Witness for the Defense

by Jonnie Jacobs

  Melissa took a breath. “There's no need.”

  I was sure the Harpers would insist on one anyway.

  “He's the baby's father,” Melissa said, looking past me.

  “What a mess!”

  She nodded mutely.

  “Why didn't you tell me the truth up front?” It was all I could do to keep from screaming.

  “Because I knew he'd cause trouble. Because I hate him and couldn't face even thinking about him.” The tears spilled over and she began to cry in earnest.

  “Who is Gary Ellis then?”

  “A guy I used to work with at the deli. I paid him to say he was the father.”

  “Paid him?”

  “With money I got from the Harpers.”

  Money again. I groaned inwardly at the thought. But I had bigger troubles to worry about. “Do they know Gary Ellis lied?”

  “No. They have no idea about any of it.” Her voice was small.

  “You swore under penalty of perjury that you were telling the truth, Melissa. Didn't you read the documents I had you sign?” No, of course she hadn't. She was nineteen and looking for an easy fix to troubles of her own making.

  “It would have been okay,” she said. “He'd never have known I was pregnant except for Hank, this guy who lived downstairs from me in Berkeley. He's a friend of Bram's. He saw me that day we had lunch in the City. Saw that I was pregnant.”

  I handed her a tissue and she blew her nose.

  “If he hadn't seen me, everything would have worked out just fine.”

  “Maybe.” I pulled out a chair and sat at the table next to her. “I want to know about you and Bram. The truth this time.”

  “There's not much to tell.”

  “Try it anyway. I don't need the sordid details, just the bigger picture.”

  “It's all sordid.”

  She'd met Bram through Hank, a dimwit who was getting divorced from his wife and spent most of his time bad-mouthing her. He used to invite Melissa and her roommates downstairs for beer and pizza, and since none of the girls was over twenty-one, they weren't about to pass up the opportunity for free beer. Hank usually had a few guys over too, and that was how Melissa met Bram.

  “At first I thought it was cool, him being older and everything,” Melissa said. “And he was so different from anyone I knew back home. Bram acted like he really liked me. He talked about how alive I made him feel. How different I was from other women, who never appreciated him.” She hesitated, then finished the thought in a rush. “We drank a lot and somehow ended up in Hank's bed.”

  “It was just that one time?”

  “There were a couple of other times too.” She had her arms crossed over her chest, hugging herself. “He had a key to Hank's apartment. We used to meet there.”

  “How long were the two of you dating?”

  “We weren't. Dating, that is.”

  There was something about her tone that made the picture instantly clear. “You never went on a real date with him?”

  “He kept talking about it.” She looked embarrassed.

  “What happened then?”

  “After a couple of weeks, he told me ...” Her voice wavered. “He told me that he wasn't desperate enough to keep doing it with someone as fat and stupid as me.”

  “What a piece of shit!” No wonder she didn't want to tell him about the pregnancy.

  She nodded. “I guess by then I was already pregnant.”

  “You guess?”

  “I mean I was. Though I didn't realize it at the time.”

  “How terrible for you. Weaver is scum.” He was also a hypocrite with his sermonizing about the role of women as caretakers. Although Melissa had certainly taken care of his needs.

  “I didn't know who he was,” she said plaintively. “Just that he had some talk show on the radio. I listened once. It was so boring I turned it off.”

  “Oh, Melissa.” I leaned over to pat her knee but ended up hugging her instead. That started her crying again.

  “I hate him,” she said between sobs. “I hate him so bad it hurts. But I hate myself more.”

  “Hating yourself won't change anything.”

  “I was so lonely. Being on my own in a strange city. I hardly knew anyone except for my roommates, and they weren't interested in being friends.”

  “We all make mistakes, Melissa. The trick is to learn from them.”

  She nodded, wiped at the tears. “What's going to happen now?”

  “Well, first off, we're going to have to tell the Harpers. It's going to break their hearts to lose another baby.”

