by Warren Adler
Outside the courtroom, the scene with Forte had not been pleasant. Charlie had been hopping mad about the judge’s ruling.
“Your fault,” he had accused the lawyer. “You went after Frances with a horsewhip.”
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Not if it turned out like this. You should have known what would happen.”
“It was the only card we had.”
“My grandson should not have been brought into it.”
“He was in it. From the beginning.”
“Is there anything we can do to stop it?” Molly had asked. She was in total agreement with Charlie.
“We could withdraw the petition.”
“And never see Tray again?”
“You can’t have your cake and eat it, too, Mr. Waters.”
“You did it deliberately,” Charlie had mumbled. “Got your ego in it. Got your nose out of joint. You knew what she would do.”
“I hoped she would, yes,” he said. “Look what I had to contend with. Your wife’s big secret and you with a loaded gun on your lap.”
“She had it all wrong.”
“Did she?” Suddenly the lawyer calmed down, grew pensive. “They made their point.”
“So did you,” Molly had said. “About her seeking to punish us.”
“Maybe it was true. It sure looks like it.”
“It doesn’t matter anyway,” the lawyer said. “An acrimonious relationship between the grandparents and custodial parents is definitely not in the best interests of the child. I took a chance on that one.”
“You could have concentrated on making Peter the heavy. You made the point, but you could have hammered away at it instead of attacking her.” Molly had tried to press the issue, but Forte only shook his head.
“That’s what makes a domestic trial so fascinating. You start down one path, but you never really know where it’s leading. What I had to do was shake up the issue, confuse things, muddy the waters, ascribe deep, hostile motives. People have all kinds of aggressive secrets. Usually they’re kept under control and don’t affect the norm of behavior. So your daughter-in-law was wary of you. That was obvious from the beginning. I just built on it. Most people are secretly wary of each other, somewhat less than trusting, thinking that someone is trying to invade their turf. I’ve seen such manifestations even in what seemed like loving relationships. People, in the end, are individuals. Once they’re born, they’re on their own.”
“All right then,” Charlie had asked. “Tray gets into the picture. Now give me the bottom line. Will it be worth the candle?”
“Toss a coin.” When no response came, Forte continued. “The good news is that I think the judge is so damned confused she had no other alternative than to call in the boy. The bad news is that the law is really on the side of your daughter-in-law and her husband. But you knew that from the beginning. She wants to satisfy her conscience, to make sure the kid is what they say he is. Happy. Adjusted. Actually, he’s probably just that. But maybe he’ll set something off in her. Who knows?”
“The law stinks,” Charlie had said, before turning away and walking toward their car.
Sitting down again, Charlie felt in his robe for cigarettes.
“Damn,” he said, when he found none.
“That’s not good for you,” Molly said gently.
“What is good for me?”
“I am, and I want you around for a while.” Again, she embraced him. “I need you for my old age.”
“Looks like that’s all we’re gonna have.”
“Each other. Is that so bad?”
Thoughts of losing Molly always chilled his bones. That would end it all for him. He shivered, chasing the idea.
“You and me, babe.”
“Everybody needs everybody.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Why can’t people just be nice? Why can’t I just love my grandson?” He lifted a palm. “Our grandson.” He felt as if something was thrashing around inside of him. “Loving is a two-way street. No sense loving anything from long distance. Loving means being together. Doesn’t it?”
“I never found it good from far away,” Molly said, cuddling closer, warming him. Outside, in the distance above the trees, he saw the first pink edges of dawn. The inkiness was disappearing. It reminded him more of twilight than of dawn. Everything nowadays reminded him of twilight. He knew what that meant.
“A man’s time sure runs out quickly,” he said.
“Men again.”
“People. I meant people.”
“I know what you meant, Charlie,” Molly said, reaching out to touch his arm. But before they went up to bed, he picked up the crumpled cigarette wrapper that he had earlier thrown on the floor and again tossed it toward the trash can. This time, he didn’t miss.
