by Austin Boyd
“Come on, Stef. Don’t get superstitious on me,” Ian objected, dragging his feet while Stefany prodded him into the church. “Laura Ann and I were going to walk down the aisle together.”
She laughed, and made one more valiant attempt to get him through the double doors at the front of the little Baptist church in Pursley. Ian complied, and when he turned his back, Stefany threw a wink in Laura Ann’s direction. “No can do,” she said. “Get up there with Pastor Culpeper. Mrs. C is going to play the piano and I’ll follow your lovely bride with the flowers. Now scram!”
Ian saluted Laura Ann’s redheaded tempest of a cousin, and marched through the doors. Stefany gave a thumbs-up sign. Laura Ann dashed in the side entrance, peering through narrow windows in the main doors to watch him stride down the aisle. Granny Apple, Pastor Culpeper, and his wife Pamela waited at the front of the church, a standing ovation of three. One witness, Granny. One pastor. And one pianist. Just enough, and not a day too soon. Clad in his new suit, Ian reached the front of the church, beaming.
“Good job!” Laura Ann said with a high-five to Stefany, her redheaded relative decked out in the prettiest dress Laura Ann could remember seeing. Except for what she had on … her Momma’s wedding gown.
“No problem. He may be a lawman, but he’s still just a guy. You ready?”
“I’ve been ready, Stefany. For a very long time,” Laura Ann said, touching her cousin’s forearm.
“No regrets?” Stefany asked, a hand on the door. “None.”
Stefany wiped at her eyes, releasing the door just a moment to arrange something on Laura Ann’s white gown, an elegant but simple throwback to the grace of a bygone era, a return to simpler times. “You’re beautiful,” she said, brushing back one of Laura Ann’s bangs. “Just so you know, I envy you. Ian. The farm. Something stable.”
“Envy me?” Laura Ann exclaimed.
“Uh-huh,” she said with a little laugh. “I know I bounce around a bunch, full of energy and all. But a lot of it’s just a show, cousin. There’s a part of me, a part that grows bigger every day, that just wants to settle down. Wants to find someone,” she said, her voice drifting off, a hand adjusting Laura Ann’s tiny veil.
“And you will, Stef.” Laura Ann leaned forward and gave her a hug. “But don’t envy me too much. Next week I’m back in a courtroom, fighting for James.” A shadow passed over her face. “Maybe more.”
Stefany nudged her. “That’s in the future. But you’re here now, girlfriend, and it’s your wedding day. Mr. Wonderful is waiting for you at the end of that aisle!”
Laura Ann took a peek through the windows again, the piano accompaniment by Pamela her cue to start walking. But something remained unsaid. She wiped at her eyes, determined that this be her happy day.
“God put you here for me. You know that, right?”
Stefany shrugged. “We’ve had that conversation,” she said, her smile fading. “You know how I feel about all that stuff. Let’s don’t go back there.”
“I know. But with the music playing, and Ian waiting, I still need you to know something.”
Stefany shrugged and Laura Ann took her hands in her own.
“You see things that most people don’t, Stefany. In people. In situations. You might not realize it, but you’re like a key — you unlock secrets. You help people.” She pulled their clasped hands up, drawing her cousin close. “You helped me.”
Stefany’s smile returned with a silent nod that said “thanks.”
Laura Ann released her embrace. She took a deep breath, adjusting her veil, then pushed on the door. “You ready?” she asked.
“Got your back, cousin. Lead on.”
SEPTEMBER 23
Laura Ann pressed Ian’s hand. From honeymoon to courtroom. The wonder of their two days away in Parkersburg seemed so very distant. Like ripping off a scab, every moment of this trial drew pain.
“How did you learn of Ms. McQuistion’s death?” Mr. Brewer asked, leaning into a walnut rail that stretched around the witness box in Judge O’Dell’s courtroom. Felix Mendoza squirmed on the stand, half an hour into the questioning by Laura Ann’s attorney.
“Relevance?” Mr. Whitt blurted out, his hands raised.
“Relationship to the deceased, Judge,” Mr. Brewer answered without looking up.
“Proceed.” Judge O’Dell waved him on as Mr. Whitt lowered his head.
