“All right. Let’s start with British Nanny, but I want to talk to the others, too. You can go ahead and start scheduling interviews. We’ll coordinate, and you can put them on my calendar.” Smiling, she flipped the pencil in the air and caught it. “This will be easier than I thought.”
Rose Marie’s eyes slid to her thickening waist, and instantly Rebecca felt the waistband growing tighter. She was almost three months pregnant. She needed new clothes, but she didn’t want to start wearing those shapeless billowing tops and dresses just yet. Especially not around clients. She’d tried one of those dresses on and thought she looked just like those old market women selling vegetables on the streets in Naples.
She’d scoured the shops on Canal—Gus Mayer, Godchaux’s, Holmes, Maison Blanche—and Town and Country down on St. Charles, and found her only choice was to buy one dress size too large. A hopeless choice. With a sigh she pushed the agency folders aside.
An hour later in the eighteenth floor conference room, all thoughts of nannies vanished. It looked like the Roberts Engineering transaction was moving forward. Bill Brightfield’s litigation report on Nevada Auriel was positive. The biggest problem was a personal injury claim. “But, my assessment is that the risk is minimal,” he told Case Roberts and Warren Williams, handing each of them a copy of the memorandum he’d prepared. Rebecca had read it just before the meeting.
“I spoke with the insurer’s counsel. Of course they wouldn’t give me a number for settlement, but they’re open, and the company’s insurance will cover any potential loss.”
“We can explain that in the documents,” Rebecca interjected.
Roberts nodded.
“The other cases on record involve disputes with a few vendors, contractors—like that. Those will be a matter of negotiation, but again I don’t see much liability there. You’ll just have to quantify it on the financial statements and projections. Build it into your offer.” He looked at Roberts, adding, “But, I’m sure you know all that.”
“Of course.” Case Roberts looked up from the memo. “We wanted fresh eyes on this, but you’ve confirmed what we were thinking.” He put the memo down and glanced at Warren. Warren nodded.
“This all sounds good,” Roberts said, turning back to Rebecca and Bill Brightfield. Thanks for your good work, Bill.” Looking at Rebecca, he held up both hands, smiling. “All right, then. It’s a go. We’re moving forward.” Then he dropped his hands to Brightfield’s memorandum lying before him on the table, smoothing the top page as if it were fine linen.
Warren leaned toward Rebecca. “Let’s get started on the joint venture agreement. I’ll touch base with the bank group doing the financing, but they’re ready.” He pulled some papers out of a folder before him and handed them across the table to Rebecca. “California Sun is the lead lender for the syndicate. I’ll contact them this afternoon and they’ll get their attorneys in touch with you right away.”
Rebecca took the pages and glanced down at the terms of the transaction on the first page.
Case Roberts nodded. “We’ll want a group of your young lawyers out there by next week for the due diligence. We’ve got to move fast, Rebecca. The company’s sitting on the news while we get this done, but it’ll leak sooner or later, and if that happens before we’ve got things tied up, we’ll lose our deal.”
“We’ll get started today.” She’d put Sydney in charge of the initial due diligence. As Case and Warren talked on about the transaction, Rebecca took notes, creating a mental list of things to be done and who’d be in charge of what. She’d manage the joint venture negotiations and agreements herself, with Sydney as the point person for the financing, under her supervision. And they’d hire local counsel in Nevada, where the mine was located, and for real estate and environmental issues.
“We’ll want to close the transaction no later than a month from now,” she heard Warren saying. “We’ll close at Auriel’s headquarters in Bakersfield, California.”
She gripped her pen as she looked up, suddenly realizing she’d be over four months along and then some. Some companies she knew, not this law firm, still required a woman to stop working at five months pregnancy. One woman she’d met at a party last week had been required to provide a letter from her doctor confirming that date of termination. And not maternity leave—it was termination. So she had no idea whether flying out to Bakersfield would be a problem with Dr. Matlock or—given the baby—with Peter.
