by Aime Austin
Sheila looked at the white princess phone next to her bed, tapping its plastic surface with her fingernails. She needed help. Parenting was kicking her butt. Maybe her ex-husband was the answer she was looking for. Keith had always loved Olivia. He’d probably be involved in her life now, if he wasn’t hiding out from child support enforcement. Pulling open her nightstand, she got her address book out. It was woefully thin, empty save twenty or so people.
Cora Bigham’s number was in ink under the B’s. Keith’s maternal aunt had lived in the same house for more than fifty years. Cora and Keith had always been close. She’d know where her nephew was. Sheila picked up the phone and dropped it again. What could Keith bring to the table? He hadn’t really been in Olivia’s life after his mother died.
Without nagging from the mother-in-law, it was like her ex had lost interest in fatherhood. Sheila put the empty glass down and looked at her bare ring finger. It wasn’t the divorce that was a mistake, it was the marriage. She lifted the receiver, holding the phone.
The dial tone changed to a series of short buzzing noises. Sheila placed the receiver down, more carefully this time. Keith wasn’t the answer. How could he show up for his daughter when he hadn’t even shown up for the divorce nine years ago?
“Grant versus Grant!” The bailiff had shouted.
Everything on Judge Miller had glittered. She had looked more like a drag queen than an officer of the court. The rock on her finger lit up the room like a crystal chandelier. The jewels at her throat and wrists sparkled. Oddly, the judge hadn’t found all the opulence out of place in a courtroom of mostly indigent litigants.
Sheila and Peyton stepped to the bench.
Judge Miller looked down at them from the bench. Her gold-rimmed, diamond studded glasses slid down her nose.
“Are you Sheila Grant?”
Peyton answered for her, “Yes, Your Honor.”
Judge Miller pushed up her glasses and scanned the papers in front of her. “You have a three year old daughter, Olivia Grant?”
Peyton answered again, “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Let’s see, husband Keith Grant hasn’t answered these divorce papers, though he’s been served. Does your husband work?”
Sheila answered for herself this time, clearing the frog that seemed to have lodged in her throat when she entered the neoclassical building. “No, Your Honor.”
“Oh, they never do…” The judge looked away. Something in the papers had caught her eye.
“Well, well Mr. Bennett. You’re far from your home turf. It’s rare that we see folks like you from Bennett Friehof around these parts. Word is that you don’t like to get your white shoes dirty here.” The judge laughed heartily at her own joke, then turned serious.
“From these papers, Ms. Grant, I see that you’re earning a sizable salary at Bennett Friehof. I’m going to order that your soon-to-be ex-husband pay the statutory minimum child support of fifty dollars a week. In addition, I’ll order Mr. Grant to immediately seek work so that we can attach his wages for this child support order. Be sure to come in for a modification upwards when you know he’s working.
“Ms. Grant, I’m going to ask you a few questions. Do you want a divorce here today?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Sheila said, swallowing her pride. Admitting before everyone that she’d failed at something was painful.
“You have asked for a divorce on the grounds of irreconcilable differences. Are you and your husband unable to live together as man and wife?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“I’ll grant you a divorce today. Good luck.” The judge moved the green folder to a thick pile, and the bailiff called the next case.
Sheila held herself tall as she walked down the full courtroom and out of the heavy leather-covered doors. Peyton grasped her arm, stalling her progress down the hall, and pulled her to one of the wood benches lining the hallway of the ornately decorated 1920’s building.
In a movement familiar to both of them, Peyton’s larger hand enveloped her smaller one, and he placed their joined fingers in his lap. As if sensing her unease, he spoke. “I’ll tell you a story about Judge Miller.”
Sheila looked down at their hands, then up at her mentor. No matter the ups and downs in their relationship, their connection had always remained strong. She nodded, letting him take her mind off the end of her marriage.
“Ten years ago my father had a barbecue at his house. I’d mentioned it casually at some bar luncheon, and Judge Miller invited herself along. My dad would not have wanted her company so I told her some tale about having steaks and that we’d already given the caterer a number.
