by Aime Austin
The woman finally removed the box of papers from her lap and consulted a computer. “She’s over at domestic relations, Judge Flanagan’s room.”
Sheila opened the door to take her leave. “Tell Ms. Montgomery I’ll be waiting.”
Off the bench and on the computer two hours later, Sheila looked up when Nancy came in unannounced. “Judge, there’s an attorney Montgomery here to see you. Is this an ex-parte meeting? Do you need any files, the court reporter? She’s not on calendar.”
“I don’t need anything but privacy,” Sheila said. “This is a confidential matter. Show her in.”
Madeline Montgomery was more or less what Sheila expected. A tall, thin woman with Irish coloring and an aggressive haircut entered her office. Briefcase, purse, and cell phone clattered about her. Sheila was familiar with the type: fortyish white woman, dark hair, huge diamond. Montgomery was the kind of woman Sheila always thought of as playing at the practice of law. With a husband at home to fall back on, they weren’t serious about their work.
Sheila stood up, taking Madeline’s hand in a firm grip. “Ms. Montgomery. Sheila Grant. Nice to meet you.”
After they sat, Madeline scratched out the answers Sheila gave to some preliminary questions on a yellow legal pad.
“I’m not quite sure what’s happened,” Sheila began. “Someone called child welfare and reported that I couldn’t care for Olivia because I drank. Then everything moved so fast. Olivia was in foster care before I could blink an eye. And the so-called ‘emergency hearing’ was a sham.” She shook her head, annoyed with herself for believing in the justice system even one tiny bit. “That’s not the point. The point is that I need a lawyer who knows this crazy juvenile court system and can get my daughter home.” She met and held Madeline’s eyes. “Are you that person?”
Under direct questioning, Madeline faltered, but only for a second. “Judge, I may not practice in federal court, but I’m good at what I do. I know my way around the family courts here. I handle nothing but divorces, juvenile cases, guardianships and adoptions. I’ve also handled a number of high profile clients like yourself. I don’t like to brag, but I’m one of the most well respected attorneys in Cleveland. My husband and I graduated from the top of our class at Cleveland State. The judges know us, our families, our children. Those personal relationships get results.”
Sheila listened to Madeline’s spiel, and trying not to be too hard on her, didn’t cross examine the woman. “That’s all well and good, but do you think you’d be able to get any traction in Olivia’s case?” Without embellishment, Sheila explained that she was up for confirmation. Precision and stealth were what was needed to save her daughter and her career.
“Judge, I came recommended by Peyton Bennett because I’m the best you can hire,” Madeline said. “In this kind of case, the earlier you lawyer up, the better. You’ve waited almost too long now. I could start on this right away.” Madeline handed over a card after scribbling something on the back. “Here’s my cell phone number. Give me a call anytime.” The lawyer gathered up her various bags. “I’ll make this case my priority.”
Sheila walked her from chambers to the deserted stone hallway. Once the lawyer was gone, Sheila leaned into a defunct pay phone alcove, stripped bare in the new mobile phone era. But when she lifted her heavy head, she realized the lawyer hadn’t left the courthouse yet. Madeline’s voice echoed from the nearby stairs.
“Yeah, hon, this one’s in the bag. Mm-hm. I think I’ll ask for a retainer of fifteen or twenty grand. What? No, I didn’t tell her that no one gets their kids out of the system. She’ll burn through money in juvenile court.” Madeline paused a long time. “I know I don’t practice there anymore. But a big name client and a fat retainer would be a feather in my cap. Judy Bartlett always gets the big cases.” A shorter pause this time. “Yes, I’ll pick up the boys from school this afternoon. Talk to you later.” The click of the lawyer’s heels, the snap of the closing phone, the jostling of her bags were the last sounds Sheila heard before she got to her feet.
