Reef Dance Read online

  “The case has been called and the parties are coming in now, my friend J.,” he said. I heard Nelson Gilbride’s voice in the outer hallway directing someone to put away his cellular telephone.

  “Like hell,” I said, going for the door. “I’ll tell Foley myself.”

  “Is okay,” Kousnetsov said. “You will see. The child is already safe.”

  Boris was making no sense at all. Nathan Randall was still in the Danforth’s custody, and they surely were not giving in. I was equally shocked and angered to think that Boris was leading on this, my most important case ever.

  “Bailiff, find Mr. Shepard and get him in here now,” I heard Foley demand from inside the courtroom.

  Boris led Sue Ellen through the partitions and up to the far right end of the counsel table, past Gilbride and, on Gilbride’s left, a stone-faced Belinda McWhirter. On Gilbride’s right and standing straight and proud was an exceedingly well-coifed couple that had to be the Danforths. Corwin Danforth’s eyes were vaguely unsettled, but his ice-green, double-breasted silk suit was a beauty. Kitty was cooler and seemingly privately tickled about something. She was marvelously put together in a conservative but stylish knee-length dress, camel with black trim and gold buttons. Both were in their middle to late forties, obvious proponents of gracious living—in a word, smart. I didn’t like them.

  Ken Jorgensen had been evicted from his plastic chair, which the bailiff had pulled forward to seat a shackled Ty Randall. Sue Ellen looked at Ty without smiling, and he stared back sullenly, tugging at his handcuffs. Everything about Ty was plain. Average height and build, red cheeks and a weak, stubbled chin. His long hair was dark and dirty, covering his ears and the blue collar of his county jumpsuit. Though he’d just been brought in, he slouched in his chair, as if at any moment he might melt into a puddle. I looked away, less than thrilled that my client’s husband had the look of a common criminal.

  “All right now, let’s begin with our appearances,” Foley said, peering over the edge of his file. “Miss McWhirter for the county, Mr. Gilbride with his clients—”

  “Yes, good morning. Your Honor,” Gilbride said, “if I might—”

  “Not yet, Mr. Gilbride, not yet,” Foley said. “You’ll have your turn.”

  “Amen,” I said through closed teeth.

  Foley glared at me. “What was that?”

  “Just a cough, Your Honor.”

  “I’ll bet,” he said without looking at me. Foley’s mood had been downbeat and irritated all morning and showed no signs of improvement. “Miss Elmore?”

  Lily Elmore, the lawyer for Nathan, peeked out from her chair just behind Belinda’s place at counsel table. “Right here, Your Honor,” she said with a wave of her hand.

  “And Mr. Kousnetsov, whom I am now appointing to represent Father. All parties to the petition are present.” He surveyed the jam of bodies in the courtroom. “Mr. Shepard, in all the excitement last week, I can’t recall if I arraigned Mother.”

  “I believe you did, but no matter,” I said. “We deny the allegations, Your Honor.” Then Foley arraigned Ty Randall, Kousnetsov denying the petition as well.

  “Two things to discuss today,” Foley continued, “Mr. Gilbride’s motion. Also, this is Father’s first appearance, so he has not yet had a chance to argue detention. Of course, I’ll allow argument from all of you on the issue of detention, but let’s start with the motion made by Mr. Gilbride.”

  Gilbride argued first, making the same points he’d covered in his motion and puffing on and on about the Danforths as if they were the greatest parents in the history of mankind.

  “Thank you, Mr. Gilbride.” Foley massaged his right temple, his eyes slitted from the throb of a tension headache. “Mr. Shepard, proceed.”

  My response was simple, stressing the Code’s unequivocal charge that no de facto parent status could be granted until trial has been concluded and the court has taken jurisdiction over the child. “There’s no place for the Danforths until after trial,” I concluded.

  “I agree,” Foley said.

  “Your Honor!” Gilbride had leapt from his seat. “There are any number of significant equitable considerations to be made in a case like this. Now my clients, these wonderful, willing parents”—Gilbride gestured at the Danforths as if they were the glittering prize behind Door Number Three—“have been with this child since Day One. They are the only Mommy and Daddy he knows. Justice dictates that they must be allowed to participate.”

