by Aime Austin
“That’s too bad. She’s a smart kid. But if she stays in the Cleveland public schools, she’ll never go anywhere.”
Olivia wanted to defend her friend, was aching to point out that her mom and dad had gone to Cleveland public schools. Were they nowhere? She bit back her retort, instead grabbing the door handle when her mom made an erratic turn from St. Clair to East One Hundred Fifth Street. They pulled into the small parking lot of East Town Eagle. Olivia sank into her seat, intractable when her mom urged her in.
“I’ll stay in the car.”
“Olivia, c’mon. Mr. Ossman has been asking after you for a while. Plus, you can get whatever you want.”
With heavy feet, she shuffled after her mother into the little store. She looked through the front display racks, considering her potato chip options, when her mother moved to the back of the store. She’d picked up a jumbo bag of Funyuns when she was summoned.
“O-LIV-I-A,” the yodeling of her name by her mom made her skin crawl. “Come say ‘Hi’ to Mr. Ossman, girl.”
Scuffing her feet along the floor, Olivia inched along the tile floor before coming to the back counter. “Hello.”
“C’mere and give me some sugar,” Mr. Ossman said, pulling Olivia around the counter into a bear hug, smacking a juicy kiss on her cheeks. Mr. Ossman, a redboned, bear of a man, had worked at East Town Eagle for as long as Olivia could remember. For the last few years, she’d gone with her mom every few weeks or so. Her mom stocked up on rum and Olivia was allowed to get anything she wanted, no matter how unhealthy. The visits had stopped once they’d moved, and she hadn’t missed them or the junk food, really.
“How you doin’ out there in Shaker? Don’t think you’re too good for us over here. You should stop-on-over more often.” He pulled Olivia so close, she was halfway on his lap.
Sheila answered for her. “Olivia’s doing nicely. The schools in Shaker are exceptional. She’s already talking about college, aren’t you Olivia?”
She’d never said a word about college. Olivia shifted, uncomfortably hot on Mr. Ossman’s lap. Her mother had fixed her with a piercing glare. “Yes, sir, Mr. Ossman. I’m enjoying Shaker.” Duty fulfilled, Olivia had jumped down from the store owner’s lap. “Can I get these, and a pop?”
Seizing the moment, Olivia had run to the front of the store and pulled a strawberry soda from the refrigerator case. Mr. Ossman had dropped the pop into a plastic bag with her chips. Her mother’s own brown bag had already disappeared into her oversized tote.
When the station’s front door opened, Olivia looked down, surprised to find her snack demolished. Two cops walked in behind a tall, thin, dark skinned guy in handcuffs. Sizing up the room, the perp nodded at Olivia. She stared back, never having seen anyone in real handcuffs before.
The officers left the guy on the chair next to her, unlocking the door to the back. They talked to each other about some domestic violence incident and an unwarranted gun call. She looked away from the guy. They were just going to leave her here, all alone, with a criminal. Ready to pound on the glass, she looked up to see Bernice Johnson in full stride.
“Sorry it took so long, but there were some snags in finding you a place for tonight.”
If she had no place to go…. Hope chased away the fear. “Does that mean I can go home now?”
“No.” Bernice’s answer brooked no argument. “I had some problems. I’ve found you a nice place to stay—far away from your mother.”
Oh. For five hours she’d wanted to be anywhere else but here. Now she’d happily stay here, next to the handcuffed guy all night. But Bernice was tapping her foot with impatience. Balling up the cellophane bag, Olivia pitched it into the bin and smeared her yellowed fingers on her pants. She slipped her wallet into her backpack and hefted it onto her shoulders, following Bernice out the door.
The floor of the aging Ford Escort was filled with plastic toys, greasy Happy Meal remains and girls’ plastic barrettes. She looked down the yellow stains on her pants, immediately regretting her carelessness. The bag in the trunk only held school books. What was she going to wear tomorrow? Sleep in tonight? Rubbing her tongue along the film of the corn snack on her teeth, she realized that she didn’t even have a toothbrush.
