‘Nice suit, by the way,’ Ginny Ricks whispered to me as we waited for the judge to arrive. ‘He’ll immediately see that you’re here – which speaks volumes about the fact that you so want your son back. And he’ll also see that you’re not some harridan, but eminently respectable and—’
The court clerk asked us to stand as the judge was due to arrive. A side door opened. He walked in. We all stood up. His name was Merton and he was noted for taking care of business in a brisk, no-nonsense manner.
‘In the great scheme of things, he’s not the worst,’ Ginny Ricks told me before he came in. ‘I mean, considering the number of genuine misogynists who could be hearing the case, we’re rather lucky. He’s old school, but fair.’
He certainly looked old school. A seriously tailored black suit, silver hair, a patrician bearing. He asked Tony’s barrister to ‘open’ the case, which she did in about two minutes, telling the judge who the parties were and explaining the background to the first ex parte hearing. The judge then said that he’d read the statements and that he just wanted to hear submissions.
Paul Halliwell stood up first, his diminutive height and off-the-peg greyness suddenly making him look a little shabby in front of the thoroughbred on the bench. But he spoke in a clear, moderately thoughtful voice, and from the moment he kicked off his submission with the words ‘My Lord’ he narrated my side of the story with straightforward clarity and no lapses of concentration. The terrifying thing was, he was essentially winging it (how could he do otherwise?) – like one of those rent-a-padres at the local crematorium who insert the name of the deceased into the pre-ordained service. At least here, he managed to sound reasonably convincing, but the argument he presented wasn’t really an argument, merely a repetition of the facts.
‘As Ms Goodchild’s attending psychiatrist, Dr Rodale, states in her deposition, Ms Goodchild responded well to treatment and re-bonded well with her child. As to the claim that she informed her husband’s secretary that she would kill her son … uh …’
He had to glance at one of the statements.
‘… her son Jack … the fact is that, at no time did Ms Goodchild ever actually physically harm her son. And though her comment may have been somewhat extreme – and one which Ms Goodchild deeply regretted from the moment she uttered it – it is important to take into account the fact that, like any new mother coping with an infant, Ms Goodchild had been suffering from extreme sleep deprivation which, in turn, can cause anyone to say excessive, unfortunate things in exhausted anger ... which have no bearing whatsoever on the loving relationship that she has with her son. I would hope as well, My Lord, that the court will take into account the fact that this comment was made when my client was suffering from postnatal depression, which is a most common and fiendish medical condition, and which can make an individual temporarily behave in a manner completely out-of-character. Once again, I refer My Lord to the statement of Dr Rodale …’
A few sentences later, he wrapped it up with the comment that it struck him as cruel and unusual punishment that my son be taken away from such an eminently respectable woman like myself – ‘a former distinguished journalist’ – because of one angry comment spoken while ‘trapped within the horrendous mental labyrinth that is depression’; a labyrinth from which I had now emerged back to ‘completely functional normality’. And surely, how could the court keep a child from its mother, given the lack of any violent behaviour on my part?
I judged it a rather good performance, considering the fact that he had been handed the role only minutes before curtain up. And I was pleased that he underlined the cruel extremity of the order against me – surely a sensible, no-nonsense judge like Merton would have to see the truth in such an observation.
But then Tony’s barrister stood up. Ginny Ricks had told me that her name was Lucinda Fforde, and little more. Perhaps because she already knew something that I didn’t … but was certainly about to find out. Fforde had the predatory instincts of a Pit Bull.
And yet, her voice – like her demeanour – was the apogee of cultivated reasonableness. She sounded so calm, so concerned, so certain. And devastatingly precise when it came to undermining everything about me.
‘My Lord, my client, Mr Anthony Hobbs, would be the last to dispute the fact that his wife was once a distinguished journalist with the Boston Post newspaper. Nor would he dispute the fact that she has been through a serious psychological illness, through which he supported her with great sympathy and understanding …’
Oh, please.