It was too bright a day for heavy hearts, he told himself, remembering the other bright days long ago that ended in riven flesh and rivers of blood.
“Good day for the nursery,” he said to Molly, mostly to chase the morbid thought. Above all, he warned himself, he must be alert to fend off these depressing images of doom. “I told them I had private business for a couple of days. They were really damned nice about it. Said they liked a man who had a feel for growing things. Funny, I never thought I did.”
“Shows how much you know.”
“Live and learn.”
“We’re doing that, all right.”
Without having to say it last night, they both knew that if Tray was denied them, they could not stay in Dundalk and would have to move on to somewhere else. Anywhere. New places meant new beginnings. Somehow they would have to learn how to excise the ghosts of the past.
They crossed the long, curving Francis Scott Key bridge. Over the railing, Charlie could see the great port, merchant ships at anchor, shooting water plumes from their bulkheads. At the south end of the harbor was Sparrows Point, the giant Bethlehem works, where he had spent the better part of a lifetime. The plant was quiet now, mortally wounded by time, obsolescence, and the old Japanese enemy.
“Won’t say I’m not scared,” he confessed grudgingly.
“No, don’t say that. Actually I’m petrified. Do you think he’ll know me?” Molly had primped and patted and pulled herself together with more care than she had taken in years.
“You’re his Gramma. Nobody forgets his Gramma.”
He hadn’t told her that of all the horrors of that day at the school, the worst was the vague light of recognition in the boy’s eyes. Time had eroded his memory. Not completely, of course. But they were there: the first unmistakable signs of obliteration. No point in telling Molly about it now, he thought. If, by some miracle, they did win the right to see him, it would be a long, hard road back to the easy joy they had taken in each other’s company. Maybe they could never get back to that point.
They parked the car in the lot across from the courthouse, and he looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to ten. Yet neither of them made a move to get out of the car.
“What’s wrong?” Molly asked.
“Will they let him say hello?”
“I hope so.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Do I look okay?” she asked.
“Not like a Gramma. I tell you true.”
They got out of the car and moved slowly toward the courthouse. It surprised them to see the courtroom nearly empty, except for the clerk and the stenographer. The courtroom had a musty smell. They took their seats. Soon Forte arrived with Peck. Probably had breakfast together, Charlie thought with disgust. Conspiring to manipulate their lives. What did it matter to them?
“Are both of you all right?” Forte asked. Groomed to perfection, he offered a mouthful of white teeth in a shy conciliatory grin.
“Will she make her decision today?” Molly asked.
“Probably,” Forte said, taking out his yellow pad. “After the boy—”
“I want your promise,” Charlie said suddenly. He sensed Molly watching him with questioning eyes. “If it becomes too m
uch . . .” He looked toward Molly and swallowed. “I mean if it gets hard on Tray. We call it off.” Molly smiled thinly and nodded in agreement.
“I’ll do the best I can.”
“Nothing hurts my grandson. Understand?”
“Don’t worry.”
“I want a promise.”
“You’re the client.”
“I know that, and this thing is out of control.”
“I’ll try—”
“A promise.”
“A promise it is.”
Molly gripped his hand. They heard movement behind them and turned. Tray came in looking like a man in miniature, the image of Chuck. Charlie felt his heart leap to his throat. The boy walked between Peter and Frances, holding their hands. They moved to their places quickly; the boy sat between them. He was so busy examining the high ceiling that he didn’t notice them.
“He didn’t see us,” Molly whispered.
“He will,” Charlie said with some trepidation.
The big courtroom clock read fifteen minutes after ten. Still there was no sign of the judge. No one said a word. They waited. Then Forte cleared his throat, and the boy looked toward where they were sitting.
“That’s Grampa,” he cried with excitement. Charlie lifted his hand and waved. Tray waved back and smiled, and Charlie pointed to Molly.
“And Gramma,” the boy said.
“Hi, darling,” Molly said, her eyes quickly filling with tears.
