by Aime Austin
When the young, heavyset Puerto Rican woman approached him, Keith felt every year his age. She was so youthful, he wondered if he were old enough to be her father. Even if he wasn’t, she probably wasn’t old enough to care for his daughter. He pushed that aside and extended his hand.
“Keith Grant,” Foley said. “It’s not often we see fathers in here.” She gestured around the room, where indeed only women sat. “Why don’t you come back to the conference room? I need you to sign some papers, and we can talk.”
Before Foley could close the door, he started talking. “Miss Foley, what can I do to get my daughter to live with me? I only just found out she was taken from my ex-wife. There’s no reason for her to be in foster care. She can live with me.”
“Of course we prefer that children live with a non-custodial parent or relative. But because your ex-wife has been uncooperative, we didn’t know there were any available relatives. Olivia can be placed with you while this case is open as long as you have sufficient room and can pass a background check.” Her eyes pierced his. “You can’t have a felony record. And no one living with you can have an open case with the county.”
Keith may have been guilty of a lot of things, but crimes weren’t among them. Before getting his hopes up, he decided to be upfront. “I know that I’m behind on my child support. And I haven’t kept up on my visitation. But I love my daughter. She can have my room. I can sleep on the pull-out couch, if that’s okay. I want her with me—whatever it takes.”
“If all checks out, I don’t see any reason why Olivia can’t stay with you,” she said. The weight that had been centered near his heart became as light as a helium balloon. After she asked about his schooling, his job, and his marriage to Sheila, she pushed some papers toward him. “Before we get the ball rolling, I’ll need you to sign this.”
Keith took in the thick stack. “What’s this?”
She turned the papers to a landscape orientation. “This case plan is a list of what you and your ex-wife need to do to regain custody of Olivia.”
Confused, Keith laid his hands on the papers. “If she lives with me, won’t I have custody?”
“Not exactly,” Foley said. “Your wife had legal custody. Now Olivia’s in the county’s custody. Although we can place your daughter with you, she’ll still be our responsibility.”
“How can I get full custody?”
“You’ll have to talk to a lawyer and go to the divorce court. But for now, I’ll need you to sign this.” Foley pushed the papers closer and handed him a pen.
“What does this say I have to do?” Keith wanted Olivia home, but being the husband of a lawyer had taught him one important thing, not to sign anything without understanding it first.
Foley flipped the pages open. “All the services are for the mom: alcohol treatment, parenting classes and other stuff. The only thing you have to do,” she pointed a finger at the last line, “is take a paternity test. But since you were married, that’s a technicality.”
Screw it. This was Sheila’s problem. He wanted Olivia home. So without reading he signed next to the initials PNE and his name.
Foley pulled a slip of paper from her folder and pushed it toward him. “Here’s the info on paternity testing. Call this number.”
Keith didn’t like needles. “Is it a blood test?”
“A cheek swab, that’s it.” Foley gathered up the case plan and opened the door, signaling the meeting was over.
“Is she okay? When can she come live with me?” He didn’t want to leave without something tangible he could share with Valene.
Foley looked at him and her features softened a little. “I’ll order the criminal check today. As soon as I get the results, I’ll make an appointment to meet you at your home.”
Satisfied that he was making progress, Keith wound through a maze of cubicles back to the reception area and made his way out onto Euclid Avenue. Catching the six bus westbound, he got out near Sixteenth Street.
Wrapping his coat more securely around him, he fought a yawn and leaned against the wind, walking the two blocks north to Superior. He entered at the address on the slip Foley had given him and made his appointment for paternity testing. He may have failed his daughter in a number of ways, but it was time to step up.
Thirty-Six
The Visit
November 27, 2001
“Is your hair dry?” Olivia followed Aunt Linda’s voice and came into the kitchen, towel around her neck. The minute they’d gotten home from school, she’d been ordered to wash her hair and put on clean underwear. “Good, you have your bathrobe over your clothes. Sit here,” Aunt Linda said, gesturing to a tall wooden stool.