“Right.” Case looked at Rebecca. “We’ve got an option; but the closing date for our offer is firm. After that, all bets are off. They’ll keep it quiet until then, but once word of the strike gets out, if we don’t have this tied up we’ll find ourselves in an auction.”
Bakersfield, California in one month!
To her left, Brightfield coughed and she saw him glance at her from the corners of his eyes. Worried about the deadline on his appellate brief, she supposed.
“So what do you think?”
Swallowing, Rebecca turned to Case Roberts, her new client, and managed a smile. “If the banks can do it, we can too. No problem.”
Good.” Roberts slapped both hands down on the tabletop and stood, turning to Warren Williams. “Let’s get back to the office, Warren. We’ll get Auriel on the line—give them the good news.”
Rebecca tucked Brightfield’s report between the pages of her legal pad, preparing to rise. Beside her Bill shot up and reached across the table to shake Case Roberts’s hand. “Congratulations,” he said in a hearty man-to-man tone.
“Oh, by the way,” Roberts said, turning to Rebecca. “I understand congratulations are in order.”
“Thanks.” She wondered how he’d already heard.
As Case and Warren packed up their briefcases and prepared to leave, Brightfield turned toward her. “Don’t forget the brief’s due in six weeks. Now’s the time to let me know if there’s any chance you can’t meet the filing deadline.”
“I’ll meet it.” Hugging the notepad to her chest, she gave him a carefree smile. “You’ll have a first draft to review in a few weeks.” She didn’t know how she’d get the brief completed and Auriel closed on such a schedule. But she’d do it.
He smiled and slapped his hand on her shoulder as he walked by. “Attagirl.”
24
Doctor Stephanie Kand had finalized the forensics pathology report, analyzing the results of the autopsy of Baby Chasson in a medical legal context. Peter read this methodically, walling off all emotions that might contaminate his judgment. He’d resolved to keep his mind clear in order to make an objective decision about the merits of this case.
Stephanie Kand had performed thousands of autopsies over the years for the Jefferson Parish District Attorney’s office. She would be a good witness, he knew; she always was. He’d worked with her in many cases. Her curriculum vitae read like an introduction to a textbook.
Peter had intended to review the photographs again before reading the report, but after the first one, he put the rest aside. That could wait, he told himself. It was Dr. Kand’s final analysis and conclusions he was after now. So instead, he’d just begun to read. She had autopsied the entire body, as well as the placenta—to make certain there was no infection between the mother and the infant.
Kand reported that the body appeared to be in a good state of preservation. The infant had been found wrapped in a small blue birthing towel; the same one described by Clara Sonsten. Kand had noted that the soft cloth was made of special fibers that generated almost no lint and fuzz, and leaving behind little debris.
The blood type of the infant matched that of the mother, Glory Lynn Chasson. The infant was male. The body measured 11.8 inches from crown to heel, and weighed one pound, eight ounces, 680.4 grams. Based upon those facts and the autopsy, gestational age of the infant was estimated to be twenty-four weeks.
Six months. He looked off. So Glory Lynn Chasson’s ini
tial calculation had been off by two weeks. The defense would use that uncertainty to confuse the jury, he knew.
He went back to the report. The infant’s skin was loose and wrinkled and covered with a cheesy protective substance. His ears, eyes, nose, and lids were formed and would have been functional for the age, Kand concluded. The eyes had developed to a point able to sense light in the womb when alive, the ears able to detect sounds outside the womb. The still delicate skeleton was fully assembled. The circulatory system was fully formed and was functional. Visceral organs, like the liver and heart and lungs, appeared normal for the premature age.
Microscopic study of the lungs confirmed that the baby had breathed on his own for some period of time after birth and before death, conclusive that this was indeed a live birth. Glory Lynn Chasson had been right that she’d heard her baby cry. More important, air was also found in the stomach, further proof that the infant had been breathing for a while. He read this section over twice. Swallowing, he set the report aside.