‘But the issue here is not about Ms Goodchild’s onetime professional standing or the fact – clearly documented by her psychiatrist – that she is gradually responding to pharmacological treatment for her postnatal depression. No, the issue here is about the welfare of her son Jack – and the fact that, through her actions of the last few weeks, Ms Goodchild has raised severe doubts about both her ongoing mental stability and her ability to cope with a young infant without endangering its safety.’
And then she brought out the heavy artillery.
‘Now, My Lord, you will note from the witness statement by Ms Judith Crandall – who was Mr Hobbs’s secretary at the Chronicle — that Ms Goodchild rang her husband at the newspaper several weeks ago and said – and this is a direct quote – “Tell him if he’s not home in the next sixty minutes, I’m going to kill our son”. Thankfully, Ms Goodchild did not make good on this threat, and though her counsel can certainly argue that this heinous comment was made under duress, the fact, My Lord, is that all women dealing with newborn children suffer from sleep deprivation and its attendant lassitudes, but the vast majority of women do not threaten to kill their children, no matter how fatigued they might be. More tellingly, though one might be able to forgive one such outburst made in exhausted anger, the fact that Ms Goodchild made such a comment twice …’
I heard myself saying, ‘What?’ Immediately, every eye in the court was upon me, most tellingly that of the judge who looked at me with care.
Ginny Ricks jumped in before he could say anything.
‘Apologies, My Lord. That will not happen again.’
‘I should certainly hope not,’ he said. Then turning back to Lucinda Fforde, he said, ‘You may continue.’
‘Thank you, My Lord,’ she said, calmness personified, especially as she now knew that she had me. ‘As I was saying, Ms Goodchild’s threat to kill her child was not simply a one-off event. Following the delivery of her son, Ms Goodchild was hospitalized in the Mattingly, during which time her postnatal behaviour became increasingly erratic, to the point where, when her son was in the paediatric intensive care unit of that hospital, she was overheard by one of the nurses, telling her husband – and this is another direct quote from one of the witness statements that My Lord has before him: “He is dying– and I don’t care. You get that? I don’t care.”’
Ginny Ricks looked at me, appalled. I hung my head.
‘However, not only did she publicly proclaim her lack of interest in whether her son lived or died, she also was seen by one of the nurses in the hospital to physically yank her infant son off her breast while feeding him so that the nurse was genuinely concerned about whether or not she might hurl the child on to the floor. Once again, My Lord, this is documented in the – witness statements, taken by the nurse in question – a Miss Sheila McGuire, who has worked in the Mattingly for the past five years.
‘You will also note a witness statement from the eminent obstetrics consultant, Mr Thomas Hughes, who states, very clearly, that he became increasingly concerned by Ms Goodchild’s repeated emotional outbursts in hospital. As Mr Hughes clearly notes in his witness statement: “From the outset, it was clear to me that Miss Goodchild’s mental condition was quickly deteriorating, to the point where myself and my colleagues at the hospital voiced private concerns about her ability to cope with the ebb and flow of postnatal care for her son.”’
The ebb and flow of postnatal care... I was being eviscerated with
lethal ease.
‘Sadly, the concerns of Mr Hughes and his colleagues proved justified, as shortly after her release from hospital with her son, she was prescribed sedatives by her General Practitioner to help combat the insomnia she had been recently suffering. Her GP had specifically warned her not to breast-feed her child while taking these sedatives. Shortly thereafter, however, her son was rushed to hospital in an unconscious state, having ingested tranquillizers from his mother’s breast milk. And upon arrival at St Martin’s Hospital, the staff were so concerned about Ms Goodchild’s mental state that they admitted her to the Psychiatric Unit, where she remained for nearly six weeks – as she spoke not a word and refused all food for the first few days of her stay.’
I found myself putting my hands over the top of my already lowered head, like someone protecting themselves from a series of repeated incoming blows.