“So the barbecue comes along and you’ll never guess who showed up, but Judge Miller. And here’s the best part—she brought her own steak!” Peyton chuckled, then laughed, then guffawed.
Although she couldn’t join in his laughter, she saw the humor in the situation, and appreciated Peyton’s attempt to take her mind off her divorce. The judge’s bailiff came out and handed the court’s file to Peyton.
“If you walk it through, the clerk’s office will issue the final decree today.”
Not taking his hand from Sheila’s, Peyton took the folder, thanking the bailiff profusely. If Sheila had learned one thing during her years of practice, it was to be nice to the court’s staff. Today’s divorce court bailiff could be working on multi-million dollar civil cases tomorrow. One misplaced word could make or break your case.
The bailiff stepped back into the chambers and left them in the empty hallway. Peyton slid down the bench a few inches so he could look her in the eye. His gaze caught her up short like it always did. Her throat dried, her heart beat so loudly, she couldn’t hear anything else, and she couldn’t remember why she always pushed him away.
“The last time I asked you, Keith was your excuse.”
Sheila swallowed against the lump in her throat.
“If I ask you in one hour, or three, will your answer be any different?” He tapped the file against his knee. It was the only chink in his armor. The only indication that the next words she said could change everything. She didn’t know how long they’d sat that way, but the spill of litigants from Judge Miller’s room broke the spell. “I’ll see you back at the office in an hour,” he said at normal volume. “Say yes,” he said in a more intimate tone.
Sheila nodded noncommittally at Peyton, stood and walked down the long corridor, heels clicking on the cold marble floors. She knew without looking back that she was going to let this last chance at possible happiness slip through her fingers. Peyton would never have forgiven the secret she’d kept from him these last three years, nine months, and twenty-three days. She’d have to live with that.
Sleep was the only thing that saved Sheila from repeated thoughts about what might have been. A stiff drink eased the transition from wakeful reminiscence to dreamless sleep. At 2:42, Sheila jolted awake. The faint sounds of a television filtered through her sleepy haze.
“Olivia!” she yelled. “Get up from in front of that TV and get to bed!” It took a few minutes, but she heard Olivia tiptoe past her door. Slipping on her own house shoes, she took her empty glass downstairs. After she pulled the bottle from the back of the cabinet and eased it from the paper bag, she hesitated, wondering how this would look to someone from the outside. She wondered if she might have a problem with drinking. That voice quickly quieted.
She had one of the most stressful jobs in America. Single-handedly, she was responsible for the fates of defendants, deciding who won or lost millions of dollars, making judgments in cases that could mean the success or failure of businesses—and the people employed by them, and the shareholders invested in them. If she needed a drink to unwind, that was okay.
Leaning against the counter, she sipped her final drink of the night. It was too quiet in this house. Climbing the stairs, she emptied the glass, and clearing her mind of Peyton and Keith, eased back to bed and into a fitful sleep.
Ten
&nbs
p; Hotline
October 22, 2001
“696-KIDS, how can we help you?”
“Hi! I mean good morning,” Alison started, nearly dropping the phone in her nervousness. “I’m calling to report something…I feel may be…unhealthy…for a child I know.”
“What’s the situation?”
“I think the child’s mother has an alcohol problem.”
“Child’s name?” the operator asked.
“Olivia Grant,” Alison said.
“Address?”
Alison rustled through the file on her desk, having forgotten where she’d dropped Olivia off in her nervousness. “2603 Latimore Road in Shaker Heights.” Although Alison had heard the operator’s pen scratching the entire duration of the phone call, there was sudden silence.
“Excuse me,” the operator cleared her own throat. “Did you say Shaker?” The operator paused. “We hardly get any calls from there.”
Alison was speechless for a moment then started speaking rapidly to cover the awkwardness. “I am a little hesitant reporting this. But I think I’m required to make this report by law.”