When Olivia worked up the nerve to speak, she asked, “Where are we going?” The social worker was intently focused on the street outside the car’s windshield. It was a long time between her sigh of exasperation and her answer.
“We don’t have anywhere permanent for you. For the next few days, you’re going to stay with Sadie Watkins. She loves kids.”
Olivia clutched at her seat belt when Bernice consulted a wrinkled paper, making a sudden left turn on to East Seventy-ninth Street. She stopped her car in front of a simple wood framed house, pulling the emergency brake up with a jerk.
“Here we are.” A voice full of false brightness. “Look, I’ll be back here in a few days to get you into someplace more permanent.” Bernice opened her own car door. Paralyzed with fear, Olivia stayed put. Darkness shrouded the homes. Was she supposed to call this hers for the night?
“C’mon,” Bernice urged. “Let’s get going. It’s getting late.”
Side by side, they walked up the five steps to the porch. There was no sound inside after Bernice rang the doorbell. She rapped loudly on the screen door. Olivia jumped when it rattled on its hinges, prompting a baby’s cry. A disheveled woman silhouetted against the screen. The door squeaked open and in the shadow stood a brown skinned, thickset woman in bathrobe and slippers. Olivia wondered if the woman was home sick. It was nowhere close to bedtime.
“Hello, Miz Johnson,” the woman said. “Is this the girl I’m takin’ tonight?”
“Yes, Sadie. That’s Mrs. Watkins to you,” Bernice said, facing Olivia. “This is Olivia Grant. She came from school, so she doesn’t have anything. We’ll try to get some vouchers out to you right away. If you don’t have any questions, I have to go. It’s long past the time I’m supposed to clock out.” Bernice said, pointedly looking at her watch.
“I know what to do with these chi’rens, Miz Johnson. You be goin’ now,” Sadie said.
Olivia looked down from the porch, past the dry brown weed patch that passed for a lawn, watching the social worker drive away, and with it, any hope of home.
“C’mon in, child. Don’t be shy. You’ll be fine here. Miz Johnson tol’ me on the phone that you’re having some problems with your ma. Don’t you worry, the county will take good care of you while your mom gets better. The county sure does good by us.” Sadie’s laugh turned into a phlegmy cough.
From the darkened hallway, Olivia could see a small room on the right dwarfed by a huge projection TV. A talk show with wisecracking guests blared larger than life. Sadie steered her to the dining room and kitchen on the left. Smoothing her hair back, the woman pointed to the only corner without clutter. “Put your bag there. Are you hungry, chile? I was just puttin’ some supper on. Sit down at the table.”
Sadie shuffled over to the kitchen, got some floured pork chops from the counter, dropping them into a black skillet sizzling with fat. “You lucky to be heah, girl. Tonight, we’re having a right good dinner, candied yams, fried pork chops, and even some okra from the yard.” Olivia squirmed in her seat, Sadie eyeing her up and down. “You’re a skinny little thing. Hope you have a good appetite.”
Despite the combination of nerves, hunger, and acid in her belly, Olivia smiled. She’d never thought of herself as skinny. And the food did smell really good. Maybe this wouldn’t be a bad place to be while her mother straightened everything out. The house was a little messed up, but Sadie seemed nice enough.
Six was early for dinner, but Sadie set a full plate before Olivia. Swallowing past the fear, Olivia spoke. “Miss Sadie? Can I have something to drink?”
“Sure thang, baby.” Sadie opened the olive colored refrigerator and removed a plastic pitcher. Something purple and sweet smelling poured out into a plastic cup. She handed it to Olivia alon
g with a fork and knife. “I need to check on the baby, hon. Make yourself at home.”
Olivia got up from the table and turned on another TV, sitting atop a tarnished brass stand. She retrieved the remote she spotted on the windowsill, and flipped through the channels. The woman had Showtime and HBO! She turned to the beginning of Bring it On!—one of her favorite movies. The pork chops weren’t bad either. The food displaced her unease. By her second serving, she wasn’t even worried about where she’d sleep.
