“So, you were in an orphanage, right? I’m assuming your mother and father must have been killed in the war.” She closed Don’s business file and lightly pressed her palms down on it, as if she held it in place. There was nothing on his resume nearly as interesting as what he shared of his own life.
“I’m not sure about that.” He leaned back and looked at the ceiling as if it were a window to his past. “If I was in an orphanage, I don’t think it was for very long, because I don’t remember anything like that. I mean I remember being on the plane with a bunch of other kids and being in a big room with cots or something for a very short time, but I was lucky, I guess; I was adopted by a family as soon as I got here. I was part of what the government called Operation Baby Lift; are you familiar with that?”
“No. I know the U.S. brings in a lot of Hmong refugees and Fresno’s one of their relocation places. Is it part of all that?”
“No, this was long before they started bringing in the Hmong people. I’ve been here since 1975, the year the war ended. The Americans took thousands of children out of Vietnam and brought them to the States for adoption; it was a big baby market. Some were orphans, but not all. From what I’ve read and been told, a lot of parents gave their children up so they could live in the States and have a better life. They didn’t want their children to suffer like they did. I like to think that I was one of those kids. I even have this vague memory, or maybe it’s a dream, of my mother crying and someone taking me out of her arms, but I could have made that up.” He shifted in his seat as though he might be uneasy, revealing more than intended in this first interview with a potential client. “You know, I was a bit of a crybaby when I was small, so it might have just been me crying when I had to go to school or something. Don’t worry; I don’t cry much anymore.”
“Well that’s good to know.”
Don may have been uncomfortable revealing so much history, but Bernie found his candor intriguing and appealing. Such unfettered honesty and glib humor eased any tension that may have been hiding in the corners of the old room, transforming the meeting into a pleasant exchange. Two people sat around the long table getting to know each other, just like a couple of folks meeting over drinks, instead of two plotting professionals gathered in a law office surrounded by files full of legal documents, death certificates, police reports, and photographs of a dead man slumped over a bloody steering wheel, his wife face down in the dirt in the early morning dawn.
Bernie once again opened Don’s file and quietly scanned the rest of his CV, the long list of clients and cases. “So, Don,” she paused and nudged the folder away from her, “this case is, in some respects, a slam dunk. I represent a five-year-old boy with two dead parents and the paternal grandmother who lost her son and daughter-in-law. The maternal grandparents are deceased. So, the good thing is there’s only two plaintiffs. Sometimes these cases can have ten or fifteen claimants, but this is an unusual situation all around. In fact, it might just be too unusual.”
“How’s that?”
“Well, you are an orphan, a child who lost his parents at the age of five, which is exactly what our plaintiff is—a child who lost his parents at the age of five. And,” she paused, clearing her throat before continuing, “and, this is not something I usually share, but it only seems fair to let you know that I am also an orphan, though I was much older. My mother and father were killed in an accident when I was thirteen.”
“Huh.” He sat silent for a moment. “What a coincidence. But, like I said, I’m not sure I was an orphan. I prefer to think my mother gave me up; I think she wanted me to have more than she could ever give. You’ve had to have heard the jargon, not giving up, giving more, all that. I think I would remember if she were killed. And I don’t.”
The air conditioner hummed softly. Bernie didn’t want to talk about his birth mother’s sacrifices and Madonna virtues, but still, the whole idea of some selfless woman sending her child to America was endearing, even noble. It was the kind of rags-to-riches immigrant success story that a Fresno jury would eat up. She could try to work that in on the witness stand, innocently slip it in with his background during qualification. She much preferred the orphan concept to some mother just parceling him out to some unknown situation, but this was his story, his life, not some fairytale.
“Yes, I’ve heard about the ultimate sacrifice of a mother not giving up, but giving more; well, that’s often a rather romanticized version of giving away an unwanted child, but I suppose in your case it probably was the best thing that could have happened, I mean . . .” Bernie swallowed her words, realizing her faux pas by the scrunched eyebrows and tight lips across the table. She felt his gaze hard upon her and blushed. “What I mean is that it was a true sacrifice in light of the war and all. I can’t imagine . . .”
Nothing she could say was going to sound right, at least not now. She was trespassing on sensitive territory and rattled by Don’s face as he struggled to grasp what she said, looking like he was suddenly nauseous or holding back a lifetime of disgust all sitting across a table from him.
“Let’s just say this is an unusual situation with respect to the similar losses shared by you, me, and Carlos Luna, regardless of the cause,” Bernie said softly, hoping to smooth the ruffled feathers.
Don’s jaw loosened, and he nodded, a sign of understanding, agreement.
Bernie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’d like to think our personal commitment to this case will be somewhat enhanced by that shared experience and, ultimately, we will present stronger testimony . . . for Carlos’s sake.”
For now, the subject of orphans and adoptions was closed. It was time to turn the conversation to the case at hand. Bernie picked up the thick file jacket and pulled out a single manila folder. “Do you know the basic facts of the Luna case?” she asked.
