiosity.

  The court clerk swore her in. She claimed the witness chair on a collected downbeat and nonchalantly crossed those long, luscious legs. She leaned back, effortlessly serene and composed.

  He stared at her, this time with a different object in mind. He’d always found quiet staring to be one of his most effective beginning techniques with an unexpected witness; in fact, he was capable of rattling even the calmest of countenances.

  But he soon realized that this witness was unaffected by his stare. She sat smack-dab in the middle of this courtroom—clearly the focus of all attention—and yet she also clearly dwelt inside some quiet, self-contained center, totally separate and apart from these proceedings.

  The way she walked on those luscious legs could melt any lawyer’s brief. But it was her detached, untouchable air that began to set off all sorts of interesting twitches inside his body. Being ignored by an attractive woman was not something Marc Truesdale was used to—and this one was definitely doing just that. His fascination grew.

  “Please state your complete name for the record,” he said.

  “Remy Westbrook.”

  Her voice was liquid and languid, leaving a pleasant vibration in its wake. Marc honed in on her cinnamon eyes, determined to break through their tranquil shell. He drew his lips back in a smile, the kind of sincere smile that had proved effective on females from eight to eighty.

  “Mrs. Westbrook, my name is Marc Truesdale. I’m the attorney for Mr. Louie Demerchant, the plaintiff in this case.”

  She reacted not at all to his smile, in either expression or tone. “My name is not Mrs. Westbrook.”

  He leaned forward, all polite attention. “Didn’t you just say your name was Westbrook?”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Oh, I see,” he said with another smile as he rocked back on his heels. Naturally, Binick had selected a single woman. A married one would have involved dealing with a husband, as well. Better to keep the dumb dupes or paid-off confederates few.

  “Please excuse the error, Miss Westbrook. Or do you prefer Ms.?”

  “I prefer Doctor.”

  Marc did a double take. “Doctor? Of what?”

  “I earned my Ph.D. in the genesis of developmental psycholinguistics within higher primates.”

  Well, whatever that was, it certainly ruled out dumb. Which meant that Remy Westbrook had been bought. Marc felt a spate of disappointment, although he couldn’t clearly define why. He had no time to think about it. He only had time for attending to the business at hand.

  “What do you do for a living, Dr. Westbrook?”

  “I head the new Center for Primate Language Studies at the University of Washington.”

  So she was a professional engaged in what was obviously important scientific research. It would be hard for this jury to believe this intelligent, attractive woman would lie. It looked like Binick had chosen his confederate well.

  “Dr. Westbrook, did you avail yourself of the services of the Bio-Sperm company?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted a baby.”

  “You couldn’t find a husband?”

  “I didn’t look.”

  “Was that because as a busy professional woman you didn’t have the time?”

  “No.”

  “Then why didn’t you marry and have a child in the conventional way?”

  Sato rose to his feet. “Your Honor, I object,” he said in his quiet, polite manner. “These questions are totally irrelevant to the issue at hand and constitute an unnecessary invasion of Dr. Westbrook’s life.”

  The judge nodded. “I tend to agree. Mr. Truesdale, would you care to explain the purpose of your current thrust?”

  “I’m trying to explore the motives behind the actions of this witness in order to determine her credibility, Your Honor. Since Dr. Westbrook is claiming to have given birth to David Demerchant’s child, I have every right to—”

  “I am claiming no such thing,” she interrupted in that same liquid and languid tone.

  “Excuse me?” Marc said, turning back to her.

  “Dr. Westbrook, please do not answer any more questions until I rule on the objection before this court,” the judge admonished. “Mr. Truesdale, the only personal questions I will allow you to ask of this witness are those germane to this issue of the child’s paternity. Objection sustained.”

  Marc nodded at the bench before eagerly turning back to his witness. “Dr. Westbrook, did you just say you’re not claiming to have given birth to David Demerchant’s child?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then whose child did you have?”

  “My child. He belongs to me. I’m here only because I was subpoenaed, Counselor. I would not have come under any other circumstances.”

  So, she was playing the reluctant mother who had been dragged into the courtroom battle against her will. A most believable role. Yes, she was smart, all right. Too damn smart.

  He belongs to me. How casually she had conveyed the fact that her child was a boy. Marc spared a quick glance at his client. The light of hopeful joy in Louie Demerchant’s eyes struck deeply at Marc’s sense of justice and fair play. This was such a cruel thing this woman was doing. Did she understand how cruel? Did she care?

  He swung back to his witness. His fascination for the lady’s lovely legs, sensual walk and mysterious air had momentarily clouded his judgment. Well, not anymore. Work was work and women were women, and Marc knew better than to ever mix the two. He shot out his next questions in rapid fire.

  “Dr. Westbrook, how many times were you inseminated with donor sperm from Bio-Sperm?”