“See? He recognized you. There’s nothing to cry about.” He had all he could do to blink away his own tears.
At that moment, the door leading from the judge’s chambers opened. “All rise,” the clerk said, and they stood up. Judge Stokes breezed through the door, lips pursed, unsmiling, tight-faced. She had no visible soft edges, Charlie observed, looking for signs of compassion. There was a severity about her that he had not seen yesterday, and suddenly he was frightened for Tray. He turned quickly to look at the boy, but Tray was busily absorbed in assessing this phenomenon of a mysterious black-robed woman who sat high above them. To his eyes, Charlie thought, she must, indeed, seem awesome.
“Will counsel for the parties approach the bench?” the judge said after the ritual of her entrance. Both men rose and walked to the bench. Charlie strained to hear what they were saying in fervent whispers. Occasionally, one of the men would shake his head. Then the other would nod, and the scene would be repeated.
“What’s going on?” Molly asked.
Charlie shrugged. Again, he felt overwhelmed by an acute sense of powerlessness. Other people seemed always to be deciding his fate. He looked toward Tray. Apparently, he had lost interest in the conference at the bench and was scribbling on a pad. Frances turned at precisely the same moment, and Charlie’s gaze locked onto hers. He wasn’t sure what he saw in her eyes. Confusion? Animosity? Concern? That was in his own heart. He couldn’t tell what was in hers. I never knew you, he thought with regret.
Finally, the two lawyers returned to their seats.
“It’s the best deal we could work out,” Forte said.
“What is?”
“She’ll take the boy alone in chambers,” Forte said.
What did that mean? Charlie wondered.
Judge Stokes looked up from her desk and nodded, then coughed into her fist.
“Counsel has waived the right to be present when I interview the boy in my chambers,” she began. She scrutinized the faces ranged in front of her. She stopped and looked directly at Frances. “There will be no court reporter present and no lawyers. Just the boy and myself.” She paused and looked at the boy. “Charles Everett Waters the third,” the judge said gently.
The boy, surprised to hear his name, leaned toward his mother.
“Would you bring the boy up here?” she asked Peter, who stood up. Taking Tray’s hand, he brought him to the bench.
“Up here,” the judge said. Peter brought him up to where the judge sat. From that height, the boy looked down at his mother. He was obviously confused, and Charlie thought he might be on the verge of crying. They watched intently as the judge talked to the boy in low tones, then made a gesture for Peter to leave. White-faced and tense, he came down from the bench and walked, stiff-legged, back to his seat.
Up there, Charlie thought, Tray looked tiny, alone, reminding him of a tiny piece of flotsam bobbing on a muddy puddle—powerless. Like him. A victim. Stop, Charlie protested in his heart. After a few moments of earnest conversation with Tray, the judge turned to the adults in the courtroom.
“Court is adjourned for an hour,” she said, standing up. She took the boy by the hand and started to move toward the door of her chambers.
“No,” Frances cried.
Startled, the judge turned. Frances had stood up. She leaned slightly over the table, balancing herself with her knuckles. So she, too, felt helpless, he thought. But it gave him scant comfort. Peter stood up beside her, kissed her cheek, whispered something in her ear, and eased her back into her seat.
Charlie felt something give way inside of him. The black-robed judge, boy in hand, turned and walked toward the door. He saw the scene in slow motion. An image, like a developing Polaroid picture, began to appear in his mind. The judge, the boy, moving inexorably away from him, levitating, space as well as time disintegrating. The pores of his body opened. He felt the sensation of melting. In the image he could see his own trembling hands, pleading more than reaching, trying to stop the movement of the judge and the boy. Then they disappeared and he heard the sound of the door closing, and the Polaroid image dissolved instantly.
“What is it, Charlie?” Molly asked. There was no hiding things from her, and she sensed what was going on in his heart.
“It’s no good,” he said. “Either way.”
She nodded. He saw her lashes brush her cheeks and he knew what he must do.