“A bit. Crystal gave me some very basic information over the phone. She told me your clients are from Mexico.” His congenial getting-to-know-you manner seamlessly shifted to discussing the Luna case, his voice lowered to a more earnest tone of compassion and intelligence. He was one of those rare people whose entire demeanor committed to the moment at hand. He sat taller in his chair, and his chin edged up higher.
“Not exactly. Right now, they both live in a little village in Michoacán, in southern Mexico, but Carlos, the little boy, was born here in Fresno. He actually lived out in Madera until six months ago when he went to live with his grandmother. She wanted him with her, and she couldn’t come here, so . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence in words, just motioned the obvious with the wave of a hand.
“Hmmm. That complicates things a bit.”
“Yes, quite a bit, actually. Grandma, pardon me, Mrs. Luna, I should say, was accustomed to her son, Carlos’s father, sending her money just to take care of herself.” She watched him slowly nod in agreement as he began to recognize the problems that festered hundreds of miles to the south during a time when borders were difficult to cross. But Crystal was right; he was nice. He needed a haircut, but other than that, he seemed like a good choice for this case. “She no longer has that income and now she is raising a small child in difficult circumstances.”
“Wouldn’t she be entitled to benefits? Social Security? Insurance? Something to maintain her?”
“We’re working on getting some advance money from the driver’s insurance company, but nothing has come through yet. I’ve advanced a small amount myself to cover initial expenses, but it won’t last long. We need to settle at mediation, if possible. I don’t want to put them through a trial if I don’t have to.” She didn’t mention that she, too, would rest easier with some cash flow increase. “In fact,” she added, “I don’t know if Crystal mentioned it to you, but we’re going to mediate this case within ninety days.”
“Yes, yes, she informed me of that, so I worked up some preliminary numbers,” he said, “very preliminary, based on what I had, but they’re pretty loose. I’ll need documents and details to come up with anythin
g solid.” From his satchel he retrieved a red file folder which held several pages of columns of figures. He slid the page across to Bernie with the tips of his fingers. Again, Bernie noted the graceful manner of his hands, the long, slender fingers of a guitar player.
As she examined the itemized list of categories and potential values, she pressed her lips together and dipped her head from one side to the other, just like her mother used to do when she studied a report card of evenly mixed As, Bs, and Cs. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t terrible, either. She was impressed; she had to admit. The guy had done his homework before showing up for her party.
“What I’ve done is project the estimated income for the parents through their life expectancy. I’ve also figured in the cost of housekeeping and maintenance that they would have provided until the child turned eighteen.”
“Good, and of course this is all in addition to the emotional damages, which will be significant.” She was talking to herself more than the expert, but he assumed the comment was for him.
“Right, well that’s for you to establish. That’s always a mystery to me—figuring out what someone’s life was worth—emotionally. How do you truly measure that with any certainty?”
Bernie studied the individual across from her for a moment, considering how to paint the picture of emotional damages for him as she did for juries, the perfect sales pitch to match a specific buyer. What would he respond to? What would work for this particular man?
Her voice was low and gentle when she spoke, compelling trust and confidence. “You’re a musician, so I know you understand an attachment to something like an instrument. So, think about this: What’s more painful? Losing Willie Nelson’s beat-up old flat top that’s covered with a lifetime of signatures, all those autographs, the history there, the wood worn through over the years, or losing the brand-spanking-new Martin you just paid ten grand for? I’m talking about emotional pain. Do you care more about the guitar you have held and played for years, that others have added a piece of their life to by signing their name, one you played until you’ve worn the wood away, an instrument that is irreplaceable, or do you care more about the new guitar, the one that’s shiny and expensive, but you’ve never even changed the strings. Hands down, you’d be devastated at the loss of the personal, uniquely carved possession, a one-of-kind. Right?”
A slow smile formed, and he nodded his head up and down.
“Now, imagine, and this is something I know you can do, just like I can, imagine losing your mom and dad, far more unique and precious than any hollow wooden box and six strings, no matter who played it or signed it. What’s that pain like? What’s that pain worth?”
His eyes shone when he spoke. “You’re good. You know your audience and you know your guitars.”
“I have to be. Rogelio and Lucero Luna might have been poor farm workers to the rest of the world, but they were everything to Carlos. And Rosa too. They can’t be replaced, and we can’t bring them back. They were one of a kind. But their loved ones, their child, Carlos, and their mother, Rosa, can be compensated financially. We can do that.”
Don leaned back in his chair and listened to her, the tips of his fingers pressing against one another. He didn’t say anything, just simply nodded in agreement.
“Unfortunately, most people associate value with wealth. They want to give bigger sums to good-looking white people with professional jobs, and that makes sense; the more earnings, the more lost, I know that. So, I need you to maximize the solid damages, the ones you can count and put into a nice little chart for the jury to see, give these folks some solid worth.” She stressed her words: “We need to try to make the Lunas appear as valuable on paper as they were to their son, or as much as possible, that is. Those solid damages, the special damages, depend in large part on you. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“I understand.”
“What else?” Her favorite question. She leaned forward, and, now relaxed and at ease with her guest, unconsciously tucked her loose hair back behind her oversized ears.
