Reef Dance Page 5

“Pardon me for interrupting,” a dapper, older gentleman declared from the back of the courtroom. He stepped to the partitions and stood behind them. “But I couldn’t agree more with what that young man just said.” He kept his eyes on Foley. Gerry Humbert and Ken Jorgensen eased back into place to watch.

  “I apologize for being late, Your Honor, but I was downtown in a deposition all morning—I’m an expert witness in a precedent-setting custody matter.” The man smiled at everyone. Belinda beamed as if the guy were her ace in the hole. “My clients—”

  “And who are you?” Foley said.

  “Yes, yes of course.” The man seemed amused that Foley didn’t recognize him.

  I knew him first from Bundle of Joy—A Practical Guide to Child Custody Matters in California. 1978 edition. More hair, and darker, in that old photo, but the same face, the same confident twinkle in his blue-gray eyes.

  I’d also done a six-month internship as a clerk with his law firm during my third year of law school, a low-paying stint that caught Willow Reese’s eye and got me hired by the Legal Project.

  “Permit me to introduce myself. If it pleases the court, Nelson Gilbride, attorney and legal expert in adoption matters, representing Corwin and Kitty Danforth, the poor parents who have suffered so greatly through this terrible ordeal.”

  One look at Nelson Gilbride and you knew the Danforths were anything but poor. He wore a wide-pinstripe, three-piece suit that looked like Brooks Brothers, a dangling gold watch-chain and gold cuff links adding a flash of gilt. His silver hair was slicked neatly behind his pink ears. He could not stop smiling.

  Foley frowned. “I’ve made my orders already, Mr. Gilbride.”

  “Yes, Your Honor, and I’d ask only that the court consider making one small change.” Gilbride zeroed in on Sue Ellen and raised his eyebrows slightly as if he was about to inform on her. “This young woman”—pointing a finger—“has caused enough grief to the Danforth family already, and untold damage to little Corwin Junior.”

  “Not Corwin, Nathan!” Sue Ellen shouted. “We agreed on Nathan. You were our lawyer too, mister!”

  “That’s enough!” Foley said. “Mr. Shepard, control your client.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, touching a hand on her forearm. “We’ll get our turn.”

  “Thank you kindly, Your Honor.” Gilbride smiled and bowed slightly, savoring the spotlight. I was certain he didn’t recognize me. “Now, Your Honor,” he said, instructing the court, “my clients opened up their hearts as well as their pocketbooks to the Randall woman . . .”

  “He the same guy who handled the adoption?” I whispered.

  “That’s him. They said he was the best in the business. So did he, even if you didn’t ask him.” She was still fuming.

  Fascinating, I thought, how a single attorney could represent both couples in such a sensitive transaction. Talk about your potential conflict of interest.

  “. . . such a cruel hoax,” Gilbride was saying, “a vicious fraud worked upon them, but still, Kip and Kitty Danforth . . .”

  “Kip and Kitty?” I muttered. Oh boy. Weren’t we getting familiar in a hurry. Sue Ellen craned for a better look at Gilbride.

  “. . . thinking only of the welfare of their child,” Gilbride went on. “And they are both deeply concerned about Miss Randall having any contact at all with their baby. If she gets her hands on the poor infant, who knows what she’ll do? Actually,”—he paused to make sure the whole courtroom was hanging on every word—“we believe she’s plotting to sell him again to yet another unsuspecting couple.”

  A large buzz went up around the courtroom. Gilbride cracked a delicious grin. When I was clerking for his firm I’d never seen him in action, but I’d heard he was quite the showman.

  Sue Ellen was on her feet, shaking a fist at Gilbride. “You’re the one who said it would be an open adoption! Monthly visits, remember that part Mr. Gilbride?”

  Foley’s eyes bugged. “Miss Randall, this is your last warning!”

  But my client was beyond anyone’s control. “How about Aunt Sue Ellen and Uncle Ty? Forgot about that one, didn’t you, Mr. Gilbride!”

  “We are against any visitation, Judge,” Gilbride said.

  “Your point is well taken,” Foley said.

