by Warren Adler
Henry Peck rushed in, full of apologies, taking his place at the head of the table. He was a big man with a pink face that continued its color over his bald pate. A huge paunch bulged under his vest, impressively hung with a double looping chain attached to a gold watch that he clicked open, shaking his head.
“I originally came here to work less, not harder,” he said, opening the file he had brought with him, quickly reviewing the material. Reading, he rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. He kept his hair longish along the rim of his pate, which would have been eccentric enough without the string tie and round, steel-rimmed glasses. “As I said on the phone, we’ll have to answer the petition. We can’t ignore it.”
“But have they got a case?” Peter asked.
“Not in my opinion. The adoption laws of Maryland are quite strong.”
“Then why are they suing?” Frances asked.
“Anyone can sue anyone.”
“Even if the law is against it?” Frances pressed.
“Even then. Which is why I’m going to ask for a technical hearing. We might just get it thrown out of court right away.”
“That would be great,” Peter said.
“And if we don’t?” Frances persisted.
“We go to court.”
“And then?”
“They present their case. We refute. In my opinion the law is with us. But it is not unusual for a judge to be swayed by emotion or a powerful presentation. Which only means that we have to appeal. In this case, I can’t believe we could lose on appeal.”
“But if their case is so weak, why are they suing?” Peter asked.
Peck shrugged.
“Desperation. Harassment. Who knows what people’s motives are? The fact is that there are now forty-nine states that have laws saying that grandparents have a right to be heard. Grey clout. That’s what it is. Organizations of older people showing their muscle. Seventy-five percent of all older Americans are grandparents. And most legislatures are made up of older people, too. Not to mention judges.”
“That sounds ominous,” Peter said.
“It’s reality. But the law is still the law. Did they try to protest the adoption?”
“No.”
“That was their first mistake.”
“But the judge can still decide in their favor, force these visits?”
“I’m not saying it can’t happen. There are examples in other states—New York, for example. They have a law now that deals with cases like yours, where adoption has taken place.”
“But this is Maryland,” Frances said.
“That doesn’t mean they can’t cite situations in other states. I’ll protest, of course, but the judge is the judge.”
Frances had a sudden sinking feeling that only intensified her nausea.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Frances said. It had been a repetitious comment on her part, but it exasperated her to know that such things could occur.
“Believe it, Mrs. Graham.”
Because he was large, Peck also seemed overbearing and blunt. Peter had told her that he had researched the various lawyers who dealt with domestic matters and Peck was considered an excellent choice, and that it was no coincidence that he was in Columbia. The upwardly mobile, middle-class planned community had the perfect demographics for domestic difficulties. Peck was no fool, Peter assured her.
“I want only what’s best for my son,” Frances said, addressing the lawyer with what she hoped was the appearance of uncompromising resolution.
“Our son,” Peter corrected.
“That’s still the rule of law, folks. The best interest of the child is always the major consideration in a matter of equity dealing with such issues. It’s on that point that we go to work.”
“They’re being selfish,” Frances said. “They’re not thinking at all about my—our—child’s welfare.”
The big lawyer sucked in his breath.
“You’re right on the money. That’s the issue. Will the visits of the grandparents be good or bad for”—he looked at the petition—“for Charles Everett Waters the third.” He scratched his bald pate.
“I see you didn’t change the boy’s name.”
“He did know his father,” Peter said. “We certainly didn’t want to take that away from him. Did we, Frances?”
Frances shook her head.
“Do you think it will have a bearing on the case?” Peter asked.
“You can’t tell. But I doubt it. Actually, I think we can show that you did not want to obliterate the boy’s past completely, weakening the grandparent’s contention that their visits will enhance the child’s interests. Our job will be to show that these visits will have a deleterious effect on the boy.”
“How will you do that?” Peter asked.
“That’s what I get paid for,” the lawyer said, smiling.
“What about the effect on the grandparents?” Frances asked. They could, she knew, portray themselves as worthy of compassion. Indeed, they could appear very sympathetic. At times, she felt that sympathy for them, and it hurt and made her feel guilty. But she was certain that her decision was in Tray’s best interest. No, she had no doubts about that. Otherwise, why would she be here?
“That’s a good question, Mrs. Graham. But the courts are still deciding in favor of the child’s ultimate welfare. And there is still the powerful argument that a mother”—he turned pointedly to Peter—“and a father know what’s best for their child.”
“Thank God for that,” Peter said.
“But it doesn’t mean we can let down our guard. Judges are always setting new precedents. At the moment there is no case at issue on this point in our state. But there could be. It could happen in this case. I mention it not to alarm you, but to give you all aspects of the downside. I’m just saying that it’s creeping into decisions in other states, and it’s possible that the judge could look in that direction.” He rubbed his nose. “So far, it has never happened in Maryland. The welfare of the child is still the paramount consideration.” It seemed to her that he had unwittingly ventured too far out into muddy water and was now backtracking.
“So the judge is everything,” Frances said.
“I’m afraid so.”
