Qualified Immunity

by Aime Austin

  During the deliberation, one juror started crying. The name on the brunette’s shirt read: Luz Dalangin. “I can’t believe they made a joke about comfort women,” she said, sniffling. “Where my parents came from in the Philippines, that’s not something we joke about. I just…I just found out my grandmother was one of the Lolas those assholes at Arron found so funny.”

  Another female juror shook her lowered head. “These men were mean because he was Asian. I don’t know if he was doing a good job or not, but they shouldn’t have said those things.”

  Later in the deliberation another juror who’d been quiet the entire time spoke up. “I don’t normally think there’s anything to these race lawsuits. But in this case, Arron is guilty.”

  The jurors decided on the issue of Arron’s liability and started arguing damages amongst themselves. Peyton and Dennis, box lunches in hand, walked to a small conference room down the hall from the deliberation.

  “And Sheila didn’t think this was a problem?” Dennis asked, excess turkey club mayonnaise filling the corners of his mouth.

  Reflexively wiping his own mouth, Peyton answered. “Maybe Staszak didn’t give her all the facts.”

  “I’ve known Jerry for years. We were at University School together. Sheila? Who the hell knows what she was thinking?”

  “Sheila’s very smart. We recruited her straight from Michigan.”

  “That’s affirmative action for you,” Dennis said, stuffing the remainder of his sandwich in his mouth and tossing his napkin toward the wastebasket. He missed. A young associate hesitantly poked his head through the door. “The jury’s reached a verdict.”

  Peyton returned to the courtroom, sitting at the counsel table. Dennis joined the firm’s other lawyers at the defense table farthest from the jury. The ‘judge’ came back to the courtroom. He nodded toward the jury. “Have you reached a verdict?”

  “We have.”

  “What say you?” asked the bombastic young associate, enjoying his role.

  “In the matter of David Park versus Arron Medical Systems, we find for the plaintiff, Mr. Park, in the amount of ten million dollars.”

  Peyton slumped back into his wooden chair, resigned. He cast a quick glance toward Sheila who had gone unnoticed in the gallery. While an associate paid the jurors their one hundred fifty dollar fee for a day’s work, the lawyers gathered their papers. Before leaving the building, Peyton pulled Sheila aside in a small corridor.

  He looked at Sheila, seeing her clearly for the first time in a long time.

  Instead of her usual direct stare, she lowered her eyes. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

  “I don’t know what’s going on with you. I’d always been so proud that we hired you. I know the firm hasn’t always treated you fairly. But you’ve always, always been on the ball.”

  “Peyton, I’ve given my life to this firm.” Her tone was pleading. “I’ve lost my husband. I barely know my daughter. This—you are all I have.”

  “Us doesn’t exist anymore. I was your mentor. But now I’m your partner.” They were standing only a hair’s breadth apart. “I have fiduciary responsibilities to all of the partners. I’ll need to contact our ethics guy about this.” Peyton paused, grasping for words. “This was malpractice.” Peyton cupped his hand along her jaw, touching her one last time. “I’m very sorry. I’ll do what I can. But you have to know that you can’t stay.”

  Slinking home that day, Sheila waited for the axe to fall. It didn’t the next day when she went back to work, nor the next month. But in December Sheila was called to Troy Holman’s office.

  Holman was the firm’s elder statesman. Before joining the firm three years before, Holman had enjoyed a twenty year career in the House of Representatives as a congressmen for Ohio’s Eleventh District, the west side of the Cuyahoga river.

  Back in his day, Holman had been a young partner with Bennett Friehof. After he retired from public service, like many others in Washington, he took up his legal career right where he left off. Except he didn’t practice law, exactly.

  Holman worked at the art of making connections between the firm’s top lawyers and the many Midwest based corporations that had business before agencies in Washington. Though Holman was outside the Beltway now, he still greased wheels, made introductions, and was proving invaluable to the firm’s clients.

  When Sheila walked into Holman’s office, she knew the other shoe was going to hit the expensive Oriental carpet.