The operator sighed audibly. “Can you tell me what you’ve observed that would lead you to suspect abuse in the home?”
“I can’t exactly tell you that,” Alison said, feeling a little like Pandora. Had she opened a box she wouldn’t be able to close? “Things aren’t right. The girl is smart, but she’s doing poorly in school. And she confided in me that her mother drinks every night.”
“Mm-hm.”
Alison’s voice rose. “Olivia had to break into her own house when her mom passed out one night. And her mom is verbally abusive. It may even be physical.”
“Did she use those words?”
“Not exactly. I’m just summarizing what she said to me. You see,” Alison started, the operator sighed, but she pushed on. “I have this all-girls peer group here, and Olivia’s been asking questions which make me think there are a lot of problems in her house.”
“Anything else you’d like to add?”
“I think maybe I saw her mom yelling at her and twisting her arm. I can’t exactly be sure. It happened so quickly during a drop off.”
“Thank you for your report. We’ll forward this to the appropriate social worker for review and investigation. Did you want to remain anonymous?”
Alison paused for a moment. She didn’t realize that she didn’t have to give her name. The operator breathed heavily into the phone. Anonymity versus outing herself ping-ponged in her mind. On the one hand, as a school official, she knew she was required to report anything she suspected. On the other hand, maybe if she remained anonymous then Olivia would never found out she’d betrayed her trust.
“I want to remain anonymous for now,” Alison said. “But can you note that I can come forward if the social worker needs my corroboration?”
“Thank you for calling 696-KIDS.”
Eleven
An Inauspicious Visit
October 23, 2001
By ten in the morning, Sheila already felt as if she’d worked an entire day. She’d been on the bench for nearly two hours, working to clear her docket of civil matters. During the ten minute recess she’d called, Sheila added two more aspirin to the Tylenol already floating in her empty stomach, before the bailiff called the last hearing. Standing and zipping up her black robes, Sheila came to the bench.
“Please be seated. Last on the docket we have Busby versus Amalgamated Conglomerated, Limited.”
Two older men in suits came forward.
“Good morning, Your Honor,” one man said. “I’m Jacob Schmidt representing the plaintiff.”
The other attorney, not to be left behind, quickly stepped forward to the other table. “I’m Stephen Hewitt of Hogarth, Clovis, and Banning. We represent Amalgamated, Your Honor.”
“All right, gentlemen. You should have worked any discovery disputes out yourselves, but you’re here. What’s the problem?
Both men started talking. “One at a time,” she warned. The plaintiff’s attorney blamed the defendant for stonewalling—hiding damaging information. The defendant accused the plaintiff of going on a fishing expedition.
The attorneys spoke in turn, their voices rising with indignation. While they made themselves red in the face with anger, a young black woman came in and sat at the back of the spectator’s gallery. Momentarily turning her attention from the angry voices, Sheila looked at the woman quizzically. A twinge of unease snaked through her belly, but she chalked it up to the painkillers on an empty stomach.
The woman wasn’t dressed like an attorney, and Sheila couldn’t remember seeing her before. Maybe she was visiting the courtroom. Occasionally, the public exercised their right to observe the courtrooms their tax dollars supported.
Sheila turned her attention back to the two men. They’d blown off enough steam. It was time to rein them in.
“Counselors, I have a solution to your problem.” She looked pointedly at the plaintiff’s attorney. “Mr. Schmidt, you need to have your client available for depositions. No excuses. Mr. Hewitt, Amalgamated isn’t going to pull one over on this court. Don’t think that because I’m up here on the bench, I’ve forgotten the practice of law.”
She turned her gaze on Hewitt, narrowing her eyes for emphasis. “You will provide the requested documents in thirty days. Inform your client that if the documents mysteriously disappear, I’ll find them in contempt and fine them. Bottom line: get the documents to the plaintiff, and let’s get on with the case.”