She now moved in for the coup de grace — talking about how Mr Hobbs was the distinguished foreign correspondent for the Chronicle, who had just resigned his position as Foreign Editor to look after his son full-time …
Once again, I wanted to scream, ‘What?’ but restrained myself. I was in enough trouble right now.
She then explained that Ms Dexter was the founder and chairman of one of the most influential marketing companies in Britain, soon to be floated on the London Stock Exchange. She listed her real estate holdings, her chairmanships of assorted well-known companies, and the fact that she was planning to marry Mr Hobbs as soon as his divorce was finalized.
‘Most tellingly, from the outset of this familial crisis, Ms Dexter has taken it upon herself to ensure Jack’s safety and his well-being. To this effect, she has hired a full-time nanny to look after him – in adjunct to his father whom, as I mentioned before, has demonstrated his deep commitment to fatherhood by giving up his position at the Chronicle to be with his son at the start of his life.
‘There is no doubt that Mr Hobbs and Ms Dexter will provide the sort of loving, secure environment in which Jack will flourish. There is also no doubt that, though Ms Goodchild may be responding well to pharmacological treatment, there are still large question marks over her ongoing stability, as proven by the fact that just two days ago, she arrived unannounced and uninvited at the gates of Ms Dexter’s weekend home in East Sussex – a most disturbing visitation, and one which contravened the ex parte order issued against her a fortnight ago.
‘In conclusion, may I emphasize that neither Mr Hobbs nor Ms Dexter wish Ms Goodchild ill. On the contrary, her estranged husband is deeply distressed by her current debilitated state. Nor was there any malicious or vengeful agenda behind his decision to seek an ex parte order against his wife ... which was done solely to protect their child from further harm. His relationship with Ms Dexter had already been well established before this decision was made. He simply felt that, unless he moved their son out of direct physical contact with Ms Goodchild, he could be subject to further jeopardy. Ms Dexter not only provided shelter for Jack, but also round-the-clock nursing care. Considering that she is not the child’s mother, her behaviour at this critical time can only be regarded as exemplary.’
And then, suddenly, it was all over. Or, at least, Lucinda Fforde had thanked His Lordship and sat down. The Judge then said he would retire to consider his decision and asked us all to return within twenty minutes when he would give judgment. Deirdre Pepinster nudged me to stand up as he himself rose and left. But I could barely make it to my feet.
Lucinda Fforde and the solicitor came down the right hand side of the court, avoiding me as they walked by. Paul Halliwell followed.
‘I’m sorry’ he said. ‘But I can only play the hand I’m dealt.’
Then he too left.
I sank down in the seat again. There was a very long pause. Then Ginny Ricks said, ‘You actually went to that woman’s country house this weekend?’
I said nothing.
‘And why didn’t you tell us about the sleeping pills incident? Or the threats you made against your child? I mean,’ I heard Ginny Ricks say, ‘if you had been direct with us, we could have—’
I stood up.
‘I need to go to the loo.’
I headed out, but my knees started buckling. Deirdre Pepinster was there to catch me.
‘Steady on,’ she said.
‘Stay with her,’ Ginny Ricks said in a voice so dismissive it was clear that they now considered me to be completely damaged goods – to be jettisoned from their lives twenty minutes from now, when this entire embarrassing episode was behind them.
I wanted to tell her what an incompetent Sloaney little bitch she was. Remind her how she failed to garner all the necessary facts from me, how she treated my case like an addendum to her ultra-busy life, how she failed to instruct my barrister until ten minutes before the hearing (and I don’t care if he was a last minute substitute – she could have found a replacement last night), and how she was now trying to blame me for her complete slipshodness.
But I said nothing, and allowed Deirdre Pepinster to help me into the loo, whereupon I locked myself in a cubicle, fell to my knees and spent five long minutes divesting my stomach of its entire contents.
When I emerged from the stall, Deirdre Pepinster regarded me with nervous distaste, looked at her watch, and said, ‘We’d best be getting back.’
I managed to swill some tap water around my mouth before we left. When we reached the court, I saw a look pass between Deirdre and Ginny Ricks.
