Hope's Daughter

by Joani Ascher

  Prescott’s face had drained of all color. “Martin must have told the police.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “He came to my office,” said Prescott. “I told him he would never get another penny out of this family. He said he would make us wish we’d never heard of him.”

  “I already wish that,” said Jane, “except for Ellen.”

  Prescott nodded. “He said he would ruin us.”

  “He doesn’t have any way to do that,” said Jane.

  “I guess he figured one out. He told the police about the arrangement.”

  “When did he go to the police?”

  “They came to him. Actually, my secretary called them. Martin got very angry, and he came around my desk and punched me in the face. My secretary came in when she heard me fall against the bookcase, and she screamed. She called the police even though I had the situation under control.”

  Jane worried about his fall. “Are you hurt somewhere else?”

  “Mostly in my pride. But I think it’s going to take a much bigger beating now that Martin has publicized my part in Ellen’s adoption.”

  “We have to tell Ellen.”

  “Maybe not. Let’s just wait.”

  When the phone rang, Prescott handed the steak back to Jane and took the call in the study.

  “What’s going on?” Ellen demanded when she came back to the living room.

  “We’re not sure. We have to wait.”

  ****

  Half an hour later, Prescott emerged. “It’s time for a family meeting,” he announced, trying to hide the worry in his voice. It had been a tough phone call, but nothing compared to what they were up against.

  They sat together at the dining room table. The cook had asked if dinner was to be served yet, but Jane, whose face still looked unnaturally pale to Prescott, asked her to wait a little longer.

  “I talked to my attorney,” Prescott said, feeling extremely tired. “He explained there were reporters at the police station when Martin was brought in. They overheard him and jumped on the story. Because of the publicity, the district attorney feels he must prosecute.”

  “Uncle Pres, what happened?”

  He looked from Jane to her child, suddenly noticing how much she had changed, how much more beautiful she had become. No man, he knew, could feel more blessed than he did having Ellen and her mother in his life. If it cost him his seat, or even his career, it had been worth it to rescue Jane’s child.

  But if that was true, why was he having so much trouble explaining it to her?

  “Ellen,” he began, then stopped to clear his throat. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears. “There is something I have to tell you, about something I did.”

  “No, Prescott,” said Jane. “It’s my fault. Don’t take this on yourself.”

  He put his hand on top of hers. “Don’t, sweetheart. You didn’t do it. I did.” Turning to Ellen, he said, “Your mother didn’t even know about it.”

  Wide-eyed, Ellen said, “What did you do? Was it something illegal?”

  “I never thought so. It’s true I did it secretly, but that was because…” He could not say that he wanted to protect Jane from finding out because he knew she would insist on paying him back and there was no way she could. “Because it was no one’s business but mine.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Ellen. She turned to Jane, who was crying. “What’s wrong, Mother?”

  Prescott realized he could not explain without telling Ellen what her father had been like. That’s why Jane was crying. As mature as her daughter was, it was going to crush her to learn her father had given up his rights not because it was best for her but because he wanted money.

  “When you were very small, when Olivia died…” He could not even finish a sentence, let alone explain.

  Ellen’s eyebrows were furrowed. She blinked her eyes and gripped the arm of her chair.

  He had to put her out of her misery. “When Olivia died,” he began again, “your mother, Jane, wanted to adopt you. But Martin—”

  “I don’t want to talk about him,” said Ellen angrily.

  Taking a deep breath, Prescott tried again. “We have to, sweetheart. You see, he wouldn’t give up custody. Not without money.”

  Ellen jumped up. “The baby they said you bought? It was me?”

  Spent, Prescott hung his head. “Yes.”

  Jane stood up and went to Ellen. “Prescott did it for us. He and I weren’t even in contact with each other then.”

  “Martin didn’t want to give me up but he needed money? Is that why it happened?”

  Neither Jane nor Prescott answered. If the child wanted to believe her father gave her away because he had to, Prescott was willing to let her. It was better than telling her the truth—that her father wanted to get rid of her—to the highest bidder.

  But she seemed to guess. Turning eyes full of misery on her mother, Ellen asked, “How much? How much did he make Uncle Pres pay for me?”

  “It isn’t important,” said Jane, hugging Ellen close. The girl shook her off and moved back. “But you have to understand,” said Jane, her grief-filled voice breaking, “it was so much more than I had. If not for Prescott, I might have lost you.”

  “I wouldn’t have let that happen,” said Prescott. He moved closer, trying to somehow pull his shattering family together.

  Ellen clenched her fists and railed at Jane. “So you let him pay for me?”

  “She didn’t know anything about it.”

  “How could he hate me so much?” Ellen cried. She ran out of the room, and a moment later they heard the door of her bedroom slam shut.

  Prescott held Jane tight.

  She sobbed on his shoulders. “How can she ever understand?”

  “I don’t know. It’s more than a child can comprehend.”

  “No,” said Jane. “I think she understands Martin’s side of this perfectly. That’s why she’s so upset. Was I wrong to keep the truth from her?”

  “You did it to spare her.”

  “But what are we going to do?”

