by Austin Boyd
“Listen,” he said, turning his head toward the hall and the living room. “D’you hear that?”
“What?” she asked, setting down the pan.
“We left the TV on after you checked the weather. Stefany’s show is coming on next. I just heard them announce it.”
“So?”
“We need to watch. Not because of her, but the report she’s doing. Come on.” He dropped the bread, pushed away from the table, and sprinted down the hall toward the drone of the television set. Laura Ann folded a dish towel and followed at a slower pace. Since little James left, every movement taxed her.
“In a repeat of our weekly Special Report segment, investigative journalist Stefany Lukeman continues her series on the abuse of government insurance programs in the northwest counties hit hard by June floods.”
Laura Ann joined Ian at the couch, a rare day when the television played. Perhaps it came with having a man in her house. Two weeks from tonight, this would become his house. Their home.
Stefany appeared on screen, the same cousin who’d sheltered her for five weeks in Wheeling. Nearly every day they were together, she’d shared some new tidbit she’d gleaned in her world of reporting that proved conspiracies to affect consumer pricing, to cut people out of work, or to move jobs. A woman who loved life, energetic in the extreme, she also had a passion for the little guy. Like a top spinning at high speed, she careened about the community as an investigative reporter, bouncing off one injustice after another.
Her cousin’s green eyes and red hair set her apart from the other newscasters, a rebel in her dress and her color. Freckles, prominent cheekbones, and a strong jaw framed her most visible feature — full lips always drawn back in a smile. Her introduction filled the screen until she cut to a special report about Tyler County, their home.
“The impact of the June floods continues in the northwest corner of our state. Cleanup operations have been underway for weeks, and just now communities like Middlebourne, West Union, and Saint Mary’s are recovering from what has been termed the worst flooding in this state in a century. But for all the stories of recovery and endurance, there’s a dark side to federal and state flood relief programs. Massive fraud, perpetrated by a few, has crept into relief and subsidy efforts. From crop programs to federal flood insurance, ‘entrepreneurs’ are cashing in on what some say is easy money. Too easy.”
Ian touched Laura Ann’s knee, pointing in silence at the television. Her cousin rarely frowned. Today, Stefany’s lips were full, pursed in concern.
“In Tyler County alone, more than four hundred farms reported losses in the June storm. But in our analysis of the flood, we found there were less than three hundred fifty farms located in the flood plain of the Middle Island and its tributaries. So why the discrepancy? Here’s another problem. If you total up the flood-related crop losses for farms in our region, it exceeds the total value of any year’s agricultural statistics for the past fifty years. To read between the lines, this would have been a banner year for agriculture in our corner of the state. Yet, you might recall, we suffered a devastating four weeks of drought just before the flood. So, which was it? A banner year for crops? Or fraud?”
Stefany held a sheet of paper in front of the camera, waving it and then pointing over her shoulder. “I’m standing at the site of a total loss — or so we’re told. Located in the creek bottom behind me there once rested an extensive worm farm, over an acre in size according to insurance records I’ve obtained in the past week. Now, it’s gone, all those worms washed downstream to the Gulf of Mexico, or to some lucky farmer’s field. Yet,” she intoned, pointing to the muddy area behind her, “no neighbors ever remember hearing anything about a worm business. It’s a business that seems, to this reporter, to have sprung up overnight.” She smirked, then added, “Night crawlers or shady operators? You decide.”
Images of farms destroyed by the flood filled the screen, some of them places Laura Ann had visited. Piles of logs jammed up against bridges, houses washed from their foundations, and mud-covered fields scrolled by while Stefany described the losses. Ian tapped Laura Ann on the knee once more.
“These relief programs were meant to help the needy,” Stefany said. “If you know of an insurance fraud related to the June disaster, contact me at the number below or let your local agriculture representative know. Help our government by policing our programs. That way everyone wins. I’m Stefany Lukeman for Eyewitness Reports. Live and local, Channel Seven.”