Then the court clerk announced the entry of the judge. We all stood up. The side door opened, the judge walked in. He sat down. So did we. After clearing his throat, he began to speak. He spoke non-stop for just five minutes. When he was finished and the courtroom was empty, Ginny Ricks leaned over to me and said, ‘Well, that’s about as bad as it gets.’
Ten
THE JUDGE DIDN’T look at me as he talked. He seemed to be speaking to some nether place, located on the floor just beyond his desk. But his crisp voice was aimed directly at me.
His ‘judgment’ was brief and to the point. After due consideration, he saw no reason to change the initial ex parte order – and therefore he was allowing this Residence Order to stand for the next six months, until ‘The Final Hearing’ regarding residence could take place. However, he was adding a few provisos to the original order. Though he concurred that the safety of the child was paramount, he also ordered that ‘the mother be allowed weekly supervised contact at a contact centre within the borough of her residence’. He also commissioned a CAFCASS report, to be filed five weeks before the Final Hearing which he fixed for six months’ time, ‘at which time the matter will be decided once and for all’.
Then he stood up and left.
Lucinda Fforde leaned over and proffered her hand to Paul Halliwell. From the brevity of the handshake and the lack of conversation between them, I could sense that this was a mere end-of-hearing formality. Then she and her solicitor hurried off, a quick nod to Ginny Ricks, hearing finished, job done, on to the next human mess. My barrister had a similar approach. He packed up his briefcase, picked up his raincoat, and left hurriedly, muttering ‘We’ll be in touch’ to my solicitor. Even though he had only been parachuted into the case today, he too looked decidedly embarrassed by the outcome. Nobody likes to lose.
Deirdre Pepinster also stood up and excused herself, leaving me and my solicitor alone in the court. That’s when she sighed a heavy theatrical sigh and said, ‘Well, that’s about as bad as it gets.’
Then she added, ‘Like Paul Halliwell, I’ve always said about cases like these: I can only play the hand I’m dealt. And I’m afraid you’ve dealt me a busted flush. Had I only known …’
I wanted to respond to her – to tell her exactly what I thought of her. But I kept myself in check.
‘I just need,’ I said, my voice shaky, ‘a translation of what the judge just said.’
Another weary sigh. ‘A Residence Order is exactly what it sounds like. The court decides with whom the ch
ild should reside – and in this instance, the judge has decided to maintain the status quo of the last order. Which means that your husband and his new partner will have residence of your son for six months – which is when there will be what the judge called “A Final Hearing”, at which time you will be able to argue your case again and hopefully work out a more favourable custody arrangement. For the moment, however, as he said, you will be granted supervised contact at a contact centre – which essentially means a room in some social services office in Wandsworth … where you will have an hour to be with your child once a week, under the supervision of a social worker, who will be there to ensure that the child comes to no harm. CAFCASS stands for “Child and Family Court Advisory and Support Service”. And the CAFCASS report which he commissioned means that, in the ensuing six months, the court reporter will be investigating your background, and that of your husband and his new partner. And to be absolutely direct about it, given the case they have compiled against you, I honestly don’t see how you will be able to change the court’s opinion. Especially as, by that time, the child will be overwhelmingly settled with his father and his new partner. Of course, should you wish to instruct us to take the case …’
I raised my head and stared directly at her.
‘There is absolutely no chance of that,’ I said.
She stood up, gave me another of her supercilious shrugs, and said, ‘That is your prerogative, Ms Goodchild. Good day.’
I was now alone in the courtroom. I didn’t want to move from this spot. A court had declared me an unfit mother. For the next six months, my sole contact with my child would be a weekly sixty minutes, with some social worker standing by in case I went psycho. And Ginny Ricks was right: given the evidence stacked against me – and given the wealth and hyper-social standing of Ms Dexter – the chances that I would be granted custody of Jack, or even permitted to see him on a regular, unsupervised basis, were around nil.
A Special Relationship Page 30
