Qualified Immunity

by Aime Austin

  Mrs. Williams had crept up the stairs silently. Olivia hadn’t noticed Aunt Linda was leaning against the doorjamb until she spoke. “I have the prescription right here. I’ll make sure you take your pills every day. Jackie says they’ll make you as right as rain.” To Jackie, she said, “Olivia’s been a bit out of sorts since she got here. But we’ll have her in tip-top shape before you know it.”

  Before dinner that night, Mrs. Williams gave Olivia two pills. When Aunt Linda turned her back to fill a glass of water, Olivia looked at the white labels. Below her name and the Williamses’ address were the words Adderall on one and Zoloft on the other. When Mrs. Williams turned back around, she took the proffered water and swallowed the pills whole.

  Twenty-Six

  Euclid Hospital

  November 10, 2001

  Without Olivia, the apartment was always dark and cold. Given the mess she’d made of her life, she deserved a little rum with her cola to take the edge off. They couldn’t take her daughter away twice. Sipping her drink, she sank into the couch and surveyed the mail.

  She tossed the flyers and catalogs on the floor without a second glance. Bills, she set aside for later. Sheila put her drink on the table and looked at the Explanation of Benefits envelope from her health insurance plan. Just what she needed right now, some bureaucratic insurance nightmare.

  She hadn’t been to the doctor in over a year. Olivia hadn’t since she’d enrolled her in Shaker. Ah, maybe that was it. Resigned, she tore at the envelope and slipped a blue page from its confines. It was Olivia, but the letter was about her recent visit to Cleveland Clinic’s Euclid Hospital.

  The paper fluttered to the floor as her hands lost their will to hold it. Sheila felt around the side table for the cordless phone. She needed to call Casey. Olivia was sick and no one had told her. Visions of her baby in the hospital emerged before her eyes. Instead of dialing the inexperienced attorney, Sheila picked up the paper and called the Records Department phone number listed.

  She may not have her daughter in her custody, but being a mother still trumped everyone else’s right to treat her daughter. Claiming to need a second opinion on her daughter’s diagnosis, she had them fax Olivia’s recent medical records to her. Before they closed, she called Billing as well and spun another tale to get those records.

  In two days, Sheila had assembled a file on Olivia’s so-called illness. Immediately after she put two and two together, she called Casey.

  “They’ve diagnosed Olivia with Attention Deficit Disorder,” she said to Casey without preamble or introduction.

  Sheila heard Casey shuffling through papers. “That’s not in any discovery. How did you find out?”

  “Health insurance records. We’ve been to the Clinic before. Who hasn’t? They probably put in her social security number and it linked up. But why didn’t the county—the people supposedly caring for my daughter—tell me anything about this?” Despite her attempts to modulate her voice she could hear it rising. “We need a second opinion, our own physical examination. ADD and ADHD are diagnoses that a bunch of people throw around, an excuse to move black kids to remedial classes, get them hooked on drugs. Adderall, Zoloft, she’s already taking these things.”

  “Judge Grant, the diagnosis itself is not the only problem. The bigger issue is that the court will take it seriously. It will impact your ability to get your daughter back.”

  “I would want my daughter back no matter what kind of disability she may have.” Did people give up their children if they were damaged goods?

  “Of course. I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. I’m saying that you’ll need to learn all you can about these disorders so we can prove to the judge that you can care for Olivia. If the trial were held today, the court might conclude from your attitude that you don’t take her medical needs seriously.”

  Sheila was thankful the eye-rolling, neck-rolling, hmpf that came from her mouth would be held in strict confidence. Dismissing her petulant inner teenager, she disconnected the call, telling Casey she’d see what she could do.

  What she did was call to find out if there were classes or support groups she could join. It was pure coincidence that Olivia was enrolled in a patient education class starting the very next morning. She cleared her docket and made her way to the hospital first thing.

