“We didn’t have a choice.”
Clayton Roubideaux looked at Emma, and it was such a look that I was embarrassed to be in the room. He wasn’t up to anything other than trying to distance himself from the pain of losing a child. I felt ashamed, because I was so judgmental. Just because I was happy these days did not give me an excuse for forgetting what it was like for people who were going through the dark times.
It’s strange that happiness does that to you—makes you just a little less compassionate, a little less willing to listen, because you don’t want it to intrude, that darkness, you don’t want it spilling over into your life and shadowing your relief and peace of heart. I think it is an instinctual and primitive reaction—like a fear of infection. Sometimes it’s easier to be effective in my line of work if you’re depressed before you interview the client.
“How do you know?” I asked. “Or is that what you want me to do—to find out?”
Emma Marsden shook her head. “We know already, believe me. We know because someone from the clinic called us and notified us that our son’s heart was not buried with him, and what did we want them to do with it. It was like a … a storage issue. They let us know they were going to be billing us. And then we called back—”
“I called back,” Clayton said.
“Does it really matter who called back, Clayton?” Emma said.
“It might.”
She looked at me. I shrugged. It might or it might not, but I wasn’t getting in the middle until I was ready. I was planning to take sides, I just wasn’t sure how many there were. We had started with two, but watching the both of them made me wonder if there weren’t going to be three. Of the two of them, Clayton Roubideaux probably had the money to pay my fee, which meant his was the most practical side to take, but that fingertip thing was putting me off.
“Okay, so you’re telling me that the clinic actually informed you that they had your son’s, Ned’s, heart. That they’d … kept it? How did they explain that?”
“Research,” Clayton said. “They explain everything with that one word. It’s the medical-legal version of diminished capacity. It means they think they can do anything and everything they want, and so far, since the eighties anyway, the courts have concurred.”
“So what happened when you called? Did they back down? Tell you it was all a big mistake?”
Clayton shook his head. “Not at all. They did say there was a mistake, but it wasn’t that they didn’t have the heart, but that they had … other things too.”
Silence settled while I thought this through. I looked at Emma Marsden. “What other things?”
“Spleen. Liver. Both corneas. His … tongue.”
I took a breath. “You know this for sure, or that’s what they told you?”
“I went there. After they called. I went there to pick them up. I didn’t know what to put them in. I just took some bags that were in the drawer in my kitchen. Sloane’s bags, Sloane’s Grocery? I probably should have taken a cooler, but I didn’t know what the hell to do.”
I nodded, chewing my bottom lip.
She looked at me, and her eyes were tight, her voice hard, but her hand, of which she seemed unaware, was clutching the neckline of her sweater and squeezing it in her fist.
“When I got there, they showed them to me. The girl who worked there … she was new, and she showed me where they were kept. Down in the clinic basement. It was very clean, very well lit, lots of fluorescent lighting. Bright white floors. Did I tell you how clean it was, Clayton? It made my shoes squeak. I was embarrassed because it … my shoes looked so worn out and dirty on that floor. And I’m standing there with my plastic grocery bags, wondering if I ought to have brought a cooler, thinking about Tupperware, for God’s sake, wondering why the parts weren’t being released to some … undertaker or something. And then she changed her mind. That girl. She’d left me there for twenty minutes, and she came back, and obviously she was in a lot of trouble, because she was just red in the face, like she was embarrassed or something, and she said I would have to leave and they would call me later. And so I … I asked to talk to her supervisor, some man named Mr. French, and while she went away to go get him, I put everything marked MARSDEN AGED TWENTY-NINE MONTHS in my grocery bags and ran out of the building and into the parking lot and got in my car and drove away.”
She looked at Clayton, who reached across the desk and squeezed her hand. He was still in love with her, and she knew it, but she didn’t care. But she felt sorry for him, and it was his eyes that filled with tears, and it was he who could not speak and finish the story.
“Forty-eight hours later I was called by Child Protective Services and informed that I was being accused of Munchausen by proxy in the death of my son Ned. They refused to give me any further information, except that the complaint had just been filed by the physician who treated my son—Dr. Theodore Tundridge. They said they were investigating, and wanted to offer me the option of voluntarily releasing custody of my daughter, Blaine, to the state. That if I did so, and that if I admitted that I was guilty of the charges, of making my own son sick enough to die, they would let me have custody of my daughter back after I had taken a prescribed list of parenting classes. But that my daughter would have to be examined periodically by Dr. Tundridge, who would oversee her health care and make sure she was not suffering from any form of abuse or induced illness.”
I felt it rising within me, the anger that fueled my job. Like a helium balloon in my chest. And I got that feeling that I usually get when I go to work—I really wanted to help, meaning I was ready to take sides. Their side.
Clayton looked at me, eyes shrewd. “Can you imagine it? The power this doctor and this state organization have when they work together?”
“Sounds like they’ve done it before.”
He nodded. “I thought of that. But there’s legal precedent in several other states, not just here. It happens everywhere.”
“You mean this kind of deal making? Pressuring mothers to back down off of medical complaints, or they lose their kids and face criminal prosecution? It goes that far?”