  “Just once.”

  “When?”

  “July 5, two years ago.”

  “When did you give birth?”

  “April 7 of last year.”

  “How much did your baby weigh at birth?”

  “Six pounds, twelve ounces.”

  “Was he a full-term baby?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The doctor confirmed my pregnancy at the end of August the previous year.”

  “And you think you became pregnant and gave birth to your son as a result of the sperm you received at Bio-Sperm on July 5 of the month before?”

  “I know it.”

  “You know it? How can you know it?”

  “I was only artificially inseminated once, Counselor.”

  “There are other ways of becoming pregnant, Dr. Westbrook. How many times did you have intimate relations with a man during the months of June, July and August during the year when your baby was conceived?”

  For the first time, Marc saw a slight stiffening in the relaxed shoulders of his witness. Remy Westbrook shifted sideways in her chair in order to face and address the judge.

  “Your Honor, is that question permissible?”

  The judge’s lined face looked apologetic. “Yes, Dr. Westbrook. You are instructed to answer.”

  Remy Westbrook turned back to Marc, but this time he saw a tiny lick of golden flame in the center of her cinnamon eyes. Its heat gave
him a small shock because of the message it conveyed.

  It seemed he’d been dead wrong. Remy Westbrook was not tranquil and serene and untouched by these proceedings at all. She was blazing mad.

  “None,” she answered, her tone still as mellow as ever.

  “You had no intimate relations with a man during the months of June, July and August of that year? Three whole months?” he emphasized with raised eyebrows.

  “None,” she repeated.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Engaging in intimate physical relations may be a nonselective, common, insignificant event to you, Counselor. I, however, take such an act seriously, am very selective and, hence, remember each and every occasion well.”

  Her voice had retained its languid, liquid quality. But those cinnamon eyes now blazed with that golden, indignant flame.

  Marc was struck with a sudden doubt. Could she be telling the truth? Had he entirely misread this situation—and her? Only one way to find out.

  “Dr. Westbrook, in the event that irrefutable evidence is uncovered to prove that your child is the descendant of my client, Louie Demerchant, what do you intend to do about it?”

  “Do about it? What do you mean ‘do about it’?”

  “Do you intend to make a claim on the Demerchant estate on behalf of your child?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Are you aware of how much money may be involved?”

  “No, and I don’t care. I don’t want any of it.”

  “You want none of a billion-dollar fortune?”

  For the first time since she had entered the courtroom, Marc watched Remy Westbrook’s calm countenance ripple with a wave of surprise. She leaned forward in the witness chair. “A billion dollars?”

  The courtroom rocked with excited whispers as its inhabitants responded to that staggering amount in their own shocked way. The judge rapped for order. The silence that followed was instant and absolute. No one wanted to miss anything that was going to be said.

  “Yes, Dr. Westbrook,” Marc assured solemnly, his voice carrying to every corner of the courtroom in that silence. “If your son is the offspring of David Demerchant, he could be the sole beneficiary of a billion-dollar estate.”

  She locked eyes with him for a moment. She had completely emerged from that quiet center, and Marc could feel the considerable will of the woman behind that cinnamon stare. Those initial interesting twitches that had begun inside him began to multiply by leaps and bounds.

  And then, in the next instant, she leaned back in the chair and retreated again to that quiet inner center.

  “I don’t care how much money is involved,” her liquid, languid voice said. “I want none of it.”

  “Are you willing to go on record that you would refuse such a financial windfall, even if your child were David Demerchant’s?”

  “I just did.”

  And so she had. Which brought up some interesting new possibilities. Marc pushed on. “If your child does turn out to be David Demerchant’s, do you intend to grant Louie Demerchant visiting rights to his great-grandchild?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “If my son just happens to have Demerchant genes, those genes came to him purely by accident. It was neither David Demerchant’s intent nor was it mine to have a child together. We never even met. If he were still alive, even he would have no claim to my son, much less his grandfather.”

  “You will not even let Louie Demerchant see this boy who could be his great-grandchild?”

  “That’s right. I will not.”

  “Your attitude seems rather extreme, does it not?”

  “I do not believe it is. I paid for anonymous sperm. My contract with Bio-Sperm affords me exclusive rights to that sperm and any offspring produced from it.”

  “How are you going to explain away these actions to your son when he is old enough to understand?”

  “I won’t have to explain away anything. There is no real proof that my son carries Demerchant genes, and since David Demerchant is dead, obtaining such proof now is impossible.”

  “So your son will never even know he might be a Demerchant?”

  “He is not a Demerchant. He is a Westbrook.”

  “You will not meet with Louie Demerchant to discuss this?”

  “No, I will not.”

  Marc smiled. Yes, the lady might just be telling the truth, after all. Binick and his attorney would have to be out of their minds to have encouraged her to make up this story.