  Melissa's face registered alarm. “What do you mean? Bram can't take the baby away from them, can he?”

  “He's the father.”

  “But he's a horrible person. You said so yourself.”

  “He's not who I'd choose—”

  “I don't want him raising my baby,” Melissa insisted.

  “She's his baby too.”

  “I carried her, I gave birth to her. He didn't do anything but use me for sex.”

  “Under the law, that's enough.”

  Melissa shook her head violently. “There must be some way to stop him.”

  “There will be a hearing. He'll have to prove paternity. He'll also have to show that he didn't know of the pregnancy in time to exercise his parental rights earlier.”

  She looked like she might be sick to her stomach.

  “If the Harpers want, I'll fight it every way I can, including in the press, which just may be Weaver's most vulnerable spot. But bottom line is, a birth parent has rights.”

  “Birth parent.” She spat out the word. “The guy's an asshole. I won't let him near the baby.”

  “It's not your decision, Melissa.”

  “There's got to be something I can do.”

  I hesitated. “You could raise her yourself.”

  “You mean quit school, give up my life, and become a single mother?”

  “Yeah.”

  Melissa pressed her palms to her forehead. “My parents would find out. I'd be stuck in some stupid, low-paying job trying to make ends meet. My life would be ruined.”

  “It would certainly take a turn in a different direction.”

  “This sucks.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “It does.”

  “I could have had an abortion and Bram wouldn't even have known.”

  And if he'd known, he couldn't have stopped her. That was one of the ironies.

  “Let's take it one step at a time. Nothing can happen without a hearing. And I'll break the news to the Harpers unless you want to do it yourself.”

  She looked agitated and scared. “No, they'd kill me.”

  CHAPTER 6

  In general, I don't subscribe to the theory that unpleasant tasks are best confronted at once, but in this case I thought it necessary. I called Terri and asked if I could come by later that day.

  “Is it important? We're kind of busy today.”

  “It's important. I won't stay long.”

  “More papers, I bet. Can you make it this morning? We're expecting friends in the afternoon.” She laughed. “We can't help showing off Hannah.”

  My throat constricted. I swallowed hard. “I can be there in an hour. Is that too early?”

  “It's fine.”

  <><><>

  Ted answered the door. He was dressed casually in a T-shirt and shorts. His shoulders were so broad, his arms so thick, I wondered if he had to have his shirts custom made.

  “I'll let Terri know you're here,” he said, ushering me past the large, formal living room into a smaller, more comfortable sitting area off the kitchen. He disappeared and I heard him calling Terri's name.

  The mantel above the fireplace was lined with cards welcoming the new baby. A pile of baby gifts, largely unopened, was spread on the credenza. I sat on the beige chenille sofa, wishing I were somewhere else. Anywhere else. I hoped Ted and Terri didn't confuse the messenger with the message.

  Terri came th
rough the doorway followed by Ted.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said. “I was putting Hannah down for a nap. Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No thanks.”

  Ted sat down, leaning forward with his arms on his knees. He tapped his foot impatiently. “Terri said you had some more papers for us to sign?”

  “No, that's not why I'm here.” My mouth was so dry I was having trouble talking. “There's been a complication.”

  Terri had been standing. Now she, too, sat. “What do you mean? What kind of complication? Melissa signed the waiver of consent.”

  “Gary Ellis may not be... isn't Hannah's father. He's just someone Melissa worked with. The true birth father is a man named Bram Weaver. You may have—”

  Terri let out a gasp and turned white.

  “The guy with the radio show?” Ted stopped his foot-tapping.

  I nodded. “And he says he's not going to agree to an adoption.”

  There was a moment of absolute silence, and then Ted exploded.

  “What? Can he do that?” The vein in Ted's temple pulsed. With his bulky shoulders and powerful neck, he looked something like a bull staring at a red cape.

  “He came to my office yesterday afternoon. I was in court so I haven't talked to him, but my associate did. And I talked to Melissa this morning. She confirmed that he is Hannah's father.”