  “Wait, Your Honor,” I said, “this man has no right to come in here and try to argue visitation when his clients aren’t even the child’s natural parents. They have no standing in this matter, Judge.”

  Gilbride nodded at me as if my presence was merely intended to lend support to his bravura performance. “I’m sure you’ve all heard of de facto parent status,” he said. “Here we are”—pulling a blue-backed document from his black leather attaché and handing it to the clerk—“my motion for de facto status.”

  He split the partitions and handed me a copy while Foley read silently. “This one’s for you, son,” he said as if he were handing me a popsicle.

  “Gee, thanks,” I whispered, pinning the motion under one arm. “I’ll give it a read when I get back to the tree house.”

  I tried Foley again. “May I be heard, Your Honor? My client has every right—”

  “Mr. Shepard, I think I’ve heard enough for today,” he said. “No visitation for now. We’ll sort out this motion next week. You can argue visitation when you argue detention next Thursday. People, we are adjourned.”

  No visits for at least a week. I’d let Nelson Gilbride, a total newcomer to Foley’s court whose clients hadn’t even bothered to appear, talk right over me as if I wasn’t there. Not that Foley had been much help. I slapped my case file shut. Sue Ellen sat perfectly still, staring at the green carpet as I sat down.

  Within three minutes the courtroom was empty. The bailiff finished clearing away the newspapers and paper cups left behind on the spectator benches and turned off the tiny fan above his desk. Then he carefully folded the latest issue of Guns and Ammo and slipped it into his back pocket, pulled on his green Sheriff’s windbreaker, and motioned to me that he was ready.

  “The bailiff is going to take you out the back way, so you can avoid those people from the TV station if they’re still here,” I explained to my client.

  Her face was serene, as if she’d become used to accepting defeat. “Thank you.”

  “That was pretty bad. I blew it when I didn’t—”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “Could we please not talk about it now?”

  I was happy to oblige. “I’ll see you next Thursday. Try to get a place as soon as you can, and call the worker when you do so she can check it out. We need to give them something favorable to report on. We’ll get ’em Thursday.”

  “God bless you, sir,” she said, which made me blush, considering the pointed boot up the ass I’d just received. She went with the bailiff past the gold seal and Foley’s empty chair, then curved away, down the walkway reserved for the most hideous tormentors of children.

  Nelson Gilbride was waiting for me when I reached the elevators.

  “A moment of your time?” he said, offering me a handshake. His hand was like a soft, pink pillow. I could have sworn there were no bones in his fingers.

  “You know,” he said, “I like that judge. Serious. Fair-minded. I’ll have to be on my toes with him.”

  I checked my watch. “I’d love to chat, but I can’t.”

  “Right, right.” He smiled, rolling with me. “It’s just been a few years since I’ve tried a case. I hope you can keep me on the right track.”

  Tried a case? The man was probably dicking with me. “And what makes you think you’re going to be trying a case in here?” I said. “Your clients are caretakers. They don’t even have standing as parents. The only reason you even got to participate today was because the judge was tired and wanted to get his weekend underway. If this thing goes to trial, all you’ll do is silently observe, Mr. Gilbride.”

  He chuckled, calm as ever. “We’ll see about that.”

  I pushed the down button and stepped back to get a full
view of the three elevator doors before me.

  “Now please, don’t go yet,” he said. “Please, we haven’t really talked about what’s important.”

  I was tired of talking with him. “Sir,” I said, “your clients and my client want the same thing, custody of that baby boy. Beyond that, not much else is important.”

  “Aah, that is where you are wrong, my friend. Think about it. Why did our two clients even meet, but for the very different needs they both have. I’ve never seen a couple want a child of their own as much as Kip and Kitty do, but God didn’t bless them with the ability to have one on their own. They want a child so badly, need to love him so badly, their hearts are just breaking.” He shook his head.

  A large Hispanic family shuffled past us and into an open elevator. A small girl in a ruffled white dress and scuffed Sunday shoes dawdled near me as the others crammed in. “Mira!” an old woman barked, jerking the girl’s arm. The doors closed and we were alone again.