  “Good to see you,” Holman boomed. “Good to see you.” He pumped her hands up and down. “So tell me, how do you like Cleveland? Not planning to move anytime soon, I hope,” he laughed, though there was no joke that Sheila could fathom. “Seriously though, how are you doing for money? Firm paying you okay? Have a house payment?”

  Sheila had no idea where this was going, so she was less than candid. “The divorce set me back a bit. But I think I’ll be able to save for a down payment—maybe buy something in Cleveland or Shaker in the next couple of years.”

  “Let me get to the point, Sheila. That Arron case was a nasty business, but things are definitely looking up for you. I’ve got an opportunity that I think will interest you. But it’ll be a bit of a pay cut. Though I must say that hasn’t dissuaded many.” Holman’s laugh was quieter this time. “I’ve been talking to some people and it looks like the president is ready to fill some of those judicial vacancies that are always making the news. Before he leaves office, he’s going to make a number of recess appointments.” Holman paused.

  Sheila nodded like she was in full agreement though her head was spinning with thoughts of losing one job, but getting another lifetime one in its place.

  “If you’re interested, there’s a vacancy in the Northern District that has your name on it. What do you say?” Holman held up a hand before she could speak. “The president is holding a press conference in Washington day after tomorrow.”

  “When would I get confirmed?” Sheila asked.

  “Ah, the kicker. The kicker.” He paused a long time. She should have known something this good couldn’t fall into her lap without a caveat the size of a Mack truck. “You’ll get your temporary commission in January, if memory serves me right. There’ll be some meeting with Ohio senators and members of the Judiciary committee. The hearings will be in late spring or early fall.”

  Sheila sat back in the chair, crossed her legs and mulled over the offer. She realized two things. Peyton had really come through. He’d called in one last favor, and for that—and Olivia—she’d be forever grateful. The other thing was she didn’t have a choice. No matter how pretty a bow Holman was trying to wrap it in, if she didn’t take this judgeship, she’d be unemployed come January.

  “I’ll pack my bags, Troy.” Standing, she shook his hand. “I look forward to meeting the president.”

  A week later Peyton watched the scene unfold on C-SPAN. Sheila was in the oval office meeting the president. Peyton watched as she stood, smiling stiffly, and the president doled out his signature charm on the small group of women and minority lawyers who looked as shell shocked as Sheila. Turning to the small press gathering, the president spoke eloquently about the nominees, about justice, and then about his life beyond the White House.

  When it was Sheila’s turn at the microphone, she said she’d do her best to uphold the constitution of the United States. That she’d administer justice fairly and equitably. Silently, he wished her the best, snapping off the television with the remote.

  Eighteen

  Bennett Friehof & Baker

  October 25, 2001

  Sheila walked into the reception area of Bennett Friehof and Baker, and for a moment it was like a homecoming. The firm had been Sheila’s home away from home for nearly twenty years. And even though the firm had moved from its old digs in the Huntington Building to the newly renovated Skylight Office tower in her later years, the overall atmosphere and culture of the firm had not changed.

  She had started at Bennett Friehof durin
g her second summer of law school. In the early eighties there weren’t too many black women law students. Getting a job at a white shoe firm was damned near impossible, but Sheila had done it. The height of the affirmative action era and two successive Reagan administrations had yet to cast a pall over the issue of minority hiring.

  During minority recruitment fairs, Bennett Friehof had stepped up to the plate. Despite being one of the first, Sheila wasn’t the only black hire. In the ensuing years, the firm’s reputation for hiring and developing minority talent was well deserved. Sheila had been the second black and third woman partner of the firm.

  While the elevators whooshed her up to the top of the twelve story building, Sheila strategized on how to approach her impending meeting with Peyton Bennett. He’d been a friend and mentor all through her years with the firm.