  Ted slid an arm protectively around Terri's shoulder. “It's a little late for him to be getting involved, isn't it?”

  “He claims not to have known about the pregnancy before now.”

  “What does this mean, exactly?” Terri's voice was so soft it was a struggle to hear her. “Can he really stop the adoption?”

  “I'm afraid so. We'll demand a paternity test. And maybe we can show that he did know Melissa was pregnant. If that's the case, and he made no effort to assert his paternal rights before now, then we may have a leg to stand on.”

  “And if not?” Ted asked.

  “Then I'm afraid the adoption is in jeopardy. The law is clear.”

  “She's ours.” Terri choked. Her eyes welled with tears. “We can't lose her. We can't lose another baby.”

  Ted squeezed her shoulder. “We won't, honey. We'll fight him on this.”

  “I have to warn you, your chances aren't good.” It wasn't a pleasant role, being the bad guy. But I thought they needed to know what they were up against. “It might be easiest to bow out now rather than prolonging the ordeal.”

  “Roll over and give up? Not on your life.” Ted was at the helm, ready to do battle.

  “You may have to eventually,” I cautioned. “And by then you'll be even more attached to Hannah, and she to you.” I was sure I didn't need to remind them about Baby Jessica, whose adoptive parents fought to keep her for three years, only to eventually lose her.

  Terri wiped her eyes, but the tears continued to come. “She isn't a piece of property, Kali. She's our daughter.”

  “Hit him with the heavy artillery,” Ted bellowed. “Hell, nuke him if you have to. I don't care how much it costs or who gets hurt. We're not giving up our daughter.”

  <><><>

  Neither, apparently, was Weaver. Tuesday we received official documents from his attorney demanding that the Harpers withdraw from the adoption and turn Hannah over to him.

  I called to deliver the news.

  “I've been checking into this guy,” Ted said. “He's an ass.”

  “If you're looking for an argument, you're not going to get one from me.”

  Ted was breathing heavily into the phone. “Have you ever listened to his show?”

  “The white male reigns supreme.”

  “Heck, I'm a guy, about as white as they come, and he makes me uncomfortable.”

  “If he's Hannah's father, though, all of that other stuff is irrelevant.”

  “How can the court choose a man like that over us?” Ted's voice sparked with indignation.

  “It isn't the court's role to choose.”

  “Someone's got to.”

  “This is different than contested custody in a divorce,” I explained. “There the judge looks at what's in the best interests of the child. That's not a consideration here.”

  “Maybe it should be.”

  “I know how painful—”

  “With all respect, Kali, you don't know. You can't know until you've been there yourself.” His venom was directed at me this time.

  “You're right. Whatever I imagine, the reality is probably a hundred times worse. But that doesn't change the fact that the rights of the biological father take precedence.”

  “Not this time,” Ted said. “We're going to do whatever it takes to keep her.”

  <><><>

  I set Jared to work trying to dig up dirt on Weaver. I peppered Melissa with questions about what he might have known when. I called Weaver's attorney, who told me there was nothing to discuss unless the Harpers were willing to relinquish Hannah.

  I held out hope that Weaver's interest in Hannah was a superficial one, like a boy with a new toy at Christmas, and that he'd lose interest when faced with the rigors of litigation—and the time to reflect on the challenges of child rearing.

  Or that in the alternative, he might care deeply about his daughter, and be swayed by the Harpers' sincerity. To that end, I'd tried to speak with him directly. But he never returned my phone calls.

  <><><>

  Two weeks later we assembled in Judge Nye's courtroom for a preliminary hearing concerning the Adoption of Hannah B. Ted and Terri sat rigidly and silently, eyes straight ahead. Seated behind them, Melissa slumped, curling in on herself as though she were being pulled into the fetal position.

  Bram Weaver's attorney caught my eye and started to approach. He looked to be in his mid-forties, ruddy-faced and fashionably dressed in a European-cut suit of dark gray. I moved to meet him midground, beyond earshot of the Harpers.