His diploma from Loyola Law School hung on the wall before his desk, near the door. Peter gazed at it now, thinking of Dr. Kand’s conclusions, and of the scene in that procedure room that night, how it must have been with the infant crying and Glory Lynn struggling with the nurse to get to her child when, instinctively, she’d realized that the unthinkable had happened and everything suddenly flipped upside down.
And then he thought of all the hours he’d spent in classrooms in law school, taking lecture notes and reading and outlining cases, tearing them apart to understand the issues, the facts, the court’s rationale and verdict—now realizing that none of that had prepared him for a case like this one.
Once again he picked up the report.
The skull was normal, the smooth plates connected by thin membranes providing helmet-like protection for the brain, as expected for the infant’s age. Dissection of the brain showed no abnormalities. He read through the entire report of Stephanie Kand’s forensic analysis, and then read it through again, absorbing the details, evaluating the weight of each detail for himself, and also in light of how a jury would see it.
At last, Peter put down the report and rubbed his eyes, thinking of the implications of Dr. Kand’s conclusions. There were no major congenital abnormalities found in the autopsy. The forensic pathology report was thorough. Slowly the conclusion formed in his mind—chances were Baby Chasson would be alive today if he’d been given adequate medical assistance. At the very least, with neonatal intensive care in a hospital, he’d have had a chance.
The feeling of despair turned to anger, then to a rage that began roaring through him. He would prosecute this case if Ham would let him. Not only because a crime had been committed, but also because the world outside seemed oblivious that such things were happening. But this was an explosive set of facts, and Ham would resist at first, he thought, because of the political sensitivity. The district attorney was an elected office.
Somehow he had to convince Ham to let him take the case forward. He had to convince the DA that they had the evidence to carry the burden of proof, and that the jury would be with them all the way. He’d go on home and try the State’s case out on Rebecca, he decided, as if she was a juror. He would lay out the evidence and catch her reaction. She’d always been good at spotting the weak points.
But he’d have to do this carefully, with sensitivity, he knew. Rebecca was tough. But the sorrow they both felt for Baby Chasson already cast a shadow over their joy for their own coming birth.
Two infants, each eliciting opposite emotions. It was growing more complicated by the moment.
At seven thirty that night Peter stopped the car in his driveway and got out to pick up the newspaper. Rebecca wasn’t home yet, he supposed, and he was relieved. He had a lot of thinking to do. Newspaper in hand, he got back into the car and pulled into the garage, then turned off the engine. Sure enough, her car was gone. Slowly he edged out of his own.
Entering the kitchen from the garage, he set the paper down on the kitchen table and strolled through the living room, into the study, closing the door behind him. There he sank into an overstuffed chair near the bookcase and, with a long sigh, leaned back against the cushion.
He closed his eyes and he prayed for the infant Chasson; for the baby in God’s grace. And for Glory Lynn Chasson, too; a young woman now in despair, filled with remorse. And he gave thanks for his own child and prayed for guidance, and for Rebecca’s faith to grow. He’d seen some hints along that line, little things she’d said that told him she was thinking things over as the child inside her womb was growing. Since they’d returned from Italy, week after week he’d seen her looking at pictures in the book that Dr. Matlock had given to her weeks ago, pictures of the miracle of life.
Thinking of their child, Peter smiled, wondering if they’d have a son or a daughter and what it would be like to be a father. For a while he let his thoughts jump from one thing to another. As he relaxed with his eyes closed, soon he began drifting in that space in between sleep and awareness.
Rebecca parked in the driveway and came in through the front door. As she headed toward the kitchen all she could think about right now between Brightfield’s deadline for the brief and Roberts Engineering’s deadline for the closing in Bakersfield, and the baby growing every day, was that she felt like a balloon filled to capacity and ready to explode.