Damned naiveté was going to defeat her. For a few minutes, she’d been taken in. But now she was back at square one. If she called in whatever favors she had left—and they weren’t many considering how many people she’d alienated along the way up the career ladder—she could kiss the confirmation goodbye. On the other hand, she could fight. She would not lost Olivia to the system like so many other black mothers. Muffling a scream, she deliberately emptied her head of the images sensational news shows used for shock value.
Sheila pulled back the wooden doors and lifted herself from the hard bench. She stumbled toward the federal marshal she’d just noticed standing in the hall.
“Ma’am, can I help you? Are you looking for a courtroom?”
When Sheila didn’t answer right away, he continued, “Is your lawyer here yet? Maybe he can help you check in with your judge.” Motioning to the papers in her hand, he said, “If you let me see those, maybe I can help you figure out where you need to be.”
Sheila snatched the papers back. Peering closely at his name tag and badge number, she finally spoke.
“Excuse me, Deputy Marshall Bruty? I assume we haven’t met. I’m Judge Sheila Harrison Grant.” She extended her right hand. Deputy Marshall Bruty did not offer his in return. Dropping her hand, Sheila said, “Today, I’m not a litigant in this court, nor am I just an attorney. I’m the judge.”
Deputy Marshall Bruty’s ruddy face turned an even deeper crimson and he stumbled away without an apology.
She needed to find someone on her own. Someone young and eager whom she could intimidate and control to get her out of this tangle. The name Casey Cort came from an unlikely source.
Sheila had hired Claire Henshaw, in spite of her resume. Claire was not one of the typical applicants. She wasn’t white, male, nor a graduate of the Ivy League. Claire had what could called kindly, a unique resume. Not hired straight out of school by a firm, Claire had bounced around in a series of temporary jobs for the few large law firms in town. Temporary, perhaps, being a euphemism, because she had spent two years each at two different firms, and a year at yet another doing nothing but reviewing documents.
When looking for law clerks in the rush of getting her commission and fitting her robes, she had flipped through a lot of resumes and had all but tossed Claire on the reject pile, when she saw that Claire had gone to an historically black college, and to Northwestern law, a top school. Sheila was intrigued, and invited her in. When she called Claire for an interview, she could tell Claire was surprised, but dropped everything and came in immediately.
The young woman was bright, intelligent, and reminded Sheila of herself when she’d graduated from school. Why this woman’s career had been floundering, Sheila didn’t know, but she hired her on the spot—for a two year clerkship. Claire was smart, but needed help getting her legal skills up to par. As yet, Sheila hadn’t given her complete autonomy, but Sheila was hoping to get her there. She called the clerk to her office.
“Close the door,” Sheila directed. Claire did what she was told and promptly sat in one of Sheila’s leather and cherry wood chairs. “I need to talk to you, but I need you to keep what I’m going to say in the strictest confidence.”
Claire wilted in the chair, clearly intimidated by Sheila’s tone.
“Look, I need your help,” Sheila said, lowering her voice with each sentence—until Claire had to lean in to hear better. “I’m in the midst of a personal crisis involving my daughter and a case in juvenile court,” Sheila said. “I’ve gotten the names of several reputable attorneys, but my meetings have not inspired confidence. I’d like to know if you can refer me to any smart, young attorneys, contemporaries of yours, who have experience in juvenile court. Someone who isn’t looking to bill hours without rolling up their sleeves. If you know anyone, please give me the name. Two things: time is of the essence, and confidentiality is paramount.”
Sheila wasn’t privy to what Claire had done after sh
e left her office. But by the end of the day, she had a name, vitals, and a phone number of one attorney–Casey Cort.
Twenty
Initial Consultation
October 26, 2001
It was late afternoon by the time Casey returned to her office. It had been another unproductive day in Juvenile. She’d been there four hours waiting for her case to be called—only to have the matter continued. Tired, she wanted nothing more than home. But the wasted time wouldn’t earn her a dime. She needed to sit down and bill on her paying cases. Two hundred an hour was nothing to sneeze at. Knowing she was going to be around for a while, Casey dumped her briefcase and overcoat in the empty reception area.
