by Aime Austin
Qualified Immunity
A Casey Cort Novel
Aime Austin
Contents
New Release Newsletter
Praise for Casey Cort
Also by Aime Austin
Art by Patricia Krebs
1. Party Night
2. Qualified Immunity
3. Guardian ad Litem
4. The ‘Burbs
5. Juvenile Court
6. Home Fires
7. Progress Report
8. Clients Don’t Pay
9. Black Out
10. Hotline
11. An Inauspicious Visit
12. Removal of the Child from the Home
13. The Best Interests of the Child
14. The Blue Wall
15. Emergency Custody
16. Emergency Custody, Part 2
17. Happy Clients Never Sue
18. Bennett Friehof & Baker
19. Common Pleas Lawyers
20. Initial Consultation
21. A More Permanent Placement
22. Change of Heart
23. Puppy Love
24. Retained Counsel
25. Special Needs
26. Euclid Hospital
27. Client Interview
28. Metzenbaum
29. The Case Plan
30. Daddy’s Little Girl
31. Behind the Closed Door
32. Shattered Glass
33. Washington Murmurs
34. She’s not my mother
35. Relative Placement
36. The Visit
37. Confirmation
38. Doth Protest too Much
39. The Civil Rights Lawyer
40. Home is More than Four Walls
41. Under Oath
42. Temporary Custody
43. You Can Never Go Home Again
44. Temporary Custody [part 2]
45. Disclosure
46. Appeal
47. Headlines
About the Author
Also Available from Aime Austin
Qualified Immunity
Sylvie Fox writing as Aime Austin
* * *
This edition published by
Penner Publishing
Post Office Box 57914
Los Angeles, California 91413
www.pennerpublishing.com
Copyright © 2014 by Sylvie Fox
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Cover Designer: Cover it! Designs
Qualified Immunity/Aime Austin. — 2d ed.
ISBN: 978-1-940811-06-2
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Praise for Casey Cort
What critics are saying about Qualified Immunity, the first in the Casey Cort Series.
Qualified Immunity ... is a “must read” intriguing new series which crosses several genres.” –Judith D. Collins
“Qualified Immunity has caught my attention. I’d recommend it to anyone who enjoys fiction about the legal system.” – Long and Short Reviews
"I found myself unable to stop reading…” –Reader
“... I was immediately captivated by this legal thriller about family drama and the legal system that governs it.” – Reader
Praise for Under Color of Law.
* * *
“In addition to the wit, humor, drama, intensity, suspense, legal writing, and highly charged social issues and abuse addressed; with Fox’s legal background she knows her way around the courtroom; well-developed flawed and quirky characters, and if you love good women’s fiction, and legal crime thrillers get ready for an engaging and satisfying ride.” — Judith D. Collins
Also by Aime Austin
The Casey Cort Series
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The Common Pleas Lawyer
Qualified Immunity
Under Color of Law
In Plain Sight
Conflict of Interest
* * *
Romantic Women’s Fiction
as Sylvie Fox
* * *
Unlikely
Impasse
Shaken
Stirred
Don’t Judge Me
The Secret Widow
The Good Enough Husband
Art by Patricia Krebs
“A wave of notorious child deaths in the 1990s pushed frightened social workers to remove youngsters from their homes first and ask questions later. And most of those youngsters were black.”
The Plain Dealer – October 7, 2005
One
Party Night
October 6, 2001
Twelve-year-old Olivia Grant never knew what she was going to encounter when she went home. It was always best if she tackled it alone. She squirmed in the center of the third-row seat of the ginormous SUV. Hugging herself, she prayed silently that her friends wouldn’t see anything more than her front door.
“So who do you like, Olivia?” Cate Byers leaned around the bucket seat. Blue eyes illuminated by a passing street light met hers.
Beth Fogle shifted so that she too was looking at Olivia. “Yeah, who? Maybe he even likes you back.”
Olivia ducked her head, both embarrassed and thrilled to be talking to girls that she’d watched from afar for weeks—enjoying the popularity-by-association conferred by her budding friendship with Cate.
Beth’s singsong voice rose above a whisper. “I know who she likes.”
“Who? Who? How do you know?” Cate asked, straining against the seatbelt.
“I bet she likes Marquis Chapman,” Beth pronounced.
“No, I don’t like Marquis,” Olivia said. Overcome by a sudden need to share confidences with these girls, she blurted out, “I like Jon Heath.”
Beth and Cate shared a look. “Jon Heath?” Beth flicked her long blond hair, laughing as she turned back in her seat. “He’ll never go out with you.”
Mortification stole Olivia’s voice. She smoothed her hands through hair the beautician had spent an hour straightening. Was it because she wasn’t super skinny? She wasn’t as pretty as Beth, but she wasn’t ugly either.