  “Bill Trimble.” He winked at me as we shook hands. “Pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. O'Brien.”

  It was all I could do to keep from wiping my palm on my skirt.

  He nodded in the direction of Ted and Terri. “That the couple who were hoping to adopt the child?”

  I was sure his use of the past tense was intentional. “Are hoping,” I said.

  He gave me a supercilious smile and said nothing.

  “Your client will be here today, won't he?”

  “Any minute.”

  “I'd like to talk to him. We might be able to work this out ourselves, without involving the court. My clients are a warm and caring couple. They would provide a—”

  “Save your breath, my dear. Bram wants his daughter.”

  Before I had a chance to argue further, the courtroom door flew open and a whippish, narrow-faced man with a cleft chin burst into the room. I recognized Bram Weaver instantly from the magazine photograph I'd seen, but he wasn't nearly as tall, or devilish, as I'd envisioned. His dark hair, trimmed close at the sides, was beginning to gray near the temples, and he wore silver-rimmed glasses, which had been absent in the picture.

  Weaver strode to the front of the courtroom, took his attorney's arm, and whispered something in his ear. Then he turned, casting a quick glance around the room.

  As his eyes met Melissa's, she flinched and turned away. Terri, by contrast, stared at him with a hateful glower. If her eyes had been lasers, Weaver would have been toast.

  “All rise.”

  Judge Robert Nye entered the courtroom and took a seat at the bench. His face was pinched, whether from displeasure or habit it was hard to tell. He motioned for us to be seated.

  “Bill, you're representing Mr. Weaver, correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  Not a good sign. The judge and Weaver's attorney were on a first-name basis.

  Judge Nye looked toward the table where I sat with the Harpers. I rose. “Kali O'Brien representing Edward and Theresa Harper.”

  “Is the natural mother here as well?” Nye ask
ed.

  Melissa stood, awkwardly, and then quickly returned to her seat.

  “Is the child in court today?”

  I took the question. “No, Your Honor. She's at home with her grandmother, Mrs. Cross.”

  Weaver tossed his head back. “She's not the baby's grandmother any more than those people”—he pointed to the Harpers— “are her parents.”

  Nye rapped his gavel. Trimble leaned over and said something to his client.

  “I'll have no more outbursts in my courtroom, is that understood?”

  Trimble nodded. “We understand, Your Honor.”

  Judge Nye folded his hands in front of him. “I've read the pleadings. Let me make sure I have the facts straight. The baby in question was born to Melissa Burke. She and the Harpers have initiated proceedings for an independent adoption, correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” I said.

  “And Mr. Weaver has just recently learned of the pregnancy?”

  “Correct.” This time it was Trimble who answered.

  Nye stroked the corners of his mouth. “Go ahead, Bill, you may proceed.”

  Trimble rose and stepped out from behind the counsel table. “Bram Weaver is the father of the baby herein known as Hannah B. He was not aware that the baby's mother, Melissa Burke, was pregnant until several weeks ago when a mutual acquaintance caught sight of her on the streets of the city. When the acquaintance told my client about seeing Melissa, who was noticeably pregnant at the time, my client took immediate action to establish his parental rights. He tried to contact Melissa where she'd lived and worked at the time he knew her. When he determined that she'd gone into hiding—”

  “Objection. She wasn't hiding.”

  Nye waved a dismissal my way. “This isn't a trial, Ms. O'Brien. It's an informal hearing.”

  Be that as it may, the casting of facts was often as important as the facts themselves.

  Trimble continued as though he'd merely paused for a breath. “My client tried contacting her roommates, who claimed to know nothing about Melissa's departure. He tried by several other means to locate her. All to no avail. He checked birth records and contacted local hospitals several times a week. His efforts finally paid off when he found that Melissa Burke had given birth at California Pacific. He went to see her the very afternoon he located her. He wanted to assume his parental duties, to offer financial and emotional support. He wanted to meet his baby daughter.”