Picking up her messages from the front desk, she shuffled through them mindlessly until one message jumped out at her. Leticia had made an appointment for five thirty. She looked at her watch. Only forty minutes until the prospective client came.
The caller must have been compelling. Casey had specifically directed Leticia not to schedule appointments after everyone had left the office. One run-in with an angry gun-toting cop had been enough to cut her appointment times short. Letty’s handwriting was neater than hers, and reading the name on the message slip was easy: Sheila Harrison Grant. Something about the name niggled her memory, but she couldn’t place it.
After clearing away confidential information, Casey had a few minutes to spare. Rolling her leather chair over to her credenza, she turned on her computers. In a matter of seconds she was on the internet. Bringing up her favorite search engine, she typed in the potential client’s name.
Results appeared quickly, but there were few. She clicked on the link to the Michigan law alumni section and there it was. Ah, Casey thought. Grant had recently been appointed to the federal district court bench. Now she remembered her mom pointing out the story in the paper. Her parents showed her every law related article, no matter how much disinterest she showed. Her mom had asked what a recess appointee was.
Looking at Sheila’s official photo jogged something loose in her memory. For some reason she thought she’d seen the well-dressed black woman in Juvenile court the other day. Unanswered questions started popping in her mind. Why had Grant been there? And what could she want from Casey? Having a judge come to her humble little office was nothing short of intimidating. Most of her clients were poor or lower middle class and impressed by her modest downtown digs.
Short on time, Casey tried to pretty up her office. She turned on lamps, extinguishing the greenish fluorescent lights above. Throwing open the curtains, she put her admittedly gorgeous view of Lake Erie on display. She picked up her discarded items from the reception area and tidied up the loose newspapers there. With everything in place, Casey looked down at her clothes.
Dowdy about described them. She was wearing one of those Chico’s ensembles that look great on the mannequin, but sloppy in person. The gold three-piece wasn’t exactly a power suit, but she’d wanted to be comfortable through the afternoon’s court call. She was glad to have used up her nervous energy when the door opened. Poking her head into the reception area, she saw the judge.
“Sorry, there’s no receptionist. I don’t normally accept after-hours appointments. You must have been quite persuasive,” Casey said while showing her in.
Judge Grant made herself comfortable in a chair facing the desk. Her knowing smile was disarming. “Trust me. I understand. Now that I’m a government worker, my staff promptly leave when the court closes at four-thirty.”
Casey closed the door then sat on the edge of her leather executive chair. “Your Honor, how can I help you?”
“Ms. Cort, I think we can dispense with the formalities,” the judge said. Then she explained her predicament.
“Do you have a copy of the prosecutor’s complaint?” Sheila pulled a thin folder from her briefcase. Casey scanned the complaint, nodding. “Typical. Let me ask you some questions, then we can get to the case.
“What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Olivia Keziah Grant.” The judge didn’t bat an eye. Most clients started crying at the mere mention of their children.
“What’s her father’s name and address?”
“I don’t know. If it’s necessary I can probably get that information out of his relatives. Keith’s been out of the picture for years.”
Casey was surprised by the typical client behavior from Judge Grant, holding back information. “We’ll put that on hold for now.” Have you been married to anyone else?”
“No.”
“Do you have any other children?”
“No,” Sheila said, unable to keep a smile from creeping on her face.
“You laugh, but sometimes people lie to me about small things that they think don’t matter. Sometimes people lie to me about the big things—the things they know do matter. I just like to be up front. I need all the information that I ask about you, your ex-husband, and your daughter because I never like to be taken by surprise. I never want to be lied to. It’s my only rule.” Sheila didn’t blink. Casey continued. “Who’s your official employer?”