  Because, for the purposes of this suit against Bio-Sperm, her testimony wasn’t damaging at all to Marc’s case. On the contrary. He was delighted with it. Remy Westbrook was a keg of dynamite that he would soon be detonating right in Binick’s face.

  Marc could already hear his closing arguments.

  “Gentlemen of the jury. Even if Remy Westbrook had David’s child, Louie Demerchant will never know for certain, will he? What agony he will be forced to go through because of this uncertainty! And even if Louie Demerchant wants to believe he has this great-grandchild, the only hope of his line, he will never be permitted to see this child. Nor will this child ever carry the Demerchant name. He will not even be allowed to know who his father’s family was. What could be worse torture for a loving great-grandfather? And all because of yet another mistake that Bio-Sperm has made!”

  As the rehearsal for his final statement to the jury whirled through his mind, Marc decided that if he had known of the existence of Remy Westbrook and her child, he would have talked Demerchant into asking for fifteen million instead of ten.

  “Thank you, Dr. Westbrook,” he said aloud to his witness. “That’s all I have.”

  “Do you wish to cross, Mr. Sato?” the judge asked.

  Binick’s attorney nodded, rose and approached Remy. “Dr. Westbrook, I know you’ve had less than a week to learn of and digest these startling revelations, on top of which you have been subpoenaed and have been forced to reveal very personal parts of your life to this court. I can understand how upset you must feel.”

  “Can you?” she asked in that languid voice, while even from the plaintiff’s table Marc could see the golden flame flickering again in the center of her eyes.

  “Yes, and I truly regret the necessity,” Sato continued. “However, we are only interested in getting at the truth here. And as upsetting as this intrusion into your private life must be, I cannot believe that you would deny your son’s right to even know about his father and his father’s family.”

  Marc rose to his feet. “I object. Counsel is making argumentative speeches, not asking questions.”

  “Sustained,” the judge ruled.

  “Dr. Westbrook,” Sato began again. “Do you love your son?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want the best for him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how can you even think of withholding the circumstances of his birth from him?”

  “He’ll be told the truth, Mr. Sato. His genetics come from me and from an anonymous sperm donor.”

  “But you know David Demerchant was his father. Bio-Sperm’s records clearly show—”

  “I know nothing of the sort,” Remy interrupted. “And I don’t care what Bio-Sperm’s records show. With all the mistakes it has made in this matter, who knows who the sperm donor was?”

  “Bio-Sperm knows, Dr. Westbrook. Your record clearly shows David Demerchant’s code and no code is ever reused even if—”

  “Your Honor, I object,” Marc interrupted. “Defense attorney is making argumentative speeches again.”

  “Sustained. Watch it, Mr. Sato.”

  “My apologies,” Sato said, creasing his short, compact body with a small bow toward the bench. He returned his attention to the witness box. “Dr. Westbrook, how will you answer your son’s understandable curiosity about his father?”

  “While he is very young, Counselor, I will teach him that it isn’t who his father is, but who he is that will give meaning
to his life.”

  “But aren’t you concerned that his sense of identity will suffer from not knowing his roots?”

  “Roots? Haven’t we gone past that foolishness? We are not our parents, Counselor. Emotionally stigmatizing a child with the blame or fame of his ancestors only retards his real self from emerging.”

  “And how do you intend to let your son’s real self emerge?”

  “By teaching him that his sense of identity will come from his beliefs, his skills, his actions—no one else’s. The responsibility for who he becomes will be totally up to him. The only thing I or any parent can and should supply to a child is a nurturing environment filled with opportunities for growth and love.”

  “Assuming all that to be true, Dr. Westbrook, what harm could come from your son learning of and becoming a part of the Demerchants’ nurturing environment filled with family love?”

  “How do I know that the Demerchants are a loving family? Or that they share my ideas about how a child should be nurtured?”

  “How do you know they’re not and do not?” Sato countered.

  “I don’t intend to take chances with my son, Mr. Sato. I want him brought up right. I’m the only one who can ensure that will happen. These people have no role or business in his life.”

  Sato smiled patiently at his contrary witness. “In time, Dr. Westbrook, I think you will change your mind. In time, when the shock you have been forced to endure wears off, I think you will want to share the love and joy you have in your heart for your son with his father’s side of the family.”

  “Your Honor, I object,” Marc said. “Once again defense counsel is making speeches.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said. “Gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Sato’s thoughts are not evidence. You will disregard them. Mr. Sato, you may continue only if you have a legitimate question for Dr. Westbrook.”

  “I am finished with this witness,” Mr. Sato said politely, and sat down.

  “Mr. Truesdale, do you have anything on redirect?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Marc said as he stood at the plaintiff’s table. “Dr. Westbrook, do you think you will have a change of heart and at some time in the future wish to have your son meet the Demerchants?”