  “Now take your client,” he went on. “Young, inexperienced in life, wondering if her marriage was a bad mistake. Family thousands of miles away, no support system. She needed care, food, rent, money. Kip and Kitty”—the sing-song alliteration stopped him cold, this time—“the Danforths, that is, they gave Miss Randall all that.” He leaned closer as if to appeal to my good sense. Making his pitch. “They can still help her.”

  He hadn’t said they’d be willing to buy her off, but he certainly came close. “But Mr. Gilbride, the problem is, Sue Ellen wants her baby,” I said.

  “She thinks she does, but she really doesn’t know what she wants. Just think about it, for now.” He handed me a business card.

  I wanted to counter him. For starters, what about the hypocrisy of his clients calling Sue Ellen a baby seller when they were so blatant about the buying end of the bargain? But he held up his hand in an appeal for me to let him finish. “Might I inquire as to what it is you’re doing in this place?”

  “Obviously, I’m in it for the money and prestige,” I said without smiling.

  He seemed slow to pick up my sarcasm. “Yes, right, very good, very good. But really, let’s stop playing games, shall we? They say you’re the best lawyer in the rotation.”

  I flashed on Gerry Humbert and a molestation trial a few weeks back, Gerry’s vehement objection to an expert’s use of an anatomically correct doll because the doll’s pubic hair looked like shag carpeting instead of real hair, a discrepancy Gerry truly believed might “throw off the witness.” And I remember wishing for someone, anyone, to come along and throw Gerry off the top of a very high building.

  Some compliment. “Wow, Mr. Gilbride,” I said.

  “Nelson.”

  “Wow, Nelson. The best in that stellar rotation. That’s really saying something.”

  His face showed fatherly concern. “No, I really mean it. Why are you here? You’re obviously dissatisfied.”

  Was Nelson Gilbride, a man who didn’t even know I’d once worked for him, genuinely interested in me? I didn’t know or trust him, but in those six months I spent part-time in his offices I’d seen a lot of satisfied-looking clients walking the hallways. The man got results. I was certain there was more in store, and I wanted to hear it. “The D.A. had a hiring freeze when I finished law school. I haven’t bothered to reapply in a while.”

  “Tell me, what do you like most about criminal law?”

  “I don’t know—distance I guess,” I said, unsure of my footing. “I’d be representing the State of California, not some needy client who’s right there, pulling at my sleeve every second I’m in the courtroom.”

  “It must be very tiring, a drain. You are tired, aren’t you?” Showing concern.

  I stared back, my jaw set. This whole conversation was a pretense. Nelson Gilbride may have been a famous lawyer and expert, but he didn’t know me in five minutes time. I wasn’t going to answer his question. Never mind that he was dead-bang right.

  “Submit another application,” he said.

  “Pardon me?”

  Gilbride showed no impatience. “Just do it.”

  “Why should I?”

  “I know some people. I can help you. We can help each other.”

  “How?” I wanted him to say it.

  “I’ve heard you can be very persuasive. To the benefit of your clients, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Just keep an open mind, that’s all I ask.”

  “You flatter me, Mr. Gilbride,” I said, “making this case out to be all about me. The problem is, my client wants the kid, not my happiness.”

  “Perhaps. But in a case like this emotions run high.”

  “Emotions run high in this court every day of the week.”

  “Not what I mean. A case like this, publicized this way, it can attract strange people.”

  “Look around you next time you come to this court. This place is full of those, too.”

  He winced a little. “You’re not following me.”

  “Feel free to clarify.”

  “Things could happen. To Miss Randall, or to you.”

  I frowned. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Absolutely not! Wouldn’t dream of it. A little friendly warning is all. Cases like this stand for different things to different people.”

  He was right about that much. “Thanks for the tip,” I said.

  “But I think there’s something else you should consider,” he went on, “something more important than the needs of both our clients. We’re dealing with the life of a wonderful little boy.” He glanced about as if he’d just been tipped off that an insidious virus hung in the air. “That may not always be a matter of great consideration in this place, but it should be. After all, the best interest of the child—”

  “Is ultimately the best interest of society,” I said, completing his sentence.