  Ellen came back a few minutes later. She had stopped crying, but her eyes were puffy and her nose was red. “Did something happen with Martin today? Is he the one who did that to your eye?”

  “Yes.” Prescott recalled it vividly. Martin had swaggered in, unsteadily, as if he’d been drinking. It was immediately evident the man had aged badly. Although it had been over eleven years since he had laid eyes on Martin, and everyone got older, this was more. His hair was gray, but so was his skin, and his hands shook. But that hadn’t stopped him from throwing a punch, only made it less painful.

  “Did you hit him back?”

  “No.” He had simply grabbed him by the throat and forced him into a chair to await the police. If he had known Martin was going to tell them about Ellen, he would have thrown him out the window. Or at least considered it.

  “The police came, and he told them that I paid for you to be adopted by Jane and that I threatened him if he didn’t give you up. All of which is a crime, and my attorney told me we will have to go to court.”

  Jane looked faint, and Prescott settled her into her chair.

  “Prescott,” said Jane, “What are we going to do?”

  He wished he knew.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  The trial began soon after Ellen was finished with school for the summer. Crowds of reporters swarmed around the Weaver family as they made their way into a courtroom at the New York Supreme Court. Jane held Ellen’s hand tight in her own kid-gloved hand, but she was terrified for her husband.

  The lawyers had not made the prospects sound good. What they faced today was even more humiliating than the lurid newspaper reports about the incident. Not only was their private life now open to the public, but Prescott also faced the loss of his stock exchange seat—his very livelihood. The board had issued a temporary suspension pending the outcome of the investigation. The possibility of his going to jail loomed, a
s well.

  But that all paled in comparison to the threat to Jane’s custody of Ellen.

  “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Weaver,” said Clark Atherton, Prescott’s chosen attorney. The lawyer was a name partner at one of the most prestigious criminal law firms in the city. He nodded in Ellen’s direction. “Miss Baldwin.”

  She wore a more youthful version of the navy suit Jane wore. “Modest and sincere,” Mr. Atherton had advised, when telling them how to present themselves. He had spent several days in his office counseling his clients about the trial, discussing the witnesses they had chosen to call, and reviewing documents in Jane’s possession pertaining to the circumstances of Ellen’s adoption. The papers lay in a pile on the conference table while the Weavers and their attorney talked, speaking of all the things Martin had done long ago.

  Atherton had been pleased when he learned that Prescott had not officially adopted Ellen. “It shows that you weren’t concerned for your own personal gain.” They had also rehearsed testifying, with Mr. Atherton advising them not to volunteer any information, simply to respond yes or no to the questions.

  Jane was upset that both Anne and Mrs. McGill were scheduled to testify. “It isn’t right to drag them through this with us,” she had protested.

  Prescott admitted that he agreed with Jane, but Mr. Atherton left them no choice. “You need character and factual witnesses. Who better than they to speak for you?”

  When Jane had continued to demur, Mr. Atherton had lost patience. “Do you realize there is a possibility Ellen’s adoption might be overturned? Do you know what that would mean?”

  Horrified, Jane had a flash of Ellen, in torn clothes and lacking sleep and proper nutrition, living in some rundown room over a bar somewhere with Martin. She swallowed, and agreed to keep her friends’ names on the witness list.

  Mr. Atherton looked over another list that his secretary had placed on the table. “The prosecution has not put anyone on its witness list but Martin and his mother, and Regina Taggart.”

  Jane felt the blood drain from her face and looked over to see Prescott’s face had turned red with rage. “Why would they call her?” he growled.

  “What could she say about this case?” Mr. Atherton asked.

  “Nothing. She knew nothing about it at the time. In fact, she’d never have known if it hadn’t been in every paper in the city.”

  “It’s not definite she’ll be called,” Mr. Atherton said. “And in all likelihood, it would only be as a character witness.”

  Jane wondered what Prescott’s ex-wife would have to say about him. Yet her mind raced ahead. “Did you talk to Mrs. Roche?” she asked. She had seen the woman during Ellen’s spring vacation, but not since, and it was very difficult for Mrs. Roche to get to a telephone. Jane had sent cards for the woman’s birthday, and Ellen had gotten a letter from her, but there had not been time for another visit.

  “Both the prosecution and I thought it best to leave her alone,” said the attorney. “But since she might have information, her name was included. I think it unlikely they’ll call her.”

  Jane felt a sense of relief. She couldn’t imagine anyone more likely to be hurt by being called to testify, with the single exception of Ellen.

  “Promise me, Atherton,” Prescott said, “that you will not try to call Ellen to the stand.”

  Jane sighed. “He might have to. She could tell them what kind of stepfather you are.”

  “This isn’t about now,” Prescott said angrily. “This is about then, and she couldn’t possibly remember.”

  “But she can remember how Martin was. It was only last year that she sent him away for good.”

  Prescott slapped his hand down on the conference table. “I won’t allow it!”

  They had been arguing about this for a week. Jane agreed it would be very hard on her daughter, but she felt Ellen would be a strong argument toward discounting Martin’s allegations. Furthermore, Ellen had specifically said she wanted to testify.

  “She’s twelve years old,” Prescott exclaimed. “She has no idea what that will mean.”