  Peyton had guided her through two of the most difficult times in her life—the minefield of her climb to partnership, and represented her in the divorce from Keith. Sheila had made a vow never to ask favors from anyone at Bennett Friehof—especially after the firm backed her appointment to the bench—but for Olivia she was going to make an exception.

  After hugging the receptionist and exchanging pleasantries, Sheila was directed to Peyton’s office. He was expecting her. She walked through the firm’s lobby—sumptuous by any standard, with plush Turkish carpeting, leather seating, priceless artwork—to the back decorated in cube farm beige where the associates slaved.

  It had taken Sheila years to work her way up from the darkened corners of the library to a corner office with a bevy of associates under her supervision. Despite all those hours over all those years, only a couple of raised hands and jutted chins greeted her.

  Though she’d done two times the work to make partner, it wasn’t a decision supported by everyone. Even after all those years and all those wins, it was whispered that she was an affirmative action choice. But like Sheila had done when she worked there, she held her head high and strode with confidence.

  Bonnie’s greeting was the most effusive yet. “So good to see you, Judge Grant. Pulling back from the warm hug, Sheila asked, “How are your daughters?” Bonnie’s two girls had to be college aged by now.

  “They’re good Sheila—excuse me—Your Honor.” Bonnie’s curly hair danced as she beamed. Lowering her voice she said, “Since you left, I’ve been stuck with nothing but young attorneys who think they’re God’s gift.”

  Sheila laughed. Some things never changed. Secretary and paralegal assignments were often problematic. On any other day Sheila would have reminisced with Bonnie, taking her out to a long lunch. But her anxiety replaced congeniality. “Is Peyton available right now?

  Taken aback by the abruptness, Bonnie’s professional mask slid down. “Yes. He’s just finished up with Kimberleigh. Go right on in.”

  Without further prompting, Sheila pushed open Peyton’s door. Her stomach clenched at the lingering smell of his wife’s perfume. Mentally pinching herself, Sheila refocused. Peyton sat regal behind a huge mahogany desk, brass fittings gleaming. The small squeak in his brass studded leather chair was the only acknowledgement of her arrival. Sheila stood, trying not to notice how the bespoke charcoal suit complimented his silver hair.

  Eventually Peyton stood in greeting. “Good evening, Sheila. It’s good to see you. How’s the federal bar treating you?”

  Sheila declined his extended hand. “Things are good. The case load is pretty hectic. But I’m getting the hang of wearing the robes.”

  “Too bad you have to recuse yourself on any Bennett cases. It’d be good to see you in action.” Peyton sat, gesturing Sheila to sit as well. “What brings you here?” Small talk was over quickly. There was once a time when they’d never run out of things to say to each other.

  In the few short minutes Sheila had been in the office, there had been more foot traffic than necessary by Peyton’s office. Gossipmongers. She lowered her voice. “The county has Olivia in foster care.”

  Peyton shot up and slammed his door. “What in the hell? Did Keith do this? I thought he was in the wind.”

  “I don’t know how this happened. Someone must have called child welfare. The county filed a complaint alleging I have a drinking problem. They gave temporary custody after a sham hearing. No one at the juvenile court has ever heard of due process.”

  “Did you go to the hearing alone?”

  “I thought I could handle it myself. There was no evidence. I assumed I could clear it up and Olivia would be home with me now.” Sheila paused, indignation rising. “I never expected to be in this fucking position. I have confirmation hearings coming up. A hint of scandal will kill my job. And what I’ve heard about county foster homes.” Sheila worked to clear Precious Evans from her mind. “Olivia could be scarred for life.”

  Silence permeated the darkening room. Something nearly imperceptible shifted. Peyton pried his fingers apart, leaned forward and spoke. “But Sheila, what can I do for you?”

  Undaunted by his tone, she spoke, “I need representation. After all I’ve done for this firm over the years, all I’m asking is that you spare a couple of associates to help me fight this. I need to get a handle on this right away.