Fifteen
Emergency Custody
October 23, 2001
Casey was gunning for Tricia Pachencko. Several knots of social workers gabbed over morning coffee. With faces full of youthful enthusiasm, or knowing resignation, they were easily spotted. She squinted, reading one tag after another. None was her Pachencko. But what would a bribe-taking, baby-selling, civil servant look like?
Refusing to be intimidated by a labyrinthine process she was just beginning to work out, she took a deep breath and shouted, “Nelson! Anyone here on the Nelson case?”
A squat, ill-dressed social worker broke from the crowd, answering the call. Her piggish eyes assessed Casey, finding her lacking. “Are you the G-A-L on the case?”
“I’m Casey Cort.” Casey tried not to recoil when Pachencko pawed a quick hand through stringy hair, wiped it on her blouse, and then took Casey’s hand.
“Trish Pachencko. Been working cases here ten years. Haven’t seen you before.” Did her law degree come with an expiration date? “This is your lucky day. Cases don’t get any easier than this.”
Righteous indignation dried in her mouth. In spite of her choice of profession, confrontation wasn’t her thing. The dull roar of the hallway filled her ears. What if the foster mom was lying, and she hadn’t paid Pachencko? The social worker patted her shoulder. “All the mom’s other kids have been removed. And since she’s in jail, we’ve got grounds to get this one. C’mon Casey, visit the foster mom and the baby. You’ll see that it’s a good home. The kid—”
“I’ve met Mrs. James,” she interrupted.
“Then you know. One month. The kids get a permanent home and you get paid.” Pachencko walked away without a backward glance, melting into the crowd.
Girding herself, she sat down to wait. Casey was about to throw a wrench in the slow grinding gears of juvenile justice. Magistrate Chambers opened his door. She recognized the officer who did nearly all the emergency custody hearings. She snapped her briefcase shut, hoping hers was the first to be called. No such luck. “Grant!” he shouted down the hall. “Is everyone here on Grant?”
It was nearly a half hour before Casey got into the room. What in the hell had happened in here, she wondered. Everyone looked a little shell shocked. Rarely did these hearings last more than a few minutes. The magistrate actually smiled at her as the room filled with Pachencko and the prosecutor. “Easy one?” he asked, looking hopeful.
Casey tried not to look away.
He closed the door behind them, and started talking into the tape recorder. “We’re here in a petition for permanent custody—” Chambers stopped the tape mid-sentence. “Lunch is out the window today. What in the heck do we have here? Valerie?”
The room was silent as the prosecutor familiarized herself with the complaint. No shrinking violet, Pachencko spoke up when the prosecutor didn’t.
“Your Honor. This is the deal. The mom here had the baby in prison. She’s lost all her other kids to PC, already. Obviously, in jail she can’t do a case plan and get ready in the next six months, so we’re going straight for PC. Casey here can tell you the kid’s in a good foster-to-adopt situation. The mom’s not here, so I think we can close this one.”
The magistrate nodded, doing his best imitation of pensive. Pachencko slipped her file in her shoulder bag, ready for the court to rule in the county’s favor, and get on with her day. The prosecutor was still flipping through files. The hearing officer glanced at her. “Casey, is it?”
Here goes the wrench. “Magistrate, I think permanent custody is the wrong way to go.” Everyone stilled. Great, she loved talking into a room full of silence. “I visited the mom. She’s not in prison, exactly. She had the baby in Franklin because that’s where everyone in custody has to go. She’s in pre-release, scheduled to come out in six weeks, and she wants her baby back.” Casey took out her own thick file, ready to answer any questions. The research, the visits, the whole thing had taken up two long days. She’d be lucky to get minimum wage on this case when all was said and done.
“Valerie?”
The prosecutor had finally found what she was looking for. “Okay. This mom has five kids total. The others we got permanent custody on.”
“Why?”
The prosecutor read aloud. “Because she was incarcerated for five years on a drug charge.”
Casey opened her own file and decided to hit them with some facts. “The court did grant PC on the mom’s other kids because of the sentence, but not for abuse or neglect. Her boyfriend was dealing drugs, and she got busted when the cops came to their house. She got charged with possession and intent, same as him, based on what was in the house. He admitted during his plea that he was the dealer, that she didn’t know about it, and had nothing to do with it. He was dealing at his day job as a delivery guy. Drugs with your pizza, I guess.