Ian punched the television off, then stood up, pacing. “Here’s the deal.” He crossed his arms, a finger to his chin while he spoke. “Stefany found fraud in Tyler County. Jack sells crop insurance in Tyler County. We’re pretty sure Jack is behind this deal with Mendoza. So, before we take this problem to the authorities — a group that includes Jack’s brother — we keep your uncle on the ropes for a while, so to speak. We ask Stefany to focus more of her investigation on Middlebourne, and make dear old Uncle Jack sweat for a while.” He shrugged with a half smile, half wink. “Who knows? We might uncover something we can use to win this case.”
Laura Ann nodded. “You have a point. Uncle Jack’s not as clever as he pretends to be.”
“No. And if we’re lucky, he’s just dumb enough to leave some tracks.” Ian made a pretend pistol with his thumb and forefinger, pointing at the set, and then added, “It’s time for us to be on the hunt.”
SEPTEMBER 5
“I’d be glad to help.”
Stefany’s words formed a second ray of hope, Ian’s brainstorm the first. Late on a Sunday afternoon, she sat lotus style on the living room couch, kinky red-orange hair spilling over her shoulders. Dressed in jeans and a tight camisole top, she reminded Laura Ann of a college co-ed … except for the steno pad in her hands, her pen flying in a furious trail across multiple sheets. For an hour, Stefany ate up every word of Laura Ann’s story.
“There’s more,” Laura Ann said, hesitating. “Everyone knows by now that Sophia gave me guardianship when she died. What they don’t know is about James’s real mother.”
Stefany tipped her head. “How many mothers can a baby have?” she asked with a laugh.
“In this case, two.”
“Two?” Stefany’s smile faded for a moment.
Laura Ann swallowed hard, determined to slay her secrets. “I am the biological mother.”
Stefany dropped her pad, her mouth agape. “No way.”
Laura Ann shrugged and managed a small smile. “I was an egg donor.”
Stefany brightened. “Wow! Way to go, girlfriend. That is so great.”
“You’re serious?”
“Are you kidding? I mean, that’s the bravest thing I’ve heard in a long time. You know how hard it is to do that? To donate?”
Laura Ann pulled her knees together in an involuntary reflex. She remembered all too well.
“Yeah. I guess you do understand. So, how many times? I mean, did you do it more than once? How many eggs?”
Laura Ann nodded, a sheepish hand lifting up four fingers. “Four times. Sixty-eight eggs.”
Stefany whistled, then bent over to pick up her pad. “Does anyone else know?”
She shook her head. “Other than Ian and Granny Apple? No. At least, we don’t think so. If Uncle Jack did, he probably wouldn’t be helping this Mendoza guy sue for parental rights.”
“Good point.” Sitting in her lotus position, Stefany bent forward, her elbows on her knees. After a moment she sprang from the couch and bounced barefoot on her toes. “I’ve got it,” she exclaimed. “ ‘Pittsburgh mother bears child thanks to donor parents. Sperm donor fights for custody.’ “ She shook her head. “Hmmm. Won’t work. Too long.”
More bounces, more turns of phrases, then she stopped again, a finger to her lips. “ ‘Inalienable rights of biological parents. Sperm donor sues for custody.’ “ She shook her head. “No. Still too long.”
She paced back and forth, head bent, thinking. “I’ve got it,” she exclaimed at la
st and scribbled furiously on her steno. “ ‘Nobody’s child.’ “
“What?”
“See? You don’t like it.”
“No. I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I just don’t understand it.”
“Nobody’s child. How does the law apply when two unmarried adults donate their DNA to make a baby that’s grown in another woman’s womb, and then she passes away? Who claims parental rights?”
“That’s the crux of the problem. But James is not a ‘nobody.’ “
“Nobody’s child. There’s a difference, Laura Ann. Three adults have a legal interest in this child, if you follow our old way of thinking. And now the state takes an interest. Four of you. But when you look at this from another perspective, the authorities should be locked up for taking that baby from you. He’s your flesh and blood, and you’re the legal guardian of record. Go figure.”