  Mr. Atherton agreed with Prescott. “It would be too easy for her to say something she didn’t intend to say. How would she forgive herself?”

  Finally Jane conceded. But the attorney was not done with his advice.

  “You must remember that it is difficult to predict what a jury will do,” he warned Prescott. “It is imperative that you control your temper. An outburst like the one you just had could cost you.” He grimaced. “The prosecutor is hoping to make a name for himself on this case. I don’t want you to help him.”

  That last conference had made Jane extremely uneasy, and now, in the courtroom on the first day of the trial, she was so absorbed in thought she barely noticed when the bailiff shouted, “All rise.” It was only the echoes on the marble walls of the courtroom of wooden chairs scraping on the floor as the people at the defense and prosecution tables stood up that jolted her back to reality. She stood also.

  The judge took his seat on the bench, and the bailiff called the court to order. It was time for the opening statements.

  The prosecutor, looking dapper in a well-cut suit, with a pocket square that matched his tie, rose and faced the jury.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “We are here today in the matter of the State of New York versus Prescott Weaver. He is charged with violating the New York State Penal Code by paying money to Mr. Martin Roche to relinquish his parental rights to the minor child now known as Ellen Baldwin.

  “These are very serious crimes, ladies and gentlemen. Make no mistake about that. If people could buy and sell children, it would tear apart the fabric of society.

  “The State will show, with documents and witnesses, that Mr. Weaver intentionally intimidated Mr. Roche and extorted the release of his rights to his child. Without his interference, Mr. Roche could have enjoyed a relationship with his daughter. This is about a basic human right, that of a father to be a parent to his child, and about another man’s disruption of that right, in violation of the laws of this state. Thank you.”

  Mr. Atherton stood, his somber gray suit and tie matching his serious demeanor, and walked over to the jurors. Their faces registered ill regard for Prescott, intensifying Jane’s fears for her husband.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. The prosecutor has outlined the charges in this case, but he did not tell you they are erroneous. I will show that the situation was entirely different from that characterized by him, that Mr. Roche relinquished his rights voluntarily, purely for monetary gain, of his own volition. In fact, I will show that the best interests of the child were served by those involved.”

  At the conclusion of his statements, the district attorney was asked to call his first witness.

  “The state calls Mr. Martin Roche.”

  With shivers running down her spine, Jane turned to see Martin enter the courtroom.

  ****

  Ellen gasped. “Why does he look like that?”

  “Prison pallor,” said Atherton.

  Prescott turned and saw Jane bite her lip.

  “What did you say?” Ellen asked. “Has he been in jail?”

  “Yes,” said Atherton. “He was sentenced to serve a year for fraud, and he has other charges pending against him. The encounter with Mr. Weaver happened when he was out on parole.” He shook his head. “This should never have happened. The man is a hardened cr—”

  “That’s enough,” Prescott growled at his attorney. He turned to Jane. “Maybe you and Ellen should wait outside.” He did not want the child to hear any more horrible things about the man who had fathered her. And he certainly did not want her to hear any bad things about himself. They had argued about it again only that morning, with Jane saying Ellen was old enough to face this.

  Jane seemed uncertain and began to stand.

  “No!” said Ellen, in a loud whisper. “I’m not leaving.”

  The judge looked at them and frowned, pounding his gavel. “I wil
l not allow any outbursts.”

  Ellen leaned back against her chair, and Jane, looking hopelessly at Prescott, sat down. Prescott turned back to face the judge.

  Martin was sworn in, and instead of looking at Ellen, he spent the time on the witness stand, when he was not actively answering questions, scowling at Jane.

  Prescott could hear Ellen and Jane whispering behind him. “He doesn’t even look at me,” Ellen said. “Do you think he forgot what I look like?”

  Jane whispered, “I don’t know.” Although she had matured since he last saw her and wore her hair in a more grown-up style, Prescott knew Ellen had not changed drastically. Martin just was not interested in his daughter.

  Atherton nudged Prescott. “Pay close attention and let me know if what he says is an exaggeration or is, in any way, inaccurate.”

  Trying his best to focus on something other than Ellen and Jane and all their pain, Prescott listened closely to the questioning.

  “Mr. Roche,” said the prosecutor. “You claim Mr. Weaver offered you money to give up rights to your child.”

  Martin squared his shoulders and sat up straight. “Yes, sir, he did.”

  “How much money?”

  “Twenty gr-, er, thousand dollars.”

  “And what were his conditions?”

  “That I never try to see my child, my own flesh and blood, or the woman who was adopting her, again.”

  “Are you saying he just handed you twenty thousand dollars?”

  “Not exactly. He gave me five grand up front, to reel me in, and another fifteen after I signed away my rights to my baby.” He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly, displaying a face full of sorrow.

  “Did he say anything that would ensure you kept that promise not to see them again?”

  “He threatened me.”

  A gasp rippled through the spectators, and two of the jurors glanced at Prescott. He sucked in his breath.

  The judge banged his gavel and nodded toward the prosecutor to continue.

  “In what way?”

  “He said if I told anyone about it, or tried to see my baby, he would make sure I never got work in New York again.”