“How can a judge know what is best for my child?”
“That is one contention, Mrs. Graham, that you must never, ever allow, even in your most secret thoughts. Think of the judge as God. It will help you understand why we are here and what we must do. Our job is to convince God that we are on the side of the angels and that your dead husband’s parents are on the side of the devil.”
Frances shivered at the image, but she said nothing.
The lawyer looked at her through his round steel frames, his eyes glowing like hot coals.
“Why then, Mrs. Graham, will you not let your deceased husband’s parents visit their natural grandchild?”
She hadn’t expected the question, nor the lawyer’s deadpan expression. She frowned and took a deep breath.
“You mean why would their visits be bad for my child?”
“I’m afraid that you would not have the luxury to rephrase the question in a court of law,” the lawyer said pedantically, his expression rigid.
She looked at Peter.
“I see,” Frances began haltingly, understanding the mock drama that the lawyer had initiated. “Because they would confuse the child,” she said, clearing her throat in preparation for assuming the role of witness. “He has a father now, and his father’s parents are loving grandparents. I do not believe it would be in his interests to consider himself different in any way from the other children. Also, before my marriage to Mr. Graham, they had begun to treat him as if he were their dead son. I did not think that healthy. Nor do I believe that the ideas they used to bring up Chuck—my first husband—would be beneficial to my child in his present environment. Especially my ex-father-in-law, who is possessive and very compulsive.”
“So you say their influence would
be detrimental?” the lawyer asked, with exaggerated aggressiveness.
“Yes,” she said, assuming an air of satisfied finality.
“Do they drink? Have they been physically abusive? Sexually loose? Irresponsible in any way? Have they been unstable? Mentally incompetent? Do they fight often? What are their character flaws? Are there any witnesses to their meanness? Have they been demonstrably unkind?”
Her head whirled with the staccato speed of his questions. They seemed crude and outlandish.
“I couldn’t be specific,” she stammered. “No. I—I can’t say—”
“So they are essentially decent people?” the lawyer shot back before she could finish. She realized suddenly that she was responding too swiftly and forced herself to become more deliberative.
“It depends on the way you define that,” she said.
“All right, how about well-meaning?” the lawyer pressed.
“Well-meaning?” She tossed it around her mind. “Maybe from their point of view.”
“So they mean well?”
“I suppose you might say that. . . .” she answered grudgingly.
“I’m saying it. Are they or are they not well-meaning, Mrs. Graham?”
“I think this is going too far.” Peter interrupted.
“No. Please, Peter. It’s important.” She looked directly into the lawyer’s eyes. “Yes. They are well-meaning.”
“Then why don’t you want them to visit your son?”
“Whose side are you on, counselor?” Peter asked. Peck ignored Peter’s protest.
But before she could conceive another answer, the lawyer was at her again.
“On the phone your husband told me that the child’s paternal grandfather paid a visit to the boy at school.”
“He was extremely disruptive,” Frances answered quickly. She was beginning to feel slightly dizzy, and the nausea was returning.
“Oh?” the lawyer said, shamming his surprise. “What was the boy’s reaction?”
“He was very upset.”
“How so? Did he become withdrawn, hyperactive, disobedient, emotionally difficult, sleepless, physically ill?”
“I can’t be specific. He was”—she paused, searching for the right word—“disturbed.” She felt Peter step protectively beside her, and she squeezed his hand to quiet him. It was important to play this game, to hold herself together, to prepare herself. In a courtroom, she realized, it would be far worse.
“What were the symptoms of this disturbance?”
She looked toward Peter, who frowned.
“Confused then. Maybe inside he felt a sense of divided loyalties. I’m not sure. I only sense that it didn’t do him any good.”
“That is not a very wise answer,” the lawyer said, gentler now. Perhaps he had observed her growing tension. Had the blood drained from her face? Had her voice weakened? Her head was spinning. “I think that a much stronger manifestation of disturbance must be stated.”
“Like what?” Frances asked.
“Something like”—Peck hesitated—“like some difficulty that the child experienced immediately after the visit. Something tangible. Like bed-wetting or profoundly disturbing nightmares, loss of appetite, lack of concentration at school, listlessness. Aberrant behavior, temper tantrums, visible depression.”
“There was nothing like that. Perhaps I should have been more observant,” Frances whispered. She felt like gagging.
“He was extremely withdrawn as far as I was concerned, as though he was wary of me, frightened. I saw a definite change in our relationship,” Peter interjected. His comment surprised her. She hadn’t noticed such specifics. “A father knows his son.”
“Good. That’s good, Mr. Graham.”
Peter nodded, pleased with himself, then turned to Frances and smiled. Frances wasn’t sure what it all meant, but the lawyer did make it sound encouraging.
“I hadn’t realized it would be so, well, complicated,” she said.
“Worse than that,” the lawyer said. “It’s a kind of war. And in this war, lots of the participants come away dead or wounded.”
“As long as it isn’t Tray,” Frances said.