“She came to thank me for knocking her up.” Mendoza’s eyes darted about the room, avoiding Laura Ann’s glare. “Me and her, we were tight.”
“You got her pregnant?”
“That’s what I just said.”
“And you say you were close? In a relationship kind of way?” Mr. Brewer asked.
Mendoza shrugged.
“I’ll rephrase. How did you learn of Ms. McQuistion’s death? You were ‘tight’ as you say, yet you never visited her in the hospital, she made no calls to Cincinnati during her stay in Wheeling, and you never called her.” He lifted some of his own papers, pointing to the judge’s desk. “Exhibit seven, judge. Ms. McQuistion’s cellular and hospital phone records.”
Judge O’Dell nodded and waved him on.
“So, I repeat. How exactly did you learn of her death?”
Mendoza shrugged again. “Through a friend.” His eyes searched the courtroom gallery, then went back to Brewer.
“Did you visit her, or provide any manner of support during the hospitalization for her heart problem?”
“Heart problem?”
“You weren’t aware of her rheumatic fever?”
“No.”
“But we heard from Ms. McGehee — I mean, Mrs. Stewart — that she cared for Ms. McQuistion for the better part of a month, at home and in the hospital, through her last month of pregnancy, a month complicated by heart disease.”
“Again, Judge, what’s the relevance?” Mr. Whitt protested, standing at his desk.
“Relationship with the deceased, Your Honor, and justification for the decision about who would care for her child.” Mr. Brewer faced the judge. “Ms. McQuistion chose Mrs. Stewart as a guardian for her son, a woman who demonstrated extraordinary sacrifice to support the deceased during her last days. From Mr. Mendoza’s own testimony, he had no idea Ms. McQuistion ever experienced any heart problems, nor did he ever take the initiative to contact her, or provide material support.”
“What difference does it make?” Mendoza asked, turning toward the judge and raising his hands in exasperation. “I fathered that kid.”
“Please, just answer the questions, Mr. Mendoza. Anything else, Mr. Brewer?”
“One more line of questioning, Your Honor. Mr. Mendoza, do you live in Cincinnati?”
“Of course I do.”
“State, for the record, your height, weight, and educational background, please.”
“Judge!” Mr. Whitt exclaimed. “Mr. Brewer?”
“In the absence of a sperm donor contract, Your Honor, I can establish, without question, that Mr. Mendoza had no interest in legal guardianship of this child, or for any other children he might have fathered as a donor.”
“Proceed.”
“Okay. I’m five foot nine, one hundred sixty-five pounds. I attended the US Air Force Academy.” “Did you graduate?”
Mendoza delayed, looking down at his feet, and then answered, “No.”
“State your email address and phone number.”
Mendoza replied with clipped words, his eyes darting from Mr. Brewer to Mr. Whitt and back.
“Thank you. I’d like to submit an additional exhibit, Your Honor. A copy of a posting on the Internet by a party whose data matches the testimony of Mr. Mendoza—exactly.” He lifted a sheet of paper up to the judge who reviewed it, his eyebrows raised, then handed it back.
“Mr. Mendoza,” Brewer asked, “did you compose this posting on the Internet? It lists your email and phone number, just as you’ve testified.”
Mendoza took the paper, glancing at it for a moment, then gulped.
“Mr. Mendoza?”
He nodded, silent.
“Mr. Mendoza motions assent that this is his posting, an Internet advertisement in which he promotes his role as a qualified sperm donor. That document states, in part,” Mr. Brewer said, turning to face the gallery, “that he seeks mutually fulfilling passionate experiences with women who seek to be inseminated, absent any emotional or legal baggage.” He turned back to face the judge. “I question, why is it, Mr. Mendoza, that you have no interest, as a sperm donor, in what you term ‘legal baggage,’ yet today you’re here in Tyler County petitioning for custody of a child you purported to father?”
Mendoza shrugged with a loud exhale, shaking his head. His frown deepened by the minute.
“No more questions, Your Honor.” Mr. Brewer moved back to his desk. He whispered to Laura Ann as he settled into the old oak chair. “We haven’t won this yet.”
Judge O’Dell dismissed the witness, paged through his materials, and then addressed Mr. Whitt. “We’ve heard some interesting circumstantial evidence from your team today, Counselor. But we have yet to review the results of your client’s paternity test.”