“Yes, it does.”
“And did you agree?” I looked over at Emma Marsden.
She stared at me, hard. “No, I did not.”
“Good for you,” I said. Wondering how she’d found the strength to be so brave, so smart, and so wise.
Emma Marsden wiped tears out of her eyes, making them go red. “I need a minute,” she said, and left the room.
Clayton Roubideaux opened his handkerchief, blew his nose, folded the handkerchief over one more time, and blew again. “This is hard,” he said.
I nodded. “Clayton, do they have any reason to suspect Emma had anything to do with your son’s death? You said liver failure. That’s … broad.”
“They don’t know what killed him,” Clayton said. There was no anger in his voice, just something that sounded bereft. “He was so sick. He would have these attacks, they were so … they were horrible. Pain in his stomach, high up, and vomiting, violent vomiting that went on and on and on, he just couldn’t stop. We’d take him to the emergency room. They’d do blood work, and his liver enzymes would be sky high, nine hundred when they were supposed to be forty. And then they’d come back down. And they’d do all kinds of tests, and nothing made any sense. And then he’d be okay. And then it would start back up again. They’d rerun every medical test, Emma kept food diaries, we had the paint in the house analyzed, my God, we tried everything. There just didn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason to it.”
“What did the autopsy say?”
“You know, they never actually gave us all that much information. Just that the liver had lesions, but was in better shape than they thought it would be.”
“That’s it?”
He nodded. “I should have asked. Asked more questions. But he was gone, and Emma and I were falling apart. Ned was my son, my only child. And Blaine—she was Emma’s daughter from her first marriage. I s
aid … something I said made Blaine think that I loved Ned more than her and that the wrong kid died, and Emma asked me about it. And I told her the truth. That I’d never said anything like that to Blaine, but that Ned was my real son and … and Emma asked me to leave that day and filed divorce papers that week.”
He looked at me. “I did love Blaine. I still do. Very much. And maybe I did love Ned more, but so what? It’s hard to be straight about that kind of thing when you go through something like this. And Blaine—she’s a good kid, but she likes to play victim. Kind of an aggressive martyrdom, which is a scary thing, let me tell you.
“You know, we had a good marriage. Emma’s first husband was a piece of shit. And I was good to both of them, to Emma and Blaine, and all I did was try to be the best husband and stepfather and father I could possibly be.”
I wondered if he was aware that he’d separated out his role to Blaine and Ned right there. Stepfather and father. If that was his worst sin, he was probably a pretty good guy. Of course, there were two sides to every story. Two sides at least.
“Okay, then. I’m interested. But what exactly do you want me to do?”
Roubideaux’s voice went crisp. “Information gathering. Take a look at this doctor. See if he has a record of any other unusual deaths on his watch. Anything that takes the blame off Emma and puts it somewhere else. Look into his clinic. See if any other parents have had him keep back, you know, parts.”
“So what you’re looking for is proof that Dr. Tundridge, and maybe others in the clinic, or that he associates with professionally, have accused your ex-wife of Munchausen by proxy in retaliation because she objected to, and is causing trouble over, their use of … their retention of your son’s … organs.”
“Yes, that’s it exactly. You’ll help me build a case for Emma, and against them, if it goes to court. I’m not sure it will. I honestly think our best bet is to work with them. Emma says hell no, but Child Protective Services has enormous power in this kind of case. They can take Blaine into protective custody just on the word of the doctor alone, and I think the only reason they haven’t is because of how old she is.”
“And how old is that?”
“She’s fifteen.” He drummed his fingers. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs.”
I looked at him. “Trite but true. What point are you making that I’m missing?”
“About Emma. I want you to take a sort of devil’s advocate role here. If you look into her side of it, and find nothing, then I can be sure the Commonwealth Attorney’s Office will have nothing too.”
“Are you asking me to investigate your ex-wife for her role in the death of your son?”
“In a roundabout sort of way.”
“Would you have asked me this if she was still in the room?”
“No. I had planned to call you, to talk about this end of the …”
His voice trailed away because I was standing now.
“Mr. Roubideaux, I’m turning you down.”
“You just said you were interested.”
“I was, until you asked me to look into the possibility your ex-wife is guilty. And because you made sure she was out of the room when you asked me.”
“So? I don’t think she is guilty of anything but being a pretty wonderful mother, I just want it proved. Give me something I can take to court.”
“Am I working for you or her?”
“Both of us. Except that I’m paying your bills.”
“What you mean by that, Mr. Roubideaux, is that I’m to tell her I’m working for both of you, but in actuality I’ll be working for you. That is a deceit.”
“That’s not a nice way to put it.”
“There isn’t a nice way to put it. I won’t play both sides against the middle. And I think you’re a shit. Good-bye, counselor.”
“Good-bye.” His voice was faint and the expression on his face reflected a mild shock and a deep offense.
I didn’t much care.