  At the last hearing I’d been a mere spectator, but this time, I was determined to break Gilbride’s stride. “Your Honor, Mr. Gilbride speaks of equity and justice because he knows the law is clear.”

  “Mr. Gilbride, I’ve made a ruling,” Foley said.

  I wasn’t through slamming Gilbride. “What troubles me is that he speaks of equity and justice, yet every time I turn around, there he is, in front of the TV cameras, revealing confidential information about this case. Perhaps the Court can remind the esteemed Mr. Gilbride that if he wants to squawk about fairness, he should consider the absolute unfairness to this child, my client and even the Court for his shameless grandstanding. He’s transforming a confidential case into a public witch hunt.”

  “This is America!” Gilbride shouted. “I’ve got a First Amendment right to free speech.”

  “Perhaps the flag Mr. Gilbride has wrapped himself in is blocking his view,” I said, “but—”

  “Silence!” Foley demanded. “Mr. Shepard is right, Counsel,” he said. “Mr. Gilbride, you should know better than to discuss this case with the press. The confidentiality rule is in place solely for the protection of the children involved.”

  Gilbride’s cheeks were flushed. “Your Honor, if I may be ever so brief,” he said. “Mr. Shepard should not be casting the first stone here. Why, not thirty minutes ago one of his clients—Dolly Madden, she called herself—went before the cameras and related several confidential facts about this case, facts she said she heard from Mr. Shepard.”

  Christ, what had I been thinking? I felt the moral high ground I’d been treading until now shifting beneath my feet like a great tectonic plate.

  “Is that right, Counsel?” Foley said, glaring directly at me. “An outsider”—Foley nodded at Gilbride—“I can understand, but you’re in here every day, Mr. Shepard. You should know better. I don’t like this.”

  I fought off a hot rush of embarrassment and groped for a little composure. If Foley booted me now I’d be letting down a lot of people. “Your Honor, I believe that what Mr. Gilbride is—”

  “Oh, don’t deny it!” Gilbride said. “I can get the newswoman, bring her here for you, Judge. Why don’t we look at her footage in your chambers, let you decide.”

  With that, Gilbride unwittingly let me off the hook. Foley scowled as if offended by the nightmare vision of Belinda, Lily Elmore, Boris, Gilbride and me cramming into his private office to view a salacious TV interview with a slovenly dependency mom while he massaged a big-time headache. “Enough, Mr. Gilbride, enough already!” he barked. “I’m ordering both of you, all of you”—his eyes swept the courtroom—“not to discuss this case with the press or anyone else for that matter. If you choose to disregard my order, sanctions will be calculated at five hundred dollars per comment. Now, as to the matter at hand, once again, I’m denying Mr. Gilbride’s motion.”

  Sue Ellen breathed a tiny sigh and touched the top of my right hand with the tip of her pinkie. I took her gesture as a thank you and felt a wave of relief. I’d been beyond stupid to talk to Darla Madden that way. In the far right corner of my vision, I could see Ty Randall shifting uncomfortably as his wife retracted her hand from mine.

  Gilbride and Belinda McWhirter simultaneously objected to Foley’s ruling against Gilbride’s motion, and a silence followed as they deferred to each other to speak next. But Foley was too quick for them. “Enough about the motion, I’ve made my ruling,” he said. “Let’s move on, people.

  “Excuse me, Your Honor,” I said,
glancing in Gilbride’s direction, “but shouldn’t the Danforths and their counsel wait outside now that his motion has been denied?” I wanted him the hell out of this case. It was time to get Nathan back to his real mother.

  “These people are the child’s caretakers and true parents,” Gilbride said. “I can see no harm in letting us sit in.”

  “The harm is apparent every time counsel opens his mouth to jump in,” I said. “His love of country is inspirational, but it is not his constitutional right to loiter in these proceedings.”

  The watchers in the gallery murmured behind me, a few repressed laughs escaping.

  “Your Honor, this is an outrage!” Gilbride shrieked.

  “That will do, Mr. Shepard,” Foley said. “Calm down, Mr. Gilbride. You and the Danforths may sit in the gallery.”