Cate leaned toward Beth and whispered something Olivia couldn’t hear over the sound of fat tires swishing across wet pavement. When the car stopped at the light where the Chagrin, Van Aken, and Warrensville Center streets met, the car was quiet. Beth’s whispered response came through loud and clear.
“Besides, if they had kids, they’d be striped like zebras.”
Olivia’s heart squeezed like it was locked in the vice grip of a small fist. She would never fit in.
“Girls, that’s enough,” Mrs. Byers said, pressing on the gas. Shaker Heights was devoid of traffic tonight. Low-slung, two- and three-story brick buildings stood stoic on the side of the street. The earlier rain had cleared, but Olivia couldn’t see a single star to wish on through the overcast sky.
Mrs. Byers cleared her throat loudly. “Olivia, Sheila and I must have gotten our signals crossed,” she said, silencing the other girls once and for all. “Your mom, she’s a judge now, isn’t she?” she continued, as if trying to redeem Beth’s earlier slight. “You must
be so proud of her. She’s gone so far. I’d love to be a career woman like your mother, but I’ve dedicated my life to my kids,” she finished, watching Olivia in the rearview mirror. Olivia met Mrs. Byers’ sincere blue eyes, and looked away, embarrassed. Nothing Mrs. Byers could say would make her anything but the odd black girl out.
For a few short hours, she’d been one of the gang. Then her mom hadn’t come to pick her up after dinner. Embarrassed didn’t even begin to describe how stupid she felt waiting in that damp, chilly Benihana parking lot for more than a half hour, praying every car that passed was her mother. After the waiters came out, a sure sign the restaurant was closing, Mrs. Byers had said she was happy to drive Olivia home. It was on the way.
Olivia turned to look out the window. She’d never be like these girls. Beth was the leader of the second most popular clique at the school. After being invited to Cate’s birthday party tonight, she’d hoped to be elevated to a higher status.
She shook her head, mumbling prayers to herself again. Her mom was at home. It wasn’t like she ever went out or anything. Her mom just watched endless hours of television on the white couch, in the white living room of their two-bedroom apartment—then went to bed. The pattern never changed. Usually Olivia was right there with her. The one night she decided to go out….
Mrs. Byers interrupted her thoughts. “You’re on Latimore, right?”
Olivia nodded then spoke up, giving her house number. They were getting close to her neighborhood, Lomond. While Cate, Beth, and most of the cool kids lived in the northeast neighborhoods of Shaker, Olivia and her mom lived south of the Blue Line—one of the two light rail lines that bisected Cleveland and Shaker Heights. The other kids all lived in ‘century’ houses—historic homes built at the turn of the century north of the light rail.
Olivia hated living on the other side of the tracks in a neighborhood filled with newer two and three family homes, cleverly disguised by their architects to look like single family structures. School was full of lessons about Pride! and Self-esteem! Olivia tried to feel good about where she lived, and not compare herself to the other kids. But on nights like this she was left wanting.
The SUV got closer to her house. Practiced, Olivia started giving directions.
“Here.” She pointed and leaned forward in the car’s darkened interior. “You have to make a left on to Lynnfield Road, then swing a right on to Newell, then a left on Latimore.” During their short residence in Shaker, Olivia had given directions to other moms when her mother ‘forgot’ to pick her up. At twelve going on thirteen, she was already quite familiar with the city’s winding streets. “We’re the third house on the right.”
Olivia stepped between Cate and Beth and opened the large back door of the SUV. Mrs. Byers turned to face her. “It was so nice finally meeting you, Olivia. I always like to meet Cate’s new friends. Tell your mom I look forward to finally meeting her at Mommies and Muffins on Friday.”
Mommies and Muffins. Not likely, Olivia thought. Her mom’s job always came first. “Thanks for the ride,” she said. Cate and Beth waved through the open door.
Mrs. Byers started fingering the keys as if she were going to turn off the engine. Instead she set the truck’s parking brake apparently intending to wait for Olivia to get inside safely. Olivia balked. “Oh, you don’t have to wait for me. I’m just going inside right here,” Olivia said pointing toward the brightly lit front door.
“You kids think you’re all grown up.” Mrs. Byers gave a knowing smile, her teeth flashing white in the soft glow of the dozen tiny interior lights. “Hope to see you soon.”
Olivia jumped from the running board, slammed the door, and ran up the slippery front walk toward the faux Tudor style building. The SUV pulled away from the curb, and Olivia breathed a sigh of relief.
She searched for her keys in all the pockets of her purple nylon Kipling backpack. She felt around and found the furry gorilla charm that sucked its own thumb, but no keys.
“Shit,” she whispered fiercely, then covered her foul mouth with her hands. The memory hit her squarely between the eyes. She’d left the keys in her room because her mom had promised to pick her up tonight. Looking up at the second floor living room window, the bulb of a single lamp glowed. Hope burgeoned in her chest. Maybe her mom was awake. Olivia rang the doorbell, pressing and holding the button for long seconds, praying she didn’t wake up the landlords downstairs.