“I just wanted to give you a preview, Mrs. Graham. These will be some of the issues. Their lawyer will be far more aggressive, I can assure you. He’s tough, and he’ll go for the jugular. If you want to avoid the lumps, then you might as well let the grandparents visit,” Peck said, pausing to observe her pointedly. “And stop wasting your money.”
She felt a growing powerlessness under the lawyer’s inspective gaze, which only fortified her will to resist. But the effort was increasing her bodily indisposition. She was beginning to see spotted floating images as her nausea increased.
“They’re the ones who started this,” Frances said. “And I’m not going to surrender. Not under any circumstances.”
“They must also know what they’re up against,” Peter said. “Maybe they’ve decided that since they’re miserable, why not try to make us miserable.”
“I’m sure they’ve been well advised.” Peck shrugged. “They probably feel that they have nothing to lose but money.” He rubbed his nose. “And speaking of money, this is not going to be cheap.”
“I’m prepared to pay,” Frances said.
“In emotional terms as well?” the lawyer asked.
“Whatever it takes.”
She had already begun to pay, she thought. She felt terrible. A layer of cold perspiration had formed on her face. She reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a handkerchief.
“Is there anything wrong?” Peck asked.
“My God, she’s pale as a ghost,” Peter cried.
“Just a little water,” Frances managed to say. She felt on the verge of a fainting spell. The lawyer punched a button and ordered a secretary to hurry in with a glass of water.
Frances drew out another cracker from her pocketbook, but before she bit into it, she gagged. The secretary came in with a paper cone of water. Peter took it and lifted it to her lips. She drank a few quick swallows and felt slightly better.
“I’m sorry,” she said weakly.
“She’s pregnant,” Peter said. “It’s so damned unfair to make her go through this, especially now.”
“Pregnant?” The lawyer’s reaction was a sudden concentration, a honed alertness. “How many months?”
“Two, we think,” Peter said, attending to his wife. He took Frances’s handkerchief, dipped it in the remaining water, and pressed it to her temples.
Peck rubbed his nose in contemplation.
“It certainly raises the question of whether or not she would be up for a trial. This little exercise is nothing compared to the emotional trauma that can be generated by a trial. It’s a factor to be weighed carefully.”
Frances gulped a few fresh breaths of air and felt more stable, no longer afraid of fainting.
“I’ll be fine,” Frances said weakly.
“Are you sure?” Peter asked, resoaking the handkerchief. “We have to think of you—and the other children.”
His reaction brought her up short. Was he thinking more of his two natural children than of Tray? She felt the thought an unworthy one.
“It’s something to consider,” the lawyer said. He seemed to be probing, looking for weak spots.
“I’m sure,” she whispered. Was she really? She wondered if she was overreacting to her past, seeking a punishment far too severe for the crime. What crime? She became confused, disoriented.
“I don’t want to go ahead and then find that you are not up to pursuing it. I want to be honest, scrupulously honest. This case will drain you, Mrs. Graham. You really should give it some deep thought.”
“But I have,” Frances mumbled.
“That’s enough strain for one day, Mrs. Graham,” the lawyer said. “I’m sorry if I put you through an ordeal.”
“No sense pulling punches,” she shrugged. The lawyer stood up and shook their hands in turn.
Frances
rose, still a bit dizzy, her heart pounding. She felt Peter’s firm arm buttressing her.
“Think it over, both of you,” Peck said, as his eyes studied them through the round lenses. What was he looking for? she wondered. Peter started to lead her out of the conference room. The lawyer’s voice made them pause.
“Of course, a nursing mother who was also obviously pregnant would have a profound effect on the judge,” he said. “As they say, all’s fair in love and war.”
In the ladies’ room, she dry heaved, then dabbed away the perspiration and washed her face in cold water. Then she had another cracker and washed it down with scoops of water from the tap. Soon, she felt somewhat better, although through her discomfort she did feel some vague stirrings of anger and resentment. Mostly they were directed against her former in-laws, but there were others not entirely blameless. Herself included. She wondered, too, what effect all this emotional trauma would have on the baby growing inside her. Hadn’t she read somewhere that emotional upsets during pregnancy could have profound effects on the fetus?
Cupping her breasts, she also wondered what effect all this might have on her milk, which had flowed steadily and copiously and on which Mark was thriving. Each proliferating danger only fueled more animosity. First Chuck, now this, she thought bitterly, glancing suddenly at herself in the mirror, not certain if she truly liked what she saw.
Silently they drove home. Before she moved to get out, Peter kissed her softly on the lips.
“It’s worth thinking about,” he said. “You’re my first priority.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean if we can’t get their petition thrown out. I don’t think I’d want you to be put through that. It really is something to consider.”
She turned to look at his face. He was troubled, his brow furrowed, and his hazel eyes moist with tension and concern.
“I have considered it,” she said firmly.
“I’d never forgive myself if something should go wrong.”
“You mean the baby.”
“I mean everything. I—I love my family. I love you. I want things to be right, that’s all. It’s not too much to ask.”