“For the grandmother, Rosa, I need a little more information than what I have right now,” Don said. “She was apparently dependent on her son for income, but I don’t really know how much. It’s unlikely that she had a bank account where he deposited the money directly, but you never know, we should find out. Her son probably wired her money, or gave her cash on an annual visit, if they did that sort of thing. I need something to verify how much money he actually contributed to her living and how he did that.”
“I doubt she kept receipts, but I’ll ask. I’m going to be talking to her sometime this week. Crystal’s setting up depositions in Mexico, so I’ll make sure she puts me on the line when she contacts Mrs. Luna. She’s arranging for an interpreter to make sure there’s no miscommunication. The other thing we can do is go through the parents’ things they left behind. Some of it went to Mexico with Carlos and Rosa, but a lot of it is still here, in their old house. The Lunas lived with another family in Madera. I asked the woman to keep any papers and documents they might come across as they cleaned up their rooms, so I guess I need to drive out there and pick up whatever they might have found.”
“Yeah, any receipts from Western Union, checking account deposit receipts or anything like, that would really help.”
“I’ll get out there this weekend.”
In just over an hour, Bernie had signed the retainer agreement with Don Fielding and handed over copies of the Luna’s earnings statements and death certificates. While they waited on Crystal to make the copies, she filled Don in on some of the other details of the accident. The defendant, Mark Simpson, was driving his father’s company truck while talking on his cell phone, missing a stop sign and crashing into the Lunas, t-boning their old Mercury sedan. She explained that there was a company five-million-dollar umbrella policy out there in addition to the personal policy with a five-hundred-thousand-dollar limit. If it had been a white professional couple named Smith or Johnson, she had no doubt the policy would be paid without question. But the death of two field workers would mean she’d have to fight for every nickel.
“So, you can see,” she said, concluding the debriefing session, “this case is important. Really important.”
“I understand.”
“Good.”
She was walking him to the door when the phone rang.
“Bernie,” Crystal interrupted, “Joan Bennett is calling again. Do you want to take it, or should I take a message?”
“Oh, I’d better take it.” She gripped his hand firmly and gave it a powerful shake. “Thank you for coming in, Don. I’ll call you in a day or two after I go to Madera.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “It was a pleasure. I’m going to like working on this one.”
She closed the door behind him and shuffled into her office, kicking her shoes off as she slid into her high-backed chair. “This is Bernadette Sheridan.” Her voice was crisp and professional for the unfamiliar caller.
“Ms. Sheridan. Finally, we connect. My name is Joan Bennett. I’m with Social Services, Department of Children and Families.”
“Did you say Social Services? Children and Families? I thought you were with Social Security.”
“No, I’m calling from Social Services.”
“Is this about my grandmother, Isabelle Fierro?” Butterflies appeared and fluttered in her nervous stomach at the words Children and Families. They would not be contacting her unless there was a problem.
“No. This call concerns you, Ms. Sheridan. I have some information regarding your birth mother,” the woman said.
And there it was.
When she was younger, she imagined getting a call like this. Every time she read about children finding birth mothers or birth mothers finding children they’d given up, she wondered if it might happen to her one day.
Bernie sat up straight and rested an elbow on her desk, her fingers slowly rising to touch her face, just next to her lips. She could feel an
ache in her chest and heat rising up the back of her neck. “Go on,” she finally said, “I’m here.”
“We were contacted by your birth mother some time back. She asked for our help in locating you.”
Bernie nodded her head, though the woman on the line could not see her. “I see. My parents told me I was adopted when I was very small, just a baby. So, after all these years, why now?”
“It’s been nearly two years since we started the process.” There was a pause as if she expected some congratulations on her diligence, or a question or comment from Bernie, but there was only silence across the telephone line as Bernie nodded her understanding to an empty room, speechless. “And now, she would like to know if you would be interested in talking with her, or possibly even meeting her.”
A familiar weakness soared through her body, beginning at her head and dropping to her toes, an irrational anger buried long ago resurfacing and simmering with each second. Did she really want to meet the woman who gave her away? She’d thought about this for most of her life, convinced she knew what had happened. Undoubtedly, her birth mother was a kid herself who got knocked up in high school. And she couldn’t be bothered with a baby. Caring for a baby at a young age would only hurt them both. And the baby would be better off with a mom and a dad, so she simply gave her child away. A familiar story, the guilt of an older woman who suddenly regrets her teenage choices.
Still, Bernie reasoned, the woman who gave birth to her was alive and out there and she should know; she should know what she’d done when she’d sent her baby off to her new perfect family. She should know what happened.
The phone trembled slightly in her hand. Bernie gazed out to the leaves of the familiar Ash tree for something, but what that was she didn’t know. There was a time when she’d actually prayed for this call, silently willing her birth mother to find out that her baby’s childhood had crumbled, but that was years ago, or days ago. Now, she wasn’t sure. Why would someone want to show up thirty-eight years too late to say she wanted to be a mother? Or she was sorry? Or, hi, want to be friends now that you’re a grown woman? She inhaled through her nose, exhaled out her mouth, slowly, counting to five as she inhaled, again as she exhaled. Yoga breathing. When she spoke, all that came out of her mouth was “Oh,” the word cracking and breaking on the way.
The Circle Game Page 4