Whitt turned to Mendoza and conferred, whispering behind hands that shielded their mouths. Behind them, a door clicked.
Laura Ann looked back, feeling a rush of air into the room. In the open door stood Uncle Jack, slipping into a seat on the back row. She tapped Ian’s shoulder, and he spun around. All eyes turned to follow his, Uncle Jack wilting under the glare of court observers.
She turned back to face the judge, breathing deep and gripping her hands while she willed her heart to slow. Her face felt hot, the sounds about her fading into a memory.
In her mind’s eye, Daddy sat on the porch steps, his arms resting on his knees. “Don’t ever fear the truth, Peppermint,” he said that day. She couldn’t remember how old she was, or what season he’d said it. Just Daddy in his overalls, speaking his mind. “Stand up for truth, no matter what the cost.”
Laura Ann looked up, the judge tapping his pen on his desk while the two men to her right conferred. When he spoke, he growled.
“I’ll ask again, and only once more, Counselor Whitt. Do you intend to submit the state DNA test as evidence of paternity? Yes or no?”
Mr. Whitt turned to face Judge O’Dell, standing as he prepared to speak. He gulped, looked down at Mr. Mendoza, then back up at the judge. “Yes, Your Honor. We do.”
“Then may I see it?”
Mr. Whitt stood and carried a package to the front. “In support of my client’s case, Your Honor, certified results for DNA analysis of Mr. Felix Mendoza, conducted by the State of West Virginia. Probability of paternity, 99.98 percent.” He faced Laura Ann. “My client is the biological father of the child James McQuistion.”
He turned, seeking out a face in the back of the room, and smiled. He looked back at Laura Ann and her team, raising an eyebrow, then returned to his seat.
Judge O’Dell reviewed the case file, nodded, and handed the materials to his clerk. “It’s about time.”
“Your Honor?” another voice asked.
Judge O’Dell looked up to face Mr. Brewer. The attorney stood at Laura Ann’s side, a manila folder in his had. She glanced at Ian, who nodded, a small smile on his face. Behind him, Stefany punched the air with her fist.
“The defense wishes to recall a witness, Mrs. Laura Ann Stewart. To allow evidence in rebuttal.”
Mr. Whitt sat up in his chair, shaking his head. He looked to the back again, a clear connection with Uncle Jack.
Judge O’Dell sat back and took off his glasses, then answered. “Proceed.” A head nod between the two of them communicated some unspoken message, and the judge waved her in his direction. “Mrs. Stewart?”
Laura Ann stood up, a lingering grip on Ian’s hand before she walked to the front and mounted the witness stand. Seated above the rest of the court, but slightly below the judge, she saw the room from a completely different perspective. When she testified the first time, two hours ago, her heart slammed in her chest. This time, even with Uncle Jack glaring at her from the back of the room, a gentle calm overwhelmed her.
Secrets don’t become you, child. Granny Apple’s wisdom floated back, like a thought tossed across the room from her elderly friend sitting in the gallery. You can do it.
Mr. Brewer approached the bench. “There’s one more item of evidence I wish to submit for review, Your Honor. And after this witness, an additional witness I wish to call.” He handed a file folder to the judge. After a brief glance, the judge sat up a little straighter, turning to face her on the stand.
“You don’t have to do this, Laura Ann,” Judge O’Dell said.
“I want to, sir,” she said. “I need to.”
“As you wish.” Judge O’Dell held the file out, motioning toward Mr. Whitt. When he shared the papers with Mendoza’s attorney, the lawyer dropped the papers on his oak desk, dumbfounded. She watched the reaction as Mendoza picked up the file, wagging his head in disbelief.
The bailiff swore her in, and Mr. Brewer approached the stand, smiling. “Laura Ann Stewart, who is the biological mother of the child, James McGehee McQuistion?”
Judge O’Dell furrowed his brow, lowering his head to look over his glasses. Laura Ann faced Ian for a brief moment, his smile of affirmation spurring her on.
“I am the biological mother.”
Laura Ann heard Uncle Jack’s trademark harrumph in the back of the room. He launched up from his seat, a fist raised.
