Good Intentions

by J. D. Trafford

  She looked down at it, then up at me. “At least it’s a cute kitty.”

  “You’re right. It could be worse.” I laughed and took the picture back. “Not sure how, exactly, but it could be.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Karen pronounced, sounding eerily like Nikki and not like somebody who’s supposed to be my subordinate. “Anything else you need me to do before I go home?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Do you have Billy’s contact information?”

  “Like what?”

  “Phone number would be best,” I said. “Maybe e-mail if you’ve got it.”

  Karen seemed hesitant. “You’re not going to call him, are you?”

  “He’s spreading rumors about me.”

  “Yes.” Karen was direct, and I appreciated her loyalty and her not minimizing the situation. “He was fired. Of course he’s going to say things, but calling him seems like a bad idea.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But he’s also saying he was wrongfully terminated. I want to talk to him about that and about Judge Meyer.”

  “In that case,” Karen said, “you should definitely not call him.”

  I wasn’t ready to give up quite yet. “Maybe.”

  “Judge . . .” Karen looked at me, concerned. “With all due respect, that is a very bad idea. You’re a smart man. You shouldn’t do it. With the governor’s task force and the media scrutiny, it’s just going to be trouble. He could record the conversation. He could make up something. Who knows what’ll happen.”

  I took a breath and let it go. “You’re right. Forget it.”

  “I will.” Karen was serious. “It’s all going to blow over. Just wait.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The parking garage was dark and mostly empty by the time I got there. I took the elevator up to the third floor, got out, and saw my Range Rover at the far end of a row of vacant spaces. As I got closer, I saw a compact woman in jeans and a white dress shirt.

  “Judge Thompson,” she said. “You’ve been working late.”

  My hand tightened on my briefcase’s handle. The San Francisco Chronicle reporter stood at my car door.

  “Ms. Metina,” I said. “You know it’s not safe loitering in Oakland parking garages after dark.”

  “I’m touched that you care.” She put her hand to her heart. “But I think I can handle myself.” Then she came toward me. Metina had a digital recorder. “I’ve been trying to speak with you for some time, Judge Thompson.”

  “You know the rules,” I said. “No comment on pending cases.”

  “But you’d agree that Gregory Ports is not a pending case.” She planted her feet and held the recorder closer to my face. “That case ended when you dismissed it, and even if it didn’t, the case certainly ended when Gregory Ports died.” She studied me, waiting for a response. When I didn’t give one, she continued. “I think the public would like to hear your thoughts.”

  “I don’t have any comment.” I attempted to sidestep her, but she didn’t move. “Please, I’d like to go home.”

  “I understand.” Metina waited, examining my reaction and studying my mood. “It was a rough day,” she said. “A father is threatening to kill you, and two of the kids are now missing.”

  “I don’t have any comment on that, either.”

  “What are you going to do without Judge Meyer’s help?”

  That question got to me. What was I going to do without Judge Meyer’s help?

  I didn’t answer. I made another attempt to pass her, instead, but she didn’t move. My frustration grew. Everything was falling at the same time. As the pieces came down, I couldn’t catch every one. Something was going to crash. Something was going to break. “Please, excuse me or I’ll have to call the police.”

  “The police?” Metina smiled. “Come on, Judge, people should hear your side of the story.” She stepped aside, finally allowing me to get to my car. “I’m ready to talk when you are.”

  I opened the Range Rover’s door and got inside. As I tried to stick the key in the ignition, my hand shook, no doubt the combined result of adrenaline and anger. It took a few tries, but I got the key in and pulled out of my parking spot. I stopped after five feet. I looked at Metina in my rearview mirror.

  I’d had enough. I was tired of being blown around.

  I loved Judge Meyer. I respected everybody who had told me to simply ride things out, but I wasn’t going to sit back. I wasn’t going to hide. If things were going to crash, then I might as well exert some control over when the pieces fell.

  “Ms. Metina,” I called out the window.

  “What is it?” Metina looked surprised. She walked toward me.

  “How about an off-the-record conversation?”

  “Off the record?”

  I nodded. “After we do that, then maybe we can discuss if there is anything appropriate to put on the record.”

  She smiled. “You’re smarter than they give you credit for.”

  “I think that was a compliment,” I said. “And—as an unsolicited suggestion—this conversation is going to go much better if you stop insulting me.” I unlocked the doors and nodded toward the passenger side. “Come around and hop inside. We’ll go for a little drive.”

  I got on Webster Street and began driving to the island. “Where do you want to start?”

  “Off the record?”

  “Everything is off the record until I say it isn’t.”

  Metina’s mood changed. She still had an edge—a journalist’s skepticism—but the possibility of my cooperation altered the dynamic. She had been hunting me, and I had been running. Now the chase was over, and I’d gotten some power back. I wasn’t in control, but I could impact the direction.

  “Why don’t you tell me about the mother?”

  “Sheila Ports?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think you know all about that.” Although I wasn’t involved in the case from the beginning—I handled only the final hearing and didn’t remember the case—I’d read the file multiple times. It was tragic but not significantly different from the others on my caseload.