  Gilbride huffed, then followed the Danforths through the partitions. The gallery held only three pews, large enough for about six people each, and the rear seats were already filled to capacity with attorneys and social workers from this and other departments—a host of Channel Six watchers, I reckoned. My boss, Willow Reece, had slipped in and was leaning against the back wall, arms folded across her black silk blouse, quietly keeping tabs. Ken Jorgensen was a one-man crowd, his sweaty rolls and a whopping thigh sprawled across three normal spaces next to Gerry Humbert. Ken looked perturbed when he realized he was about to get squeezed. The gallery went quiet when Kitty Danforth took a breath, tucked in her elbows and sat down next to Ken like she was guiding herself onto a filthy toilet seat.

  “Just tell me your living arrangement is settled,” I whispered to Sue Ellen as Belinda McWhirter argued for Nathan to remain detained with the Danforths. “I can feel it—I can get him home to you right now. Are you ready?”

  Her eyes were wild with hope. “God, do ya think so? I’m staying with friends from our new church, First Baptist up in Eagle Rock. He’ll have his own room.”

  “Perfect.” I glanced at her scraggly-ass husband. “Why is Ty still in jail?”

  “Long story,” she said.

  Lily Elmore argued next, echoing Belinda’s main points and adding that if Nathan were released to Sue Ellen, “she might just sell him again. And I’m sure,” Lily said, wagging her finger like a schoolmarm, “that’s something none of us would want to have to live with.”

  Lily had gone too far. “State your case, Miss Elmore,” Foley said, “but let’s leave out the moral guidance, hmm?”

  I argued that this was not a case of baby selling, but was instead no more than an adoption that imploded for understandable reasons. The allegations of fraud had only surfaced after Sue Ellen realized the “open” part of this open adoption was a pipe dream and the Danforths had no intention of letting Sue Ellen and Ty become part of Nathan’s life. The Danforths reneged before Sue Ellen legally consented to the adoption. Regardless of the way one might personally feel about a young woman relinquishing her child, Nathan was Sue Ellen’s boy, and she had a legal right to keep him. I implored Foley to release Nathan to Sue Ellen, so that mother and son might immediately begin the important process of bonding.

  “Mr. Kousnetsov,” Foley said when I’d finished, “I take it you concur with Mr. Shepard’s recommendation that the minor be released to Mother?” I was pleased to see Foley assume Boris would follow my lead.

  This time I patted Sue Ellen’s hand. For the first time since she’d stumbled into my life, this case was under my control. Never mind the kooky allegations of emotional abuse in the petition; we could deal with a minimal finding by the judge on some cooked-up charge as long as my client had custody. I was in my element, and it took a good deal of self-restraint not to turn and find my old employer Gilbride in the gallery and flash him the classic shit-eater. This kid was coming home.

  Then the prop came off the flying machine.

  Boris rose slowly and hacked and rattled to clear his throat. “Yes, but I have something to add, Your Honor.” He glanced at Sue Ellen and me as if to say Boy, will you two be grateful to me for this. I was too late, I realized. Boris’s strange remark about Nathan already being safe was about to be explained to everyone in the courtroom.

  “Your Honor, may I have a moment to confer with Mr. Kousnetsov?” I asked.

  “No,” Foley said. “Mr. Kousnetsov, you have the floor.”

  “I say, what is the point?” Boris shrugged.

  “Come again?” Foley said.

  “Your Honor, what is the point, all of us arguing over where this boy should be, with these people”—gesturing toward the Danforths on my left—“bringing a lawyer here to fight for them, and the boy’s father, still in jail, in handcuffs.” He looked at Ty. “Maybe we even have a trial to decide this case, waste more of the court’s time.”

  Foley glared at Boris. “Waste of time? I’m not following you, Counselor.”

  Boris bent over to whisper into Ty’s ear. “We must tell him,” I heard him say. Ty’s face flashed with panic. “You sure?” he whispered as Boris privately quieted him, their backs to the rest of us. Then Ty shrugged at Boris as if to silently give his consent.

  “The child is no longer here in California,” Boris said, facing Foley again.

  A collective gasp went up from the gallery. Christ, I thought, what have they done? I stared at the side of Sue Ellen’s face, but she kept her eyes straight ahead.

  “His grandparents come and take him few days ago,” Boris continued, “back to Kentucky to live with them. It is the best idea. The adoption is over. We are all sorry it did not work. The parents, they are struggling, struggling to find a home, a new place to live. Mr. Randall is fighting to have the criminal case against him dropped, and . . .”