“I work for the U.S. Government under the auspices of the Administrative Office of the United States Courts. My title is U.S. District Judge for the Northern District of Ohio. But,” Sheila hesitated, “I’m a recess appointee.”
“Does your job have an expiration date?”
“I can only serve to the end of the year unless I’m confirmed by the full senate before then.”
Casey squinted at the calendar on her far wall. “That doesn’t leave a lot of time. How are you going to juggle this case and your confirmation process?”
“My daughter is more important than my job.”
Casey nodded her head. Right answer.
“That doesn’t mean I won’t be working to make sure things come to a positive conclusion in Washington.”
“Not to be indelicate, but you’re not the typical juvenile court litigant. Most people with education, money or connections don’t ever come under the county’s scrutiny. What’s going on here?”
“For some reason, my daughter thinks I drink too much, though she’s never said a thing to me. I really think an overzealous young counselor at her school got it in her mind that she was going to help Olivia. And here we are.”
Casey dropped her pen and sat forward. “It doesn’t really matter why a child gets into the system. It’s a matter of getting them out. I don’t know if alcohol is the problem or not, but before this case is over, the county will try to find some other reason to keep your daughter out of your custody. Even if that reason is the time they wasted on the case or a great foster family.”
The judge nodded. “From what little time I spent over there, I didn’t get the feeling family unity was a top priority.”
The judge spoke for a long time, instructing Casey on how she wanted the case handled. All the talking boiled down to: fight at all costs unless there was a less antagonistic alternative that would bring Olivia home. Casey reclined her chair and studied the judge. This was interesting. She’d had dozens upon dozens of cases just like this one over the five years or so she’d been practicing. But across the board, her clients had been poor and had probably gotten the level of service they paid for. Casey had never been paid her full rate to work on a juvenile case. The potential earnings and scope of visibility were enormous. She thought of herself as a good attorney, but didn’t know if she was up to the task. Nagging at her was a fear of failure or fear of success, she didn’t know which.
Casey had been quiet too long. “I’m very intrigued by your case. But I don’t want you to think because I spend a lot of time in juvenile court, I can work miracles. Juvie has an entrenched process. Even if we put up a real fight, try to push them, there is no guarantee that we can resolve this quickly.”
“What else?” Judge Grant asked. Casey was amazed she hadn’t walked out.
“I also think that it’s important the case be kept confidential. On my end, I can promise you th
is. Under Ohio law, all cases concerning minors are secret. But the walls talk. You have to be prepared for the possibility of publicity and figure out how you’re going to handle it.”
“How much is this going to cost?” Grant was all cool professionalism. Most clients were knee deep in tissues at this point in a consultation.
Casey explained her rates to the judge, how the molasses-like juvenile process usually worked, and requested a retainer of twenty five hundred dollars. She refrained from giving the judge one of her ‘Your Rights’ folders which were popular with most of her other clients, knowing it would make her look amateurish. Instead she rose, calmly shook the judge’s hand, and escorted her out the door.
Back in her office, Casey looked through the window at Lake Erie. The sun had long since set and she could see the lights of the cargo ships reflected on the smooth-as-glass water. Despite her tight budget and low-on-the-food-chain cases, Casey half prayed the judge wouldn’t hire her. The pressure to perform could overwhelm her. There was a lot at stake for her future, the judge’s career, and a child’s future.
Twenty-One
A More Permanent Placement
November 1, 2001
Olivia was struggling to hear the English lesson when a wadded up ball of paper flew over her head. Mr. Cooper, the young teacher in charge, couldn’t keep the class quiet. Every time he tried to open a discussion about the book they were reading, I Heard the Owl Call My Name, the class clown disrupted with fart noises or dirty jokes.
First she was at Bethune with the kids she’d grown up with. Then there was Shaker with kids she couldn’t ever hope to be friends with. And now this. This was Hough. The neighborhood whose name rhymed with and was synonymous with all its problems: tough, rough. School was chaos.