16
FOREWARNED was not forearmed. Now Annie knew what Sam Compton meant when he said everybody is innocent, everybody is guilty. Including herself. Too bad life didn’t come with an instruction book at birth. The worst of it was that everybody was not only both innocent and guilty but right and wrong. Anguish had seemed to fill the courtroom, the way she imagined mustard gas must do, clinging to everyone. Burning everyone.
Back in her chambers after the first day of the hearing, she had fallen into her chair exhausted, slipped a rarely used pint bottle of scotch from her lower drawer, and poured herself a stiff shot in a paper cup. Tossing her head to help it down, she felt it burn as it plummeted. The muscles in her neck contracted and her face flushed. Carter came in just in time to see the effect.
“It looks easy on paper,” she said, when her breath came easier.
“The written words, unfortunately, don’t come with stage directions.”
“Believe me, I have a working understanding of dispensing justice. I can understand insurance scams, robbery, confidence games, fraud, embezzlement, even murder. Nice and clean. Greed and violence. But this—this is an enigma.”
“Nevertheless, the law is clear.”
“That’s easy for you to say. I was there.”
“The law is the law.”
“Now I know what the beadle really meant in Oliver Twist when he said that the law is ‘a ass.’ Remember?”
“Ass or lady, Justice still wears the blindfold.”
“That doesn’t stop her from hearing.” She was about to say “feeling” as well, but she held her tongue. He’d see it as a female reflex, and even though she was his superior, it would, she suspected, somehow diminish her in his eyes. The conclusion made her testy.
“Will you need more case law and citations?” he asked.
“As much as I can get.”
“I’ve got more. The key issue in all of them is—”
“I know.” She waved her arm. “Best interests of the child.”
“Mommy and daddy know best.”
“That, too.”
“You might want to read them tonight. I’ve
stuffed them into your briefcase. I assume you’ll want to rule tomorrow.”
“After I talk to the child,” she said, leaning over to put the bottle back in the bottom drawer. She could still taste the sour aftertaste.
“That difficult?”
“Very.” She did not tell him that the young lawyer had hit a chord inside her. Despite all her own warnings, she had remembered Peggy’s words that morning. “Why don’t you ever do what I want to do?”
“Well, it is within the purview of the Maryland law . . . so long as both lawyers and a court stenographer are present,” Carter said, a trifle arrogantly, she observed.
“I’m fully aware of that; also of the unwritten law around here that a judge, if he or she promises accurate reportage of the interview, may waive that rule and interview the minor child alone.”
“It could be dangerous on appeal. A technical violation.”
“I don’t think I’ll get any objections on that score. Both lawyers are worse than barracudas. They’ll tear the child apart if they get at him. I just want to see what kind of a kid this is and if he’s really as happy as they all make him out to be.”
Besides, it was all she could think of. For some reason she felt that Carter had better be given a logical explanation. “Maybe we ignore too much what kids think in these matters. Maybe this business of mama knowing best is a myth.” Take me, for example, she thought. Suddenly she found herself cataloguing her own relationships. With her own parents. They had been undemonstrative. No one had ever said how much they loved each other. And with her grandparents. On her mother’s side they were the same stuff, scattering wisdom, advice, and aphorisms like rice at a wedding. The traditional view prevailed. Family was family, and family obligations were rigidly enforced by guilt and custom. On her father’s side, they were all doctors like him, busy and self-absorbed, but the same conditions prevailed. Did they matter? Did they really matter?
Harold’s parents, on the other hand, were on a totally different wavelength. They had been affectionate and demonstrative. Harold had been their pride and joy, and his death had been an inconsolable blow. And although she understood this, she could never shake the idea that, in their hearts, they somehow blamed her for his death. It made her uncomfortable to be around them, and consequently, she saw very little of them in recent years. Suddenly she caught herself up short. That was one more thing they hadn’t warned her about in domestic law. It forced you to look inside yourself.