“The mom’s got parents willing to help her, a high school diploma, and other than this, no blemishes on her record. I think this baby needs to be in emergency or temporary custody until Mom gets out. I can’t see any reason why this can’t happen.”
“Any objections, Valerie?” The prosecutor shook her head, mute. “Ms. Pachencko?”
Pachencko glared at Casey. Casey stared right back giving Pachencko a look that said, ‘you cross me and the bribery stuff goes all over the record.’ The social worker nodded mutely, though her face shone purple with indignation.
The magistrate pressed the tape recorder again, and recited the case number. “The county has modified its petition for permanent custody to a request for temporary custody. All parties agree. It is so ordered.”
Sixteen
Emergency Custody, Part 2
October 23, 2001
Late and discouraged by her trip to the wrong juvenile court building, and rough handling by the sheriff’s deputies there, Sheila walked up to the right building and did her best to bolster her flagging spirit. The last time she’d been here had been nearly two decades ago when she’d taken on some poor kid on a pro bono case.
The last visit did nothing to prepare her for the sheer number of people teeming around the building, or the carnival atmosphere. Parents patronized roadside carts, buying restless kids hot dogs, soda, and candy while attorneys hammered out deals on the steps. The quaint brick building used to house children and have courtrooms. With the war on crime, the kids had been moved somewhere else, and it was nothing but wall-to-wall courtrooms as far as the eye could see.
But see was all she did as Sheila bypassed the circus. She had to give her briefcase to one guard, while walking through the airport style metal detector. When she beeped, she was grabbed by a third guard who waved a wand over every inch of her body. The guards’ eyes met. “She’s clear,” one said, while the other handed her the open and disarrayed briefcase.
Going straight to a large reception desk, Sheila was blatantly ignored while a young woman held up an airbrushed nail and finished her personal call.
“What you need?” she asked, finally addressing Sheila.
Tamping down her impatience, she said, “I have an eight-thirty hearing before Magistrate Chambers.”
“First room on your left,” the receptionist said, pointing to a long hallway thick with bodies.
Locating the small room, Sheila swallowed, her throat painful with frustration and worry, and struggled to keep her cool. Her one goal was to get her daughter home. Whatever hell the juvenile system had for the rest of the poor families in Cleveland wasn’t her concern. She would soldier on,
battle through today, and never have to come back here to be disregarded and disrespected.
A thickset woman lumbered to the door. “Did you sign in?”
Sheila looked down at the numbered list affixed to the clipboard. Pulling her gold pen from her briefcase, she signed her name with a flourish. But there was no magic today. Usually adding her signature awarded millions or put someone in prison. Today her name was just one on a long list. Looking for a place to sit, she found every bench full. A young dishwater blonde called the name ‘Nelson,’ and rose from the bench. Working to keep her suit crisp, Sheila smoothed her clothes before wedging herself between a surly teenager and a woman bouncing a fussy baby on her lap.
Sheila fought panic and hysteria as long minutes passed. When Olivia’s name was finally called, Sheila walked into the hearing room the size of a janitor’s closet. My God, this magistrate can take people’s kids away, but he doesn’t even have his own courtroom? Where were the bailiff and court reporter going to fit, she wondered as she occupied the last empty chair. When the magistrate closed the door, immediately pressing a red and black button on a tape recorder, Sheila was stunned.
Like everyone, she’d heard stories about the stunning lack of progress in the juvenile court system, but tape recorders were as backwards as anyplace could get.
Get Olivia home. She repeated it to herself like a mantra. Procedural problems could be ignored.
The magistrate stated the case number. “We’re all here in the matter of Olivia Grant. Representing the county, we have Valerie Dodds,” he droned, motioning to a twenty-something black woman in a baggy green suit. Chambers scanned the room, his eyes landing on Celeste Young. “You’re the intake worker on this case?” Young nodded.
He looked quizzically at Sheila, “And you are?”
Her voice carried, echoed in the small room. “Sheila Harrison Grant. My daughter is Olivia.”