  “I want to hear it from you,” Metina said. “That’s what I want to know. That’s what people want to know.”

  “I’m not so sure people really want to know. They want me to say something so that they can attack me.” Traffic slowed, and I turned on my headlights as we drove into the Webster Street Tube. It was a tunnel connecting Oakland and Alameda Island. About a quarter through the tunnel, I decided I needed to play along.

  “Sheila Ports was an addict,” I said, “and, like a lot of addicts, she eventually ran out of money. Once an addict runs out of money, they do inexplicable, desperate, and often horrible things to get their next fix. That’s the nature of addiction.”

  “And that was how Gregory got hurt?”

  “His mother was known. She was poor, bipolar, and addicted and therefore surrounded by men who were ready and willing to take advantage of her. Say what you want about a married businessman going to a strip club or some guy paying for a blow job. These guys were and are different. They are predators. They live deep in the shadows. They talk. They share stories, give one another tips.”

  “And they abuse little boys?”

  “They do whatever they want.” As we came out of the tunnel, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the light. The two lanes multiplied into four, and I stayed right as they split apart. “In exchange for a little food or some cash or some crystal meth, they’d take her and/or take Gregory and . . . you can fill in the blanks.”

  “Then he was removed by the agency and placed in foster care.”

  “Ironically, Sheila Ports wasn’t doing too bad when Gregory was removed, comparatively.” We crossed Atlantic Avenue. “Somehow she’d found a bed for her and her son at the Bethany Hope Mission. The social workers at the mission had connected Sheila with a county mental health worker. She got some meds, an injectable that lasts a month rat
her than the pills she’d have to remember to take every day. Her mind was clearer than it had ever been in the past ten years.”

  I stopped at a traffic light. “That day, the day Gregory was placed in foster care, Sheila had walked into the emergency room with pride. She was trying to be a good mom, and she was impressed with herself that she had noticed Gregory wasn’t sleeping, and that she knew a doctor needed to examine her son’s congestion and stomach pain.”

  “And that’s when the doctor saw the bruising?”

  “Exactly.” The light turned green, and we continued down Webster toward Shoreline Drive. “During the examination, he lifted Gregory’s shirt to listen to his breathing. That’s when the doctor saw the bruising and scars. There were eight distinct yellow bruises, four on each side, where a person had grabbed Gregory and squeezed so hard that the fingers had left marks. Then there were the small cuts, mostly healed, and the scars from cigarette burns near the boy’s buttocks.”

  Parking spots were rare near the water. I got lucky and spotted a car pulling away from a spot on one of the side streets. I made a quick turn, pulled in behind, and shut off the engine. “The doctor was a mandatory reporter.” I turned to Metina and finished the story. “So he asked Sheila to wait while he filled out some paperwork, and that’s when the police were called to do the removal. That’s how Gregory was put into foster care.”

  “And then you sent him home.”

  “You make it sound like he was in foster care for a day,” I said. “Gregory Ports was in foster care for almost nine months. Nine months for us may not seem like much, but through the eyes of a child, nine months is a long time. The mother seemed stable. Everybody who spoke at the final hearing agreed to reunify the family, and they knew the case best. I had been on the bench only a week. I was a new judge, but the recommendation made sense. That’s when and why I sent him home.”

  “And then he died.”

  “You’re right.” I opened the door and took a step out. “That’s when he died,” I said, shutting the door.

  We walked to the path that ran parallel to Shoreline Drive. Another twenty yards down, we found a park bench to sit on.

  “They still haven’t caught the man who did it,” I said. “The mother doesn’t remember anything. She says she was passed out when Gregory was beaten so badly that his brain swelled, which ultimately killed him.” I watched as a sailboat crossed in front of us, and then the men on board lowered its anchor for the sunset. “I don’t know if she really doesn’t remember, but I believe it. Just one more layer of tragedy.”

  “Would you do anything differently?”

  “Of course,” I said. “If you can predict the future, you can always make the right decisions. If the foster parent would’ve spoken up, if there would’ve been somebody raising some concern about her sobriety, but there wasn’t any of that. When all the recommendations from all the parties are to reunite the child and dismiss the case, it’s not realistic to think that a judge is going to do his own thing.”

  “But that’s the culture that Judge Meyer developed, right?”

  “That’s not fair.” I watched as another sailboat joined the first one. The edges of the sky had darkened to a hazy orange. “The government has a pretty bad record of messing with families, especially poor families and families of color. There are lots of kids that are reunited, and it’s fine. The family isn’t perfect, but it’s a family. It’s good enough. We can’t have millions of kids in foster care forever. There’s not the money and there aren’t enough people willing to adopt.”

  “What about that guy in court today? Certainly you’re not going to let him have his kids back.”

  “I can’t talk about a pending case.” I thought about all the kids that morning. Tanya Neal and Peter Thill’s children were in full rebellion against the social workers and the court and demanded to go home. It didn’t matter that Tanya Neal was an addict and missing, or that Peter Thill was a convicted felon and considered extremely dangerous. They wanted out of the system.