  It didn’t take long to find the education center in the pediatric wing of the hospital. Sheila signed herself in next to Olivia’s name on the list, introduced herself to the nurse/instructor and took a seat in the windowless room. The empty chairs filled up quickly with parents and children. A severely dressed black woman and Olivia were two of the last two enter. Sheila’s heart sped up as adrenaline flooded her veins. With monumental effort, she held back the tears that nearly leaked from her eyes. If she hadn’t cried the day Peyton got married, she wasn’t going to cry now. Her daughter ran to her as soon as she saw Sheila.

  “Mom! What are you doing here?” Olivia asked.

  “I’m here to see you, Poppet,” Sheila said, hugging her daughter. The feel of her flesh and bones was as familiar as her own. Even under some awful perfumed soap, her daughter’s smell was unique. “It’s good to see you,” she whispered into her daughter’s hair, thick with Afro Sheen.

  “I hate swallowing pills. It’s so hard, but Aunt Linda says it’s supposed to make me do better in school.”

  Sheila was taken aback. Her sister was Deidre. Keith had no siblings. “Linda?” She purposefully omitted the term of address.

  Their brief reunion was cut short by a firm hand on her upper arm and a voice of steel. “Excuse me, ma’am,” the instructor said to Sheila. “I need to talk with you in the hall.”

  “Are you speaking with me?” Sheila asked. Hugging her own child wasn’t against the law.

  “Are you Sheila Grant?” the nurse asked. When Sheila nodded, another hospital employee took Olivia by the shoulder and walked her to the woman she had come in with, the putative Aunt Linda. While the instructor led Sheila to the hall, then disappeared back into the classroom, an orderly with a fistful of noisy keys locked the door, barring her readmittance. This time the person who joined them was in a pantsuit and pearls.

  “What’s this about?” Sheila asked.

  “Ma’am, I don’t want to get in the middle of anything here. We got a call from the county social worker saying that you don’t have custody of your daughter. The woman your daughter came here with today is her foster parent and legal guardian.”

  “There’s been a huge mistake. I’m fighting with the court right now to get my daughter back. I’m her mother. It’s my right to come down here and see what medications she’s taking. See for myself what kind of behavior modification you’re using on her.”

  “Ma’am, I understand your concern. But we’re a public hospital. We must abide by the county’s request.”

  The burly orderly crossed his arms and barred the door like a bouncer at an over twenty-one club. Her next question was superfluous, but she asked it anyway. “Are you saying I can’t go back in there?” Sheila asked.

  “No ma’am, you can’t. This is a hospital and we don’t deal with child abuse cases. I suggest you talk to your daughter’s social worker. And if we get the okay from her, you can come to our other education sessions.”

  “All right with her,” Sheila said, her voice rising. “That’s my daughter in there.”

  “You need to keep your voice down. This is a hospital,” Pantsuit and pearls said.

  “Keep my voice down? You’re sending letters telling me my daughter is sick, but you won’t let me participate in her care? Are you crazy?” The echo of her voice off the sterile walls and the furtive glances of everyone around them alerted Sheila that she’d gotten too loud.

  “Ma’am, you’re going to have to leave voluntarily or I’m going to have to call hospital security. If you have a problem, I suggest you take it up with the social worker or the court.”

  All at once, the fight went out of Sheila. As a lawyer, and now
a judge, she knew having a confrontation with anyone here could damage her credibility during the upcoming hearing.

  “I’ll go,” Sheila heard her rational self say. But before she left, she banged hard on the locked door and waved to her daughter when their eyes met.

  Twenty-Seven

  Client Interview

  November 13, 2001

  “What do most people do? I know my heart, and I know my daughter belongs at home. But you know juvenile court. What’s your advice?”

  Casey had to remind herself that the judge was a person, like Dean Condit was a person, and even Ted Strohmeyer was a person. And people were sometimes vulnerable, like Judge Grant seemed now.