“What are you going to do?” Olivia gingerly touched her curls, soft from conditioner.
“Someone important’s comin’ over. Need you to look your best,” she said, laying a heavy brass comb directly on the fire of the gas stove.
“Who’s coming?” Olivia asked.
“Who did your hair before? Your mom?”
Olivia’s mom didn’t ‘do hair.’ She shook her head. “I got it done at the beauty parlor,” she answered.
“You should get your money back,” she said, slathering a thick layer of the blue green Afro Sheen through a section of her hair.
Olivia didn’t answer. She didn’t want to talk about her hair. On the one hand everyone praised her on having ‘good hair.’ But her mom wouldn’t let her get a perm like the other girls in Glenville, and she wouldn’t do it herself.
So Olivia’s hair looked good only on the weeks when her mom remembered to take her to the shop. The rest of the time, Olivia pulled it back into a low ponytail. She’d been planning to ask for a flat iron for Christmas so that she could do it herself.
Her thoughts were arrested when the comb sizzled through her hair and hot grease bubbled near her scalp. Every time the hot metal came from the fire to her hair, she tried not to flinch. But it was so hot that she moved, and the searing pain from metal on skin made her yelp out in pain.
Aunt Linda jerked her still. “Don’t move. That’s why you got burned. I’m almost done. Don’t move again,” she admonished.
Despite the smell of burning flesh in the air, Olivia sat stock still. When her hair was done, she took the pink turtleneck sweater and maroon corduroy jumper Aunt Linda had laid out on the kitchen table, and ran upstairs to put a cold washcloth on her neck.
At the appointed hour, she unlocked her bedroom door and came back down. The raw flesh on her neck was throbbing like the dickens, but she took her place on the couch, not saying anything about the burn or the spring poking into the back of her right thigh.
When Aunt Linda went to the vestibule, Olivia looked over her shoulder through the window behind her. An older white woman with bright red hair got out of the blue Ford, tiptoeing through the slick wet leaves to the front door. Damn, when had those leaves blown there? No doubt she’d have to scoop those up when this woman was gone. Aunt Linda had pulled open the door even before the bell rang.
“You must be Linda Williams. Sherry Otis. We spoke on the phone.” The woman came in without a spoken invitation and scanned the room. “You’ve got a nice place here. How long have you been fostering?”
“Couple of years. Geoffrey, my husband, has more time for the kids now that there’s less overtime at the mill.”
Otis had barely looked at Olivia. Wasn’t the red-haired woman there to see her? Mindful of Aunt Linda’s admonition, she didn’t say a word. “How nice of you to help these children in need. I’ve been a guardian ad Litem for the last twelve years, and have represented hundreds of children. Some of these parents…” Otis shook her head, leaving the sentence unfinished. “Anyway, I’m here to meet,” she looked down at some papers she’d removed from her purse, “Olivia Grant.”
Both women looked toward the couch as if only now remembering she was sitting there. “We’re only fostering two now. Come meet her.”
They walked toward the couch from the vestibu
le. “Olivia, this is Sherry Otis. She’s your lawyer. Come stand up and shake her hand.” As directed, Olivia stood and somberly greeted Otis.
“Hello.”
“As Linda said, I’m your lawyer.”
Along with all the other crimes her mother was accused of, she didn’t want them to think she didn’t have manners. She cleared her throat, and ignored the pain radiating from her hairline. “Nice to meet you.”
“Well don’t you speak well and look nice,” Otis said. “Linda must take good care of you here.”
Since it wasn’t a direct question, Olivia didn’t supply an answer. Instead, catching Aunt Linda’s ever watchful eye, she sat back on the couch and folded her hands on her primly crossed legs. Aunt Linda perched on Mr. Williams’ easy chair and Otis sat at the far end of the couch.
“How do you like it here with the Williamses?”
Aunt Linda’s eyes pinned Olivia to the couch. “It’s okay,” Olivia answered.