  “Parents have constitutional rights,” I said. “Kids have constitutional rights, too. You can’t just break up a family. You need to give them an opportunity to be heard. It’s the rule of law.”

  “Do you think Judge Meyer followed the rule of law?”

  I stopped watching the sailboats and turned to her. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

  I thought I noticed a smirk, but I wasn’t sure. She knows something, I thought, something I don’t know.

  Metina changed the subject. “What are your thoughts about AFC Services?”

  “I haven’t really thought about them.” And that was the truth. AFC Services provided parenting assessments, psychological assessments, skills coaching, and some emergency housing to families involved in the child protection system.

  “Do you know whether it’s a for-profit or nonprofit?”

  “I always assumed it was a nonprofit,” I said. “Marsh Terry started it, because Harry was frustrated that nobody was willing to work with parents who had their kids in foster care. It was sort of a favor.”

  “And do you know how they got their contract with the county?”

  “I don’t. It was before my time.” I looked at the sky and wondered where this was going.

  “They’ve been around a little over ten years, and during that time, the county has paid them millions of dollars.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “Nobody works for free.”

  “You’re right. Nobody works for free,” Metina said. “Especially not Marshall Terry.” Metina crossed her legs and leaned back, taking her time before moving forward. “Tell me,” she said. “Do you think Judge Meyer’s murder had anything to do with me?”

  “You?” I shook my head, surprised and confused. “Why would it have anything to do with you?”

  “I’m not sure.” Metina gently offered her theory. “Not long after I started asking questions, your mentor ended up dead.” Her intelligent eyes studied my reaction. “Do you think it was coincidence?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The next day, I got to work early. Karen was usually there and had the coffee brewing by the time I had arrived, but it was a different morning. I woke up with a sense of urgency. The conversation with Benji Metina kicked around in my head.

  Even though I never went on the record, I was glad that we had talked. I was no longer running from her. I’d gotten a sense of where she was going, and I wasn’t afraid. Metina asked good questions, and, in the process, she had broadened my own search for who killed Harry.

  There were the photos found in Harry’s office, but now I needed to think more about Marshall Terry. Even though he was Harry’s best friend, we didn’t socialize much, and our interactions were mostly superficial. All I knew was that he had become wealthy investing in San Francisco real estate, and he had helped Harry by starting AFC Services.

  Prior to AFC Services, many of Harry’s thoughts about the child protection system were merely theories. Harry believed that parenting was, in part, a skill. If that skill was lost through the generations, then it needed to be taught. AFC Services gave Harry an opportunity to prove that his theories were correct. I had never considered how much Marsh Terry had profited from the experiment.

  As I dug through my briefcase for my office keys, I heard a cough as someone approached from behind.

  “Hope this ain’t a bad time, Judge.”

  I turned and saw Detective Jarkowski. “No.” I smiled. “I may be the first person to say this to you, but I’m glad you’re here.” Once I finally found my keys, I unlocked the door and led Detective Jarkowski into my office.

  “Read about you in the newspaper.” He slowly lowered himself into one of the two wooden chairs in front of my desk, and I wondered whether he would fit. “Tough stuff.”

  “It’ll be OK,” I said, choosing to keep my own doubt and insecurities private. “It’s part of the job.”

  The detective nodded. “That’s a go
od attitude.”

  “So what do you need from me?”

  “Couple things.” Jarkowski’s mustache twitched to the side. “Got a call from Helen Vox. Talked for a while. She’s giving a full statement later this morning.”

  I nodded, but I tried to keep my expression neutral.

  “She told me you encouraged her to come forward.”

  I hesitated, unsure if that was actually something she told Jarkowski or whether he had merely guessed. “I did.” Figured there was no sense in denying the truth. “And I’m glad she called.”

  “I’m glad, too. Before I talk to her formally, it’d be nice to know exactly what she said to you.”

  “Detective, I don’t think you need to worry about Helen Vox. She’s not a killer.”

  “I’m not saying she is or isn’t.” He looked slightly offended. “Just want to do my job and explore the possibilities. Rather not walk blindly into a meeting.”

  “I get that.” I checked my watch, wondering how much time we had before Karen would arrive. I wanted to talk with Jarkowski, but I also didn’t want to start the calendar late again. I figured that we had fifteen minutes or so.

  I looked up at Jarkowski. “Helen and I met at Harry’s house,” I began simply. “She had some clothes and toiletries there, and she wanted to get them back.”

  He nodded, and then I told him about Helen’s affair with Harry as well as everything else she had told me about the morning he was killed.

  When I was done, Detective Jarkowski asked a few follow-up questions and seemed satisfied. Then he switched directions. “When you were at the house, either with Ms. Vox or later, did you find anything?”

  “Not really.” I shook my head. “I started to clean, but I didn’t get that far. I found a bunch of account passwords and financial statements. I also found the will and tax documents. I’ve started sifting through those now. Nothing groundbreaking.”