  Honesty first, advice second. “Juvenile court at its core is no different from the criminal system. The prosecutor’s win rate is around ninety-five percent,” Casey said, using her hands to illustrate quotes around the word ‘win.’ “Most cases don’t go to trial because most of the parents are unsophisticated and agree to disposition and temporary custody.”

  Judge Grant sat back hard in her chair. “They just give up their children?”

  “It’s not that simple. They think they’re fighting. The social worker, who talks to them all the time, convinces them that if the parents just follow the case plan, then when conditions are right, they’ll get their kids back. And that may have been true in the seventies, even in the eighties. And maybe the social workers even believe what they say. But I’ve sat with these parents, and it’s damn near impossible to keep a full time job, rent a place to live, and go to parenting classes or drug rehab or whatever.”

  “Does anyone fight temporary custody?” Bewilderment is the only word Casey could think of to describe Judge Grant’s expression. White shoe lawyers were always surprised by what happened outside the castle walls.

  “Not really. Juvenile court is like a schizophrenic. On the one hand, everyone talks about reunification and hope for the family and promise for the kids’ future. On the other hand, the judges, magistrates and GALs all think the parents are awful, how foster care or even adoption is better for the kids. How children need a permanent placement—and that’s never with the parents.”

  Judge Grant was silent for a few moments, her look thoughtful. Casey stood and looked at the ships sailing on Lake Erie. Even when devastation wrought your life asunder, everyone else kept going.

  “I’m going to fight,” Judge Grant said. Casey turned back to scrutinize the mother. “I hear what you’re saying. Because what I’m reading between the lines is that if I don’t get out of the system now, I’ll never get Olivia out. Even if I do all they ask.”

  “The court likes a redemption story. I was wrong. I sinned. I’m here for forgiveness. You’ll be coming in saying, I’m not going to fit in your little box. It’s going to be an uphill battle.”

  “What do we need to do?” Grant asked, looking for pen and paper.

  Casey leaned against the window ledge, crossing her arms in defiance. “Are you an alcoholic?”

  Judge Grant smiled. “You’re something else. I don’t think most lawyers would have had the guts to ask that question.”

  The judge hadn’t answered the question, and Casey raised her eyebrows. “Okay, we’ve established that I’m gutsy—which is good because my job is to be your advocate —but you didn’t answer the question. Do you have a drinking problem?”

  “I’ll admit to you that I do drink. When I worked at the firm, I’d go out for drinks with other lawyers, and often with clients. At home, when I need to unwind, I occasionally have a drink—but do I drink more than other people? I don’t think so. Am I an alcoholic? No.”

  Good answer. Casey prodded a bit more, looking for volatility if not answers. “Do you think you’re a good parent?”

  “You don’t pull your punches, do you?”

  “The prosecutor certainly won’t. Answer my question, please,” Casey said, softening her statement.

  “I’ve made my share of mistakes. I sometimes lose my temper—raising an adolescent who’s starting puberty is hard—I don’t think any parent would tell you differently. But I’ve provided a good home for Olivia. She’s well taken care of, and I love her dearly—which is most important.”

  Letty brought them coffee and pastries from Au Bon Pain. While Casey and Sheila sipped, Casey started pulling papers from Judge Grant’s file and then lifted a new legal pad from the stack in her credenza.

  “Let’s start at the beginning. Now, I got some of the preliminary stuff out of the way from our consultation.” Casey clicked her pen and filled in her picture of Judge Grant, Olivia, and their life in Shaker Heights. After scribbling for a few minutes, Casey’s rise from her desk was abrupt. Her mind whirled with ideas and approaches on winning this case. She paced back and forth, then realized she needed to be alone to think.

  “I think I have enough information to begin work on the case. I need you to do a couple of things, though.” Judge Grant nodded, pulling her own legal pad and gold pen from her slim briefcase. “First, I’ll need a list of people we can call on your behalf—character witnesses. Second, you’ll need to set up a meeting with the guardian ad Litem.”

  “How much influence will the guardian have on the case?”