She reached into the refrigerator for a carton of milk. Then she retrieved a glass from the cabinet above. Then, glass of milk in hand, she headed once again for the living room, and toward the stairs. The study door was closed, as she’d left it this morning. She wished that Peter was home, but decided she was too exhausted to wait up for him. She hadn’t been feeling that well today and thought that maybe she’d call Dr. Matlock’s office in the morning.
Holding the glass in her right hand, she pulled herself up the steps with her left, thinking of the soft mattress on the bed, and of the pile of pillows waiting for her, and the cool fluffy white quilt. She’d reached the fourth step when a sound below startled her. The sound of a door opening and closing below, in the empty house.
Gripping the bannister, Rebecca turned, peering over her shoulder, looking down in confusion, and in the instant her right foot slipped from the edge of the next step, shifting her weight as it went airborne. As she turned, twisting, losing balance, her mind screamed no, and then she felt herself falling forward with one arm flung across her midsection protecting the baby, the other flailing for the railing that she could not see, and screaming—thebabythebaby—ohthebaby . . .
And then, just as suddenly it was over.
Strong arms caught her, and a body was there absorbing her weight, stopping the fall. Strong arms wrapped around her as she trembled, sobbing. Peter held her, steadying her as she sank onto the steps, his voice soothing. Soothing as he knelt with her, whispering in her ear—“I’ve got you, Rebbe.”
She collapsed then, curling into a ball, as images of Elise’s bike sailing into the street flashed through her mind. Elise, oh how she’d let down Elise, and now what had she done to her own child! She buried her face in her arms forcing away those memories, the car’s screaming breaks, the sounds of metal crushing . . . and Peter tightened his grip on her, his voice thick now and choked as he cried how he loved her and that everything would be all right. That she was fine. That the baby was fine.
Minutes passed right there, with Peter holding her, with his head bent so their foreheads touched and he told her just to rest, not to move and her throat feeling tight, closing, and her heart beating fast. But slowly, slowly as Peter held her and she pressed both hands over the baby, feeling nothing out of the ordinary, in the stream of his comforting words, she grew calm.
At last, standing on the lower step just before her with his hands under her arms, Peter helped her up. And, that’s when she saw the blood. And when she looked up at Peter once again, she saw her terror reflec
ted in his eyes.
“We’re going to the hospital, Rebee. Stay calm.” He moved back, bracing himself, and then he slipped his arms beneath her under her back, under her knees, and lifted her up.
“My guess is a partial previa,” Dr. Matlock said after she’d dressed and Peter had come back into the room. She sat on the edge of the bed. “The ultrasound didn’t confirm one way or the other. It’s too early to tell.” They were in the emergency room of Baptist Hospital.
Rebecca flinched, and he added quickly, “Look, the baby’s fine. Your placenta’s lying low in the uterus is my guess. We’ll have to watch things and take it easy.”
“What’s that all mean, Doctor?” Peter stood beside her with his hand on her shoulder.
He fingered the stethoscope. “It’s not unusual. As the uterus grows during pregnancy the placenta grows too, stretching. Right now I suspect it’s near the cervix, causing that sudden bleeding, but gradually it should stretch, moving clear allowing the cervix to open for birth. I’d expect that to happen by the third trimester.”
“You used the word should, Doc. What’s that mean?” Peter’s voice had taken on his trial tone, Rebecca realized. Dr. Matlock took a step back.
“If it interferes with the cervix and complicates delivery,” he looked at Rebecca, “then, you might need a C-section. We’ll have to wait and see.”
Peter’s hand tightened on Rebecca’s shoulder as she recoiled. The thought of any danger to the baby, anything at all, turned to panic. “But the baby . . . the baby will be all right either way?”
“We’re not even certain that’s what caused the bleeding, yet. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” He rubbed his eyes. “It seems to have stopped, for now. Let’s keep it that way.” Matlock took a couple steps back, so that he stood in the doorway as he fingered the stethoscope. “If we’re lucky you’ll just have to miss a little work. Avoid stress. Take things easy.”
Accidental Life Page 15