Schmidt was smirking like he’d won a round of boxing. “Mr. Schmidt, don’t get too happy. I’m not Santa Claus, and this ain’t Christmas. Your case looks weak. You’ll get your documents. But after discovery is done, and I’ve reviewed the motion for summary judgment that I’m one hundred percent sure the defendant is going to file, and I find out you don’t have a case, I’ll dismiss this action faster than you can cross Superior Boulevard.
“Gentlemen, do we understand each other?” They both smiled, thinking they’d come out ahead. “Good, then. My clerks will prepare the order,” Sheila said, dismissing the lawyers. She rose from the bench, ready for a break in her chambers, then she remembered the young woman in her courtroom. If the girl were a potential law student, Sheila could spare five minutes. She looked back and the young woman rose as if to speak.
“Can I help you?” Sheila asked from the top stair of the bench.
“Yes, I think so,” the young woman said, unsure.
Sheila waited.
“Are you Sheila Grant?”
Taken aback by her lack of formality, she straightened her robe. Adding steel to her voice, she said, “Yes, I’m Judge Grant.”
The woman paused a beat too long. Sheila’s patience was wearing thin. She waved her hand, urging the girl to get on with it. “I’m Celeste Young with the Cuyahoga County Department of Children and Family Services,” Young said, attempting to hand over a card.
The bailiff, charged with protecting Sheila’s personal safety, approached Young, hand firmly planted on the holster of his gun. “Ma’am. Step back. Do not approach the judge,” he warned.
Suddenly sorry for the lost woman, Sheila said, “I think you’re in the wrong place, that’s all. The family court is over on Lakeside.” Softening her strident tone, she continued. “People make this mistake all the time. These buildings are almost identical. If you follow Superior through Public Square, and go down Ontario toward the lake, you can’t miss it.” Sheila turned back toward her chambers. The woman continued her approach. “Ma’am. Step back.” The bailiff’s warning was final.
“Um, I don’t think I’m in the wrong place. I really need to speak with the Judge,” she said, proffering the card again. That woman needed some damned backbone. She’d never succeed professionally with all the hemming and hawing. “It’s about her daughter, Olivia.”
Whipping around, Sheila’s voice went from steel to shrill. “Oh my goodness! Is there something wrong with
Olivia? Is she okay? What’s going on?”
Young again looked unsure. “Ma’am, um, Your Honor, I think I need to speak with you privately.”
Sheila’s confident countenance gave way to uncertainty. “Does this concern my daughter Olivia?”
“Yes.” Young nodded.
“Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” Young said. “She’s at school right now. Everything’s fine. But I do really need to talk to you.”
Relief flooded through her veins. “George,” Sheila said to her bailiff, “I’ll see her in my chambers in ten minutes.” She resumed the walk to the back. It would take her that long to shake the fizzy vein feeling the rush of adrenaline had caused. Damned woman had almost given her a heart attack, mentioning Olivia. This was probably about some damned volunteer hours she’d missed, or something. While she balled and released her hands, one of her clerks approached her. “Not now,” Sheila hissed, stopping the clerk in her tracks.
She slammed the door of her office and threw her robe on its hook. “Celeste Young, Intake Worker,” was penned in light blue ink on the card in her hand. Anyone could write their name on one of these. Lifting the phone, she dialed the number on the card and got a recording. Moving her eyes from the handwriting on the card to the phone, she punched in the extension. A voice that sounded like Young’s came through on the voice mail. If she was legit, what was wrong with Olivia? Panic, previously subsided, came back with a flash, dampening her palms, making the area under her bra uncomfortable with sweat.
“Nancy. Have George show the young woman in,” Sheila requested via intercom.
Within a few seconds, Young entered Sheila’s office. “Have a seat.” The woman plopped down. “Now tell me what’s going on with Olivia.”
“Ms., um, Judge Grant? I’m an intake worker with the county. I’m responsible for removing children from unsafe homes.”
Those new suburban girls were trouble. She knew it. “Which one of her friends is in trouble?”