“No!”
Judge O’Dell pointed a bony finger toward her uncle. “Order in my court, Jack Harris. Or I’ll lock you up for contempt—in your own brother’s jail.” The judge let his command settle the room, then he leaned forward, both hands on the bench. He nodded to Mr. Brewer.
“Your Honor, I submit as evidence of maternity a state-certified DNA test, based on a blood sample drawn last Thursday.”
He handed the paper to the clerk, who read aloud. “Combined parentage index 153.435. Probability of maternity 99.954 percent. Laura Ann McGehee, probable mother. James M. McQuistion, child.”
Judge O’Dell shook his head, his mouth agape.
Mr. Brewer continued. “Laura Ann, state for the court how you came to be the biological mother of this child.”
She took a deep breath, keeping her eyes locked on Ian. “Daddy and I needed money. He didn’t know it, but I volunteered to be an egg donor at the Morgantown Fertility Clinic.” She shivered, then continued. “I donated sixty-eight eggs over the course of four visits. What they call ‘harvests.’ Ms. McQuistion became pregnant using some of the eggs donated on my first trip.” She bit her lip, closing her eyes a moment to recapture her calm, then continued. “She chose me using an Internet profile that was posted on the clinic website, and later came to Middlebourne to thank me for my role in her pregnancy.” She pointed toward Mendoza. “Like she did with the other donor. I’d never met her until that day, nor did I know she had chosen me. But …”
Mr. Brewer waited for her to finish the sentence, moving to the rail to encourage her.
“But it rained. On June twenty-fourth. Because of the flood, she couldn’t leave, and stayed with me for a few days. We became friends, and when she got sick, Ian — my husband, but we were courting at the time — helped me take her to the hospital. After she’d been there a while, she asked me if I would consent to be the guardian for her son.”
Judge O’Dell lowered his glasses from his nose and let out a low chuckle. He lifted up the stack of papers on his desk and slid them into a brown leather pouch.
Laura Ann looked at the judge, then continued. “Ms. McQuistion passed away due to heart complications,” she said, biting her lip as she struggled with the words. “And her baby — James — was born premature about an hour before she died. I waited for him to be released, and met with a lactation consultant to help me nurse the child. That about summarizes it.”
“One more question, Laura Ann,” Mr. Brewer said
, his hand resting on the rail of the witness stand. “Was anyone else, other someone at the fertility clinic, aware of your egg donation at the time Ms. McQuistion would have become pregnant?”
Laura Ann shook her head. “No. I told no one.”
“Thank you.” He turned to the judge. “No more questions, Your Honor.”
The judge faced Mr. Whitt, sweat beading on the attorney’s brow. “Cross examine?”
Whitt shook his head, fumbling with some papers. Mr. Mendoza uttered an expletive, pushing back from the table, and some more words Laura Ann could not hear when he moved closer to his attorney.
“You may step down, Mrs. Stewart. Mr. Mendoza, another outburst like that and I’ll hold you in contempt as well.”
As Laura Ann made her way to the table aside Ian, Mr. Brewer approached the bench. “Your Honor, the defense wishes to call our last witness.” He handed a package and briefing sheet to the judge, who shared a copy with the clerk. He handed a separate copy to Mr. Whitt. “Ms. Maggie Clark, erstwhile of the Morgantown Fertility Clinic.”
Mendoza’s attorney threw his hands up, blurting out his question again. “Relevance?”
Judge O’Dell looked back at Mr. Brewer for an answer.
“Your Honor, we will establish the extraordinary personal sacrifice of my client in her role as donor and biological mother for the child.”
“Proceed.”
A few gasps arose about the courtroom when a woman stood in the audience and walked out of the gallery toward the witness stand. Laura Ann lowered her head a bit, then raised her chin, determined to endure this. For James. And for Sophia.
“Please state your name and city of residence,” Mr. Brewer said, once she’d been sworn in.
“Maggie Clark, of Morgantown, West Virginia.”
“Ms. Clark, are you married?” “I am not.”
“And your employer in November of last year?”
“I was a nurse serving as a reproductive specialist and nurse anesthetist at the Morgantown Fertility Clinic, on the staff of Dr. Alexandros Katinakis.”