  “The county doesn’t have a lick of evidence against me. With the firm’s help, I can get Olivia home now. Then I can concentrate on the Senate hearings,” Sheila explained patiently. Mentally, she was already picking which lawyers she’d prefer and figuring out how she’d divvy up the work between them—with one handling procedure and the other law. If he only gave her one….

  “Why can’t you have your clerks do this?” Peyton interrupted her thoughts.

  “I hired these people late. Don’t get me wrong, they’ll probably be good clerks, but they’re not on par with Bennett’s associates. I need a couple of bulldogs on this.”

  “We’d really like to help you.”

  “But?” Sheila couldn’t be hearing right. They would not abandon her and her daughter like this. Now after nearly two decades of loyalty.

  “We put you in this judgeship. You were destined to leave this firm one way or another. You got a second chance at your career and an opportunity to save face. We kept our hands clean.”

  Sheila jumped through mental gymnastics. “You are not holding the Arron Medical Systems shit against me. Are you?”

  “You dropped the ball on that one. You know what it took to get it back on track and settled. That’s why the judicial appointment was perfect. It allowed the firm to support you, yet have you leave in an amicable way.”

  Sheila couldn’t believe it. Nearly twenty years of service and he was denying her based on one small mistake she’d made last April. Anyone could have done what she did.

  Peyton continued. “At the time, I suspected some kind of substance abuse may have been behind it. But I gave you the benefit of the doubt.” Sheila’s mind reeled. Benefit of the doubt. After all she’d done for these—

  “Frankly,” Peyton interrupted her thoughts, “I’m not ready to put the firm’s reputation on the line over this.”

  The brass handle rattled as he opened his right hand drawer and removed a monogrammed pad. He scribbled something, folded the sheet in half, handing it to her. “Here’s the name of a friend of Kimberleigh’s. We’ve known her for years. Madeline Montgomery’s handled some matters—discreetly of course, for some of the partners around here. You’ll find her fees quite reasonable. I’ll tell her to expect your call.” Peyton stood up. She was dismissed. “I hope I’ve been of some help.”

  For the second time in as many days, Sheila was rendered speechless. After all she’d done, serving the Cleveland legal community, doors were closing on her everywhere. Sheila quietly gathered her self-control and her coat. She opened his door to leave, but couldn’t leave him with the last word. “I can’t believe it. You’ve become your father’s son.”

  Nineteen

  Common Pleas Lawyers

  October 26, 2001

  Offering no explanatio
n to her staff, Sheila left her chambers mid-morning. Nancy, her courtroom deputy looked up as Sheila swept from the anteroom. “I’ll be back in an hour.” She could sense Nancy wanted more information, but Sheila’s stern look kept the woman mute.

  Sheila walked east from the Metzenbaum courthouse—named for Ohio’s long time senator—down Superior Avenue to Madeline Montgomery’s office a few blocks away. In no time at all, she reached the twenty-two story neoclassical building filled with lawyers. The gray columned Walker and Weeks was built in the 1920s and the interior exuded eighty years of smells. She checked the building directory in the marbled lobby and located the attorney’s name.

  Stepping into the ancient elevator, she eased slowly, creakily to the eighteenth floor. Though the building was spotless, the musty smell pervaded. When Sheila saw the long list of placards affixed to the door, she wasn’t thrilled. Anonymity was paramount. The three other attorneys who shared office space wouldn’t be charged with keeping her secrets. It was her experience that confidentiality went out the window when lawyers worked in close quarters. Out of choices, she pushed open the heavy door with a sigh.

  Several women, knee deep in paperwork filled the reception area.

  “I’m here to see Madeline Montgomery,” Sheila announced.

  A youngish woman, pinned to her chair by a box of papers, acknowledged her. “Have a seat, ma’am. She’s not back from court yet, but asked you to wait. You’re Judge Grant, right?”

  At the mention of her title, all activity ground to a halt. Judges were rare in attorney’s offices. Not willing to wait amid scrutiny, Sheila took a different tact. “I’m very busy. Have Ms. Montgomery meet me in my chambers when she’s done with court today. Whose room is she in?”