  “That’s right, Mr. Shepard! So, you’ve obviously read my book—marvelous!”

  “I did, but don’t get excited about any royalties,” I said, stepping alone into an empty elevator. “I checked it out at the library.”

  The doors closed before he could speak again.

  Three

  I followed Ocean Avenue off Pacific Coast Highway and down to the sea. Ropes of swell rolled in the hard sunlight, but the tide was at a minus low and a strong westerly wind had churned the surf into choppy, unrideable slop. I walked onto the pier. Seagulls adjusted to my presence with each creak of my wingtips. A few small boys were riding tiny lines of foam on boogie boards in the Southside shallows. A young woman paced expectantly on shore not thirty feet away, a pair of beach towels wrapped around her like a shawl to break the chill westerly. The boys surged forward on a wave, and I saw the woman freeze in her tracks to watch. Their ride completed, they scrambled across the inside bar for another without hesitation. The woman waved, but to the boys, she was not there.

  I’d looked forward to this moment with sweet anticipation all day, but the ocean was indifferent to my schedule. My hopes plummeted further with the crash of each shapeless dumper. It’s an unhealthy practice I’ve fallen into, allowing the sea to dictate my mood, relying on surfing to redefine my sense of self. Like a needy lover, my desire is beyond reason. I want more than the act of surfing a wave can deliver. I want to commit to something greater than the sum of my feeble humanness, to glean life from a crisp bottom-turn, find meaning in a heartless underwater drubbing. I suppose my passion has gone beyond the bounds of standard surf-stoke. I want more than to ride a wave with style and skill. I want to belong.

  I saw the two boys again, caught them in a flash of movement through the railings, weaving below like coasting birds. Their mother on shore watched them with me. I stood a while longer and wondered how old I’d been when I mastered the art of tuning out adults.

  My house is a few blocks from Main and the pier on a narrow street that runs up from the ocean about a quarter-mile until it hits Pacific Coast Highway. Parking on Porpoise Way is limited on weekd
ays and near-impossible on weekends when tourists roll out of the inland suburbs in droves to hit the beaches south of L.A. I always park in my garage, which faces into a narrow alley behind the property, but this afternoon, some clown in a white Ford delivery van was double-parked in front of the garage door and I didn’t feel like waiting. So I tooled the Jeep wagon around the block and onto Porpoise and lucked into a beautiful spot a few doors down. On my way through the front gate I stooped to pick up the Nautilus, the local freebie newspaper. Just then, looking up from the short brick walk to my front porch, I thought I saw a figure moving through the back of the living room, toward the kitchen.

  In the twenty-nine years I’ve lived in this modest two-story—my entire life—at 115 Porpoise, my parents and I had never been ripped off, but plenty of the big three-story glass palaces down on the sand had been burgled at one time or another. I stayed in a crouch and crabbed across the postage-stamp lawn to the big window. The living room was empty now. I thought about calling the police, but the Christianitos police force operates on a modest budget and cruisers are pretty scarce on sunny weekdays in late August.

  I stayed low, remembering now the white van double-parked in the alley. Thinking about some of the burglaries reported over the years in the Nautilus “Crime Blotter” section. Nonviolent crimes—wasn’t stealth the key? I hoped so. Say, Cary Grant in black tights and turtleneck on a rooftop in Monte Carlo, that would do. I could foil the heist by coughing, run him off with a squeaky heel on the hardwood. My thighs were coiled and burning. I readied the front-door key in one hand and dropped my briefcase near a plot of neglected rose bushes. When I turned the knob I thought of Cary, skipping from chimney to chimney down Porpoise. The blood pounded in my ears.

  No one leapt at me from behind the furniture—thank you Jesus. I eased the door shut. The living room and hall were empty, the dining room cool and shaded by drawn curtains and blinds. I couldn’t yet get my feet moving forward. I know this house very well, can feel its emptiness pressing in on me when I come through the door every night. Something felt different.