I shut the outside door pretty hard, making the bells clatter. Emma Marsden was sitting on the hood of a battered BMW Z3 Roadster that was parked on the curb right out front. The car was a silver convertible with a black cloth roof. The driver’s side had taken a hell of a blow just past the door, but it was still a BMW, and a Roadster, and a beautiful thing. The parking meter had expired, but Emma Marsden didn’t have a ticket on her windshield, and it was after five now, when parking was free. She sat cross-legged, and she was smoking a slender black cigar. She couldn’t have looked less like a grieving mother.
“Smoke?” she asked.
I was tempted to take one, but I shook my head. It made me like her more, though. I liked women who smoked cigars. I was smoking them some myself these days, so it made me feel validated, even though I’d come to the practice so many years after it was fashionable that it was probably unfashionable again.
“Forgive the drama back there. I don’t know why it hit me like that, so hard all of a sudden, and I don’t make a habit of crying in front of strangers.”
“You’ve got reason. It must have been a nightmare, down in that basement.”
She looked up at me. “It makes you want to go down there, doesn’t it? To take a look?”
I rocked back and forth on my heels. Clients often unloaded their anger by being combative. It was usually best to deflect. “This sort of thing can’t be legal.”
“I’ll think you’ll find that it can be. I’m sure Clayton explained.” She flicked ash onto the pavement. “Do you need anything else from me? Information or details or some kind of release form where people can talk to you about my son’s medical history?”
“No, actually. I’m not taking the case.”
She frowned, and rubbed a bit of bird crap off the paint job. I made a mental note not to shake her hand. She looked up at me, speculative, not particularly friendly.
“Too tough for you? Or too depressing?”
“Neither.”
“Then why?”
“Because I don’t like clients who lie to me, and I don’t get in the middle of feuding divorced people, and because I don’t like being made party to a deceit.”
“Wow. What the hell does all that have to do with me and Clay?”
“Pretty much everything.”
“Uh … what did he say to you, anyway?”
“Privileged.”
“Why? You said he’s not your client.”
She had me. I looked away. The sun was waning, and sunlight striped the pavement, sending shards of blinding light into the eyes of drivers. And the temptation was more than I could resist. I didn’t like the guy, and I was dying to tell her.
“He asked me to investigate you. To his credit, he said it was in the role of devil’s advocate, so that he’d know the worst if things wound up in court. But he wanted me to tell you I was working for you, when I was really investigating you, and he justified it because he implied that it would be for your own good. Then he reminded me that he would be paying my bill.”
She took the cigar out of her mouth and stared at me. “Would you mind very much staying right here for just five minutes?”
“I’m cold.”
She handed me the keys to the car. “Get in and warm yourself up. Heater works like a little oven. I won’t keep you waiting.”
But she did keep me waiting.
She was right, the heater worked great, and so did the CD player. I listened to some kind of mambo dance music and tried hard not to like knowing that when people walked by they thought I owned the car. Even with a dent in the side, a BMW Roadster was impressive, at least to a poor person like me. I even smoked one of the cigars I found in the glove box. It was mild and sweet and expensive, and I didn’t inhale, but I watched the people walking by on the sidewalk (there weren’t many of them), and I turned heads. I looked interesting. I even felt interesting.
When Emma Marsden came out of her ex-husband’s office, she slammed the door.
She motioned for me to roll do
wn the driver’s side window. “You ever been to the Atomic Café?”
“It’s a personal favorite.”
“Will you let me buy you an early dinner? I’d like to talk some more.”
I considered turning her down. Clearly, it was good old Clayton who could afford my fee. But I didn’t like good old Clayton, and I thought Munchausen by proxy had about as much merit as the old repressed-memory craze, and I figured Emma Marsden was getting screwed over from more directions than one. That, plus my talent for poverty even in economic boom times, made me say yes.
“It’s just around the corner. Why don’t we go in my car. You may as well drive, you’re in the seat.”
I didn’t object.
She ordered the ropa vieja, which is a sort of Cuban pot roast, and I had the jerk chicken, with a side of black beans and rice. We drank Red Stripe beer and munched on sweet potato chips while we waited for our food. The restaurant was just this side of deserted. A guy in khakis and a black sweater read Ace Magazine, ate Jamaican pot pie, and drank something with an umbrella in it. I admired the umbrella. I admired the man for ordering something so playful when he was alone. Then I realized the man was familiar, very familiar in fact—my ex-husband, Rick. Not that big a coincidence, as his office is practically next door. He looked up as a stunning blonde walked past the bar and right up to his table. She was breathless, tall and built, with enough flesh to get her through a cold winter. Her hair was short and thick, and she wore a pair of reading glasses shoved up atop her head. Her trousers were black silk and had likely cost the earth. She also wore a sweater, French blue and cashmere, and boots that made her even taller.
A goddess.
Rick stood up, smiled at her like he used to smile at me, except more worshipful, then bent her backward and gave her a full-on tongue kiss. Clearly he’d seen me. Little beast.
Judith took the kiss in stride and sat down across from him, then, at a word from him, looked over her shoulder at me and waved. Her eyebrows were raised, and I knew she was on the verge of inviting us to join them, but I gave them both a sort of casual but dismissive wave.
When Secrets Die Page 2