“He’s my baby.”
“And that’s what we’re going to help you prove. Just do me one favor.”
Laura Ann nodded.
“Hold on to that little secret of yours for a while. Tell Granny Apple and Ian to keep it under their hats too. I have a plan.” She tapped her teeth again with the pen, and then dashed down another note. “Though the evidence is pretty damning, we’re not going after the insurance fraud just yet,” she said.
Laura Ann furrowed her brow, unsure what she meant.
“We’re gonna outflank these guys, cousin. Go for the jugular. Mendoza won’t know what hit him — until it’s too late.”
CHAPTER 26
SEPTEMBER 6
Judge Dennis O’Dell sat behind an antique walnut desk, the walls of his office lined with leather-bound law journals. Three diplomas from West Virginia University hung on the wall behind Laura Ann. The county judge was hometown material, born and bred. She’d been lucky to get an appointment with him so soon on a Monday morning.
Judge O’Dell loved eagles. Brass eagles created a miniature flock on his desk, and more versions took ownership of their own shelves above the tan spines of West Virginia Legal Code. The judge sat in thought, papers in his hand, his reading glasses perched on a long Ichabod Crane nose.
“To be honest, Laura Ann,” he said in a low voice, “I’m mystified about why Child Protective Services claimed endangerment and placed your son in foster care. And I can’t understand why this suit was filed in Tyler County and not in Pennsylvania or Ohio.” He scanned through more of the paperwork, shaking his head. “I’d say more, but there’s a remote chance I’ll be sitting on this case.”
“I understand, Judge.”
“Of course … if you agree that I can share whatever we talk about with the plaintiff and his counsel — then we’re fine.”
“I only came for one bit of advice, Judge O’Dell. We can’t afford a lawyer.” She shrugged. “And I don’t care if they know that.”
He looked up. “We?”
“My fiancé, Ian Stewart, and I.”
“You’re the only one named in the lawsuit, Laura Ann.” “I know. But we’ll be married in twelve days. And we’re in this together.”
“Admirable. So, no attorney?”
“Every dime goes to pay off my mortgage, sir. It’s all I can do.”
“Angus would be proud of what you’ve accomplished, Laura Ann,” he said, pointing a pencil her direction. “Very proud.”
“Thank you, sir.” She folded her hands in her lap. “So, can I win this without a lawyer?”
Judge O’Dell crossed his arms and leaned back in a tall brown leather chair. “No. And yes.”
“Excuse me?”
He cleared his throat and thumbed through the papers for a moment. “Child support is a contentious issue in West Virginia family law. The Uniform Parentage Act hasn’t been passed here, which makes things a bit more complex. You really do need a child support attorney with experience in adoption and surrogacy, or failing that, a civil attorney. But,” he said, rocking back and forth in his chair, “it sounds like you don’t have that option. Nevertheless, you need to know that money will figure into the child support discussion.” He paused, then added, “Money, and marital status.”
“Money? How?”
“Your income, for starters. And what Mr. Mendoza earns. In other words, can either of you afford to support the child? Can you afford it after you’re married? Those questions.” He looked at her a long time. “But above all—your age is an issue. At twenty, you’re old enough to be a mother, of course, but for custody battles it would be a negative to be young.”
He leaned forward, arms on the desk. “You’ll have to do your homework, Laura Ann. You understand?”
“I’m ready.”
“Okay. Remember, everything I learn here and that I say here goes to both parties.” He tapped his pencil on the paperwork. “This is an unusual lawsuit. Normally we consider the child’s wishes — but we can’t in this case. The alleged father’s preferences figure prominently, which is difficult because the gestational mother is deceased and we don’t have any way to corroborate his story. On top of that, he’s suing the legal guardian for parental rights.”
He looked at her for some comment.
How much does he know? I’m James’s mother.
“Gestational agreements, sperm donor contracts, and probated wills are important, and you have the weight of law in your favor. The court will consider the best interests of the child, including the regularity of prior contact with the alleged father and the guardian. Finally, there’s this difficult issue of relocation. He wants to take the child back to his domicile in Cincinnati. You want to stay here. The child really doesn’t know the difference, one place or the other.”