  No, Boris, I thought. What more could go wrong now? But how, how could they have wrested Nathan from the Danforth’s? I was lost.

  So was Foley, and he was on fire. “What do you mean, the boy is in Kentucky?”

  An awful thought gripped me. I had written the words “preschool” on my list of questions to ask Sue Ellen before the hearing today. In the social worker’s report, Kitty Danforth’s statement included a lengthy harangue about the many expenses the Danforths had covered for the Randalls as part of the adoption agreement: partial rent, food bills, gas, electric, prenatal care, preschool. Last night, when I was re-reading the report, I’d stopped at preschool, wondering if it was an error, a misprint, words too quickly run together late at night by a mentally fried county worker.

  “I missed it,” I said to no one but myself.

  The Randalls had a second child.

  “I tried to tell you,” Sue Ellen whispered to me. Shelly Chilcott was already dialing her phone to try to find out how the social worker had missed it as well.

  “You didn’t try hard enough,” I said. “We’re hosed.”

  “Your Honor?” Gilbride had seized an opening, bounding out of the gallery and planting himself just behind the partitions. “I think I know what Mr . . . uh,” he looked at Boris.

  “Kousnetsov,” Boris said, bowing.

  “Uh yes, Mr. Koosentop.” Gilbride bowed in kind. “What he’s talking about is the Randall’s eldest child, I believe his name is Ronny.”

  “That so?” Foley said. “Ronny.” He fixed on Sue Ellen. “How old is this child?”

  “Three, I believe,” Gilbride said. “From what I’ve gathered—”

  “Counsel,” Foley said, rolling his eyes, “I was asking the mother.”

  I was determined to stay on Gilbride’s back. “I thought Mr. Gilbride was relegated to the gallery because he doesn’t even represent a party with standing in this case,” I said. “He’s muscling in all over again, Your Honor.”

  “Well I’d just like to find out what happened here, Mr. Shepard, so calm down,” Foley said. He gazed at Sue Ellen again.

  She stood to address the Court. “Ronny just turned four two weeks ago come Sunday,” Sue Ellen said. “We took him to the beach to have a pony ride, but the beaches here aren’t like the ones we been t
o in South Carolina. They don’t rent ponies on the beach in Santa Monica.” A fat tear rolled off her cheek and spattered the front of her dress.

  God, she was a depressing sight, and married to the glowering roughneck in the county jumpsuit, at that. This woman could never win against the likes of Gilbride and the Danforths.

  “Miss Chilcott, why wasn’t Ronny referred to in the report?” Foley said to Shelly. “Why isn’t he part of the petition?”

  Shelly tilted her head to cradle her phone on her shoulder as she tore through the social worker’s report. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know yet, Your Honor. I’m trying to reach the worker’s supervisor right now, but I’m on hold.”

  “No, no, I don’t have time for that now,” Foley said. “The boy is already out of state, from what Mr. Kousnetsov tells us. I don’t like this, not at all. How can the county assess this child’s situation if he’s out of state, and why didn’t they do so in the first place? And you, sir”—he glared at Ty—“had no business sending the boy off with your parents. You know I can bring him back here if I want, don’t you?”

  Ty Randall wisely said nothing.

  “Your Honor, may I be heard?” I said. Foley nodded. I shifted my weight and coughed, stalling. I needed to string together an explanation, words that wouldn’t make Sue Ellen sound like a total sneak for shuttling Nathan’s older brother out of Foley’s immediate jurisdiction. I’d blown it by wasting time telling Sue Ellen about my fabulous opposition to Gilbride’s motion. Had I cut the small talk we might’ve gotten to my question about preschool in time, talked about Ronny, fashioned some damage control. I should never have walked in here without making Boris tell me what he meant about the child being safe. Like me, Boris had seen only one minor on the petition. Later, when Ty broke the news of Ronny’s flight to him, Boris confused Nathan with Ronny, believing the case was all but over with the child no longer present. A huge mistake, but the kind Boris was prone to committing due to his advanced years. But what of Sue Ellen’s responsibility? Was her failure to tell me she had another child an honest oversight—like Foley forgetting whether he’d arraigned her last week—or a lie?