“Do you know why you’re not with your mother?” the redhead asked.
Despite her best effort to show no emotion that would incur Aunt Linda’s wrath, Olivia could feel her lower lip trembling. In an effort to disguise that, she shook her head.
“You told your school counselor that your mom yelled at you, called you names, and drank every night. Do you remember that?”
Trusting Alison had gotten her and her mom into this mess. She wasn’t about to trust another adult.
“Olivia, Mrs. Otis asked you a question.”
She didn’t say a word. She’d watched enough court shows to know that now was the time to exercise her right to remain silent.
“Mrs. Otis,” Aunt Linda started, “Olivia has been difficult. But that’s what happens with these kids from bad homes.” Before Aunt Linda could make her look worse, Jermaine bounded into the room. Olivia could feel every part of her body become rigid when he hugged her tight, then planted himself on the couch between herself and her lawyer.
“I’m Jermaine. Who are you?”
“Jermaine, please. Go to your room. You’re being rude. This woman is here to meet with Olivia.” At Jermaine’s pout, Aunt Linda’s tone softened a little. “You know how Jennifer comes to see you?” When he nodded, she continued. “Mrs. Otis is here to talk to Olivia about her mom. Why don’t you go pick up the leaves on the walkway?”
Jermaine kissed Olivia smack on the lips before he ran out of the room, probably to get his coat. He always did whatever they asked, without complaints. Even with him gone, Olivia’s jaw clenched so tight, she thought her teeth were going to break. “Why don’t you go to your room too, Olivia? I need to discuss some stuff with Mrs. Otis.”
“It was nice meeting you,” the red-haired woman said.
That was it? Her mom had always said a lawyer kept a client’s secrets. Didn’t Otis want to know hers? She and Jermaine weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend. Otis had to know that she hadn’t wanted him to do what he’d done.
She shuffled out of the room, throwing a baleful glance over her shoulder at Otis. The woman’s eyes didn’t meet hers. Nothing more could happen when Otis was there, so Olivia kept her bedroom door wide open. She heard Aunt Linda offer the woman some peach cobbler. There was a lot of whispering between them, but no one ever came back to talk to her.
More than an hour later, they both took a tour through the house, both sipping from mugs of coffee. When she heard them laughing below her window, right outside the front door, she got up and locked the door and undressed for bed.
Thirty-Seven
Confirmation
December 4, 2001
Sheila squared her shoulders then pushed her way into Bennett Friehof. There were no squeals in the hallway accompanying her arrival this time. The receptionist appeared too busy to chat. Even Bonnie, her longtime secretary, was lukewarm when Sheila passed the woman’s desk.
None of that mattered. When she was finally directed to Troy Holman’s office, she didn’t hesitate in making her knock strong and loud. Holman was his usual gregarious self, his greeting effusive. Grasping her outstretched hand into his, he shook vigorously.
“Good to see you. Good to see you, Sheila. Sorry to hear about your troubles,” he said. Heat rushed to her face and for once she was glad her skin was dark. Closing her eyes briefly, she put aside her embarrassment and focused on the goal. “Let me cut to the chase. I met with Tommy Franklin and Dale Hodges. Good ‘ol Dale. Good ‘ol Dale gave me a hell of a time. Hell of a time.”
She didn’t have the energy to bow and scrape today. Time was running out for her and her daughter. “What do I need to do?”
“Bottom line then,” he said, all warmth going from his face. “When you meet with the senators next week, you are to characterize your situation with your daughter as a custody problem. That’s something people can wrap their head around. If anyone presses you for detail…which they shouldn’t—they hate personal problems—mention that you were divorced and you’re dealing with a deadbeat dad who’s trying to get custody rather than pay child support. Capisce?”
Sheila swallowed the bitter pill. “I understand.” She’d swallowed the same bitter pill when Peyton took over the Arron Medical case.