“He will.”
“Perhaps. But not now, and that’s all that matters.” He smiled. “It’s complex, Laura Ann. You really do need a lawyer.” Judge O’Dell waved his hand over the papers. “Does any of this help?”
She nodded. “When does the case come up for review, Judge?” Laura Ann forced a smile, burying words that threatened to burst out, berating a legal system that put her through bureaucratic hell. “My child was nursing the day they stole him. Every day he stays in foster care is a day lost bonding with his momma. That’s me.”
Judge O’Dell spun around to a computer behind him and called up a caseload docket. He shook his head, and then turned back to face her.
“The sixteenth. A week from Thursday.” He blinked twice in the silence between them. “Don’t give up on a search for someone to represent you. It could make all the difference.”
She stood. “Thank you for your advice, sir. We’ll be ready.”
Laura Ann stepped out of the Tyler County Courthouse into a bright afternoon sun. Like a fresh look at life, something in her stirred. She’d felt it before, what Daddy called his “little voice, the moving of the Spirit.” Her spine tingled with anticipation, and something in her felt poised to strike. It made no sense. She was at her most vulnerable, yet somehow she felt a renewed courage, a new optimism that she could beat this challenge. With help.
With help?
A black pay phone beckoned her from across the street. She could never pay for his services, but perhaps there was a man who could help. Perhaps he’d do it for Sophia and for James. Laura Ann dashed across Main Street, fondling the few bills in her pocket. With a handful of quarters, she might have a fighting chance. Mr. Brewer, Sophia’s executor in Pittsburgh, was only a phone call away.
SEPTEMBER 9
“How much did you know about her?” Stefany asked, stirring her strawberry milkshake at lunch. Unashamed of her remarkable color, she always had her finger into something red.
Laura Ann looked around Murph’s Restaurant for prying eyes. Twelve miles from Middlebourne, Uncle Jack’s arm still reached a long way into some parts of Tyler County, perhaps even into Sistersville, Stefany’s hometown.
“Everything I shared about Sophia, I learned from her.” Laura Ann picked at a hamburger, more interested in Stefany’s findings than i
n her meal.
Stefany raised a red eyebrow. She wiped her mouth and leaned over the table, whispering. “Did you know about her estate?”
Laura Ann shook her head with a shrug of her shoulders. “No. Mr. Brewer said there would be a monthly stipend, but he never said how much. Any little bit helps.”
“There’s probably a reason he didn’t tell,” Stefany said with a roll of her eyes, “the same reason Mendoza wants your baby.”
“What?”
“I couldn’t dig very deep in my few hours in Pittsburgh, but I learned that Sophia sold her interest in the law practice last year, a million-dollar business. Not huge, but significant.”
“I’m not after the money, Stef.”
“I know. And I’m glad. I also followed some leads in Morgantown and checked out that fertility clinic you used.” She dipped her head to take another sip of milkshake, raising an eyebrow. “It’s a shady place, honey.”
“Why?”
“Did you know they lost their license?”
“No. I mean, how would I?” Laura Ann tried to visualize her paperwork with the clinic, the people she met, and the advertisement she read at the hospital. Nothing stood out.
“I’m sure it’s not like keeping a health rating posted at a restaurant,” Stefany said. “But I do know this. In the state of Pennsylvania, where she was a legal resident, there’s been a court decision that says any insemination done by an unlicensed facility will not be considered ‘artificial insemination.’ That means,” she said, tapping the side of the glass, “that the sperm donor is automatically considered the legal father of the child.”
Laura Ann’s mouth fell open. “Wouldn’t that also mean — “ “Mean that the egg donor is automatically the mother? Maybe. It’s fuzzy. Pennsylvania law rules that a donor has all the accorded rights and responsibilities of a parent. Mendoza could even be forced to pay child support, if you win.” “Wow.”