She stood for what felt like hours, alternatively ringing the doorbell and listening for the sound of her mother’s uneven footfalls on the stairs. But her mom didn’t come. Olivia walked down the cracked asphalt driveway to the back door. Ineffectually, she pulled and twisted the knob. It was locked as well. She came round front again.
Panicked, sweat broke out everywhere as Olivia considered her options. She could walk back the way they’d come, down Chagrin to the gas station at the huge five-street intersection at the end of the Blue Line and call her mom, if she could find a working pay phone. Looking around the darkened street, hearing the wet leaves of the towering maples and oaks shake in the wind, she shivered. Not a good idea.
Olivia studied the front door. It was wood with large decorative glass inserts. She could see the dead bolt, which held the door locked, through the panes. Without a second thought, Olivia took off her jacket, balled it around her fist, and broke one of the eight squares in the door. The shards of glass were surprisingly quiet as they hit the hallway runner. Reaching in, she turned the lock, walked inside, and ran up the stairs.
Grateful to find the door to their apartment unlocked, Olivia pushed it open quietly. Her mom was snoring loudly, splayed out on the couch. The television blared the nightly news theme. It took a few seconds of searching to find the remote, but a satisfying silence fell when she stabbed the red off button. With a sigh, she pulled a blanket over her mom and then went to bed.
Two
Qualified Immunity
October 9, 2001
No good parents’ children just fell into the foster care system. The ancient springs of Sheila Harrison Grant’s chair squeaked as she leaned away from the voluminous file. If Precious Evans’ parents hadn’t abused the little girl, she wouldn’t be where she was today. And today Precious was in hell.
Sheila looked up as a faint knock sounded on the wall next to her open door. Nancy McFadden, her courtroom deputy, peeked around the door.
“Judge, they’re ready for you now. Do you need anything on the bench?”
“A glass of water, Nancy. Thanks.” But her deputy remained at the door, expectant. “Tell them I’ll be out in five.”
“Will do, Judge,” she said, finally leaving the room.
Judge. Sheila would have to get used to that. Though she had been on the bench for more than nine months, she was still unaccustomed to being called ‘Judge’ or ‘Your Honor,’ or even more formally, ‘The Court.’ Between Christmas and New Year’s last year, the outgoing president, a liberal Democrat, appointed Sheila to the federal district court in the Northern District of Ohio.
Unlike the judges down the hall, Sheila wasn’t a lifer—yet. She was almost as vulnerable to losing her job as the welders at the local steel mill because she was a recess appointee. A seldom-used clause of the constitution permitted the president to appoint her to fill a vacancy of the court, skipping the normal confirmation process.
Recess appointees didn’t get a lifetime appointment. Instead, the full U.S. Senate would have to confirm Sheila before the end of the next Congressional session, a deadline less than a year away. If she weren’t confirmed, she’d be out of a job.
Historically, a recess appointment was a vehicle to appoint progressive or minority judges, like Sheila. Even Thurgood Marshall began his judicial career as a recess appointee. Earl Warren was such an appointee to the Supreme Court when it heard the history-making Brown versus the Board of Education case.
Though Sheila was the first African-American judge to serve in the Northern District of Ohio, she wasn’t sur
e that particular designation would help her survive the confirmation process. After the most controversial election in her lifetime, a far more conservative administration had replaced the Democrats’ and diversity was no longer a priority.
Sheila shook her head clear of the political sludge she’d waded into. The old-timer judges she sometimes shared lunch with tried to school her in ‘playing politics’ if she wanted to make her job permanent. Her nineteen years at her former law firm had given her some political savvy; after all, she’d become partner. But without Peyton. Damn it, she didn’t need Peyton Bennett’s help; she could play three-dimensional chess all by herself.
Looking down, Sheila only saw a few drops of liquid and specks of coffee grounds in her mug. Dog tired after reading up on the case she had to preside over, she had been kept her tossing and turning all night by Precious Evans. Slamming the file shut, Sheila worked to get thoughts of confirmation out of her head. It was time to get to work. She twisted her pen closed, then pushed herself back from her desk—too quickly. Sheila grabbed her middle when a wave of nausea attacked.
Every damn morning, Sheila’s skull pounded, and this was no exception. After fumbling with the ornate brass pull for her top right hand drawer, she pulled out her half-empty bottle of Tylenol, shook out two tablets, and swallowed them dry. She shouldn’t be letting this stress get to her.
She pulled her five-foot-six frame to its full height and shrugged on her robe in front of the full-length mirror. The black made her look authoritative, but did little to compliment her looks. According to her daughter Olivia, she may be ‘officially’ middle-aged, but she still looked pretty good. Spanning her waist, she was proud to say she wore the same size eight as when she’d graduated from law school. Zipping up the robe hid the pale yellow wool that better suited her brown-skinned coloring.