When Peyton had come to Sheila’s office, a year and a half ago and she had explained the situation, he exploded, “Shit, Sheila, you’ve fucked this one up. This is malpractice, you know.” He had paused, clearly thinking. “Get my secretary a copy of the file. I don’t know what we’re going to do, but let me try to figure something out, before we get the ethics partner involved.”
She had wanted to argue that it wasn’t malpractice. The client had given her only half the facts. No sound legal advice could come of that. But the client had gone to school with partner Dennis Traxson. So when Peyton came back a couple of days later with a possible solution, Sheila went along.
Peyton’s idea was dead simple. They would try to get Arron’s insurer to pay the claim. Peyton had discovered upon reading the complaint that in addition to suing for discrimination, David Park had also sued for defamation. Arron had given bad references to several companies where Park had applied for a job. Predictably, Arron’s insurer didn’t cover intentional discrimination by the company’s employees – no insurance policy would cover something like that. But what the insurance policy did cover was defamation, which included dishonest references.
Peyton gave Sheila a list of tasks. First, she was to get the client to authorize the hiring of a mock jury so that the firm could get an idea of how the facts would play before real people. Second, she was to sit in while Peyton and Dennis tried the case to a jury, with an actor playing the role of Park. Then she was assigned the task of setting up a meeting with the insurance company, and obtaining a number the plaintiff was willing to settle for.
When Peyton and Sheila were setting up the conference room for the meeting with the plaintiff, Peyton admonished her not to utter a single word. He was in charge. At any other time, Sheila would have been incensed at the idea that she take a back seat to anyone, but as a party to the situation, she held her tongue.
Sheila and Peyton introduced themselves to the attorneys for the insurance company as they came into the conference room.
“So, Peyton, why am I here?” Howard Grossman, the insurer’s attorney asked. “From what I can see, this is your typical discrimination case. Your client, made a huge blunder and they’re probably going to pay David Park a lot of money—but we don’t really have a role here—you know our policy doesn’t cover the discrimination claim.”
Peyton listened, looking thoughtful before he spoke. Sheila knew it was an act.
“Normally, Howard, I’d agree with you. But if you look more closely at the complaint, our client was sued for defamation, a loss you do cover.” More self-assured now, Peyton continued, “Now, as a matter of course, in our representation of clients, we test out these matters before a mock jury to see how they’re gonna play. When we tested this case, we came upon something very interestin
g.”
Peyton pressed some buttons and a screen at the end of the conference room filled with images of the mock jury’s deliberation.
Luz Dalangin was wiping away her earlier tears. “You know what the real clincher is for me?”
“What? The e-mails to the new guy?” someone asked.
“No, the fact that Staszak gave him bad references. Arron just out and out lied—for no reason. It was spiteful through and through. Who knows if he’ll ever be able to get another job?”
The others nodded in agreement.
Luz continued, as the self-appointed leader. “Let’s talk about damages. Do you think ten million is enough?”
Seeing the deliberation for the first time, Sheila was surprised at how vehemently they’d reacted to Arron’s bad references on Park’s behalf. Peyton stopped the tape. When Sheila looked at Howard, he seemed as surprised as she. He quickly excused himself to make a phone call. While Howard paced and talked in the hallway outside the conference room, Sheila spoke.
“Peyton, where is the part of the tape where they deliberate on the discrimination matter?”
Peyton’s clear blue eyes narrowed. “We can talk about this after Howard leaves.”
Howard shuffled back into the room. “I’ve talked to my adjuster. The best we can do is the policy limit of five million—for an absolute release of the claim.”
Peyton reached across the heavy wooden conference table and grasped Howard’s hand. “Thanks Howard, I’m glad I was able to bring this to your attention. I’ll talk to the plaintiff’s lawyer, and be in touch.”
After Howard gathered his papers and left, Peyton tapped the keys on the speakerphone in the middle of the conference table, making a call. “Vernon Dinwiddie? Glad I reached you. Talked to my client, and we can meet your three million dollar demand, but the case must be settled today with a complete release or the offer is off the table. Get back to me in an hour.”