  “Depends. Not all judges weigh the information the same way. Typically the guardians come in, say the kid is fine in foster care, and the judge does whatever they were going to do in the first place.” Judge Grant’s face looked pained. Maybe federal court evaluations were more than a rubber stamp of the prosecutor’s desires. Casey wouldn’t know. She continued. “Sherry Otis was assigned to your case. She’s more careful than most. She actually follows the rules and prepares written reports in all of her cases. Do I know the weight Judge MacKinnon will give to her report in your case? No.

  “My advice: call Otis. Make an appointment. Maybe have her come to your chambers—for the intimidation factor. If you feel that’s inappropriate or she insists, then I’d see her in your home.”

  “When will we meet again?”

  “I’m going to get discovery and do some interviews. Then I’ll call you to see where we are and where we need to go.” Casey paused. She’d been burned before. “Is there anything you’re not telling me?”

  The judge’s hesitation was so slight, Casey wasn’t sure there’d been one. Judge Grant stood to put on her coat, put her hand on the door knob, and she looked at Casey over her shoulder. “No, Casey. You know everything. This is in your hands now.”

  Twenty-Eight

  Metzenbaum

  November 14, 2001

  No one had prepared Sheila for the county’s idea of a visiting room. She had fully expected a thickly carpeted, child oriented room, with sturdy furniture and functional toys.

  Instead she was smack dab in the middle of a cafeteria. Then she remembered, the building had been used as a juvenile detention center most of its life. From her walk through the front doors and down the corridor, nothing more than the name had changed. Round Formica tables, vending machines, and unforgiving fluorescent lighting dominated the room.

  Despite the garish lighting bouncing off the plastic, the room was subdued. Few parents played with listless children. Others were opening flagrant foil wrapped pouches for the children, or worse, buying them junk from the vending machines. The parents spoke in earnest. County employees with their ever present badges yoking their necks were watching the parents watching the children—taking notes.

  Sheila took a seat at an empty table and set her purse on the linoleum floor. A group of black and brown children spilled into the room, noticeable for their absence of noise and ebullience. Among them was Olivia, being led to her by another badge wearer. The county employee looked around the room, appearing to take in the anxious faced mothers, their impatience palpable, until Olivia pointed in her direction.

  She stood, pulling Olivia into an awkward hug. “Poppet, I’m working on getting you home,” she urgently whispered in the girl’s ear.

  Almos
t hesitantly it seemed, Olivia sat down at the table with the woman who had escorted her.

  “Miss Grant?” The familiarity of the address galled her. But maybe she should be grateful they hadn’t called her Sheila. “I’m Dawn Palomo, the visiting coordinator today. I’m here to observe your visit.” There was no question, so Sheila didn’t respond. “Um, so I’ve been looking at your file and see that you haven’t signed the case plan.” Palomo paused again, and when Sheila said nothing, continued. “Well, maybe you have your reasons for that. One of the case plan’s requirements is for you to successfully visit with your daughter two hours every two weeks.”

  Another long moment of silence stretched. Finally Sheila asked, “Do you have a copy of that case plan?”

  Palomo brightened. “Yes ma’am, I do.” She wet her finger and paged through a slim file, finally pulling out some papers and pushing them in front of Sheila. “Now if you’ll sign here next to your name….”

  Sheila took the stapled stack without signing. “I’m sure I was supposed to receive a copy. I’ll keep this one.”

  “Well, that’s okay, I guess. I need to talk to these other families. I’ll see you before the end of your visit.” Palomo moved to another table.

  Sheila looked at Olivia—really looked at her—for the first time since they sat down. “Poppet, how are you? They treating you okay?”

  “When can I come home?” Olivia’s question nearly squeezed the blood from her heart.

  With that one simple question, the wind left Sheila’s sails. All the bluster and bravado she’d relied on until this moment was gone. She looked out the barred window, blinking back tears. It was the least she could do for her daughter. Squaring her shoulders, Sheila took a deep breath.