by Brad Parks
There was also a voicemail message from my lawyer.
“Ms. Barrick, this is Bill Honeywell,” he said in his thick, slow voice. “I hear you got bailed out after all, and that’s . . . that’s real nice. Why don’t you call me as soon as you have a chance?”
He slowly left his number, repeated it, then hung up. When I called back, I spent three minutes on hold, then heard Mr. Honeywell, breathing a bit heavily, get on the line. He said my Social Services case was proceeding and he wanted to walk me through next steps.
Now that the emergency removal order had been granted, we moved onto the preliminary removal hearing, most often referred to as the five-day hearing—because the law required it to occur within five business days of when a child was removed from the home.
There, we would formally object to the finding of abuse and neglect, essentially pleading not guilty, though they didn’t call it that in child protective cases. Then a lawyer for Social Services would put on witnesses, most likely just the social worker who had been assigned to the case.
We weren’t allowed to put on witnesses. Not until the adjudicatory hearing, which would happen in another thirty days. But at the very least, I would get to tell the judge my side of the story.
Mr. Honeywell left a little air on the line when he said that part, which I took as my opportunity to discuss that side.
“So, basically, it’s like I said in court the other day. Those drugs the Sheriff’s Office found in my house, they weren’t mine,” I said. “I swear to you, I have no idea where they came from.”
He grunted noncommittally. “Do you have anyone living in your house besides your husband?”
“No, sir.”
“Well,” he said—it came out “whale” again—“then, as your lawyer, I have to be honest with you: You’re going to have a tough time convincing people those drugs weren’t yours. Unless you’re saying they belonged to your husband?”
“No. They’re not his either.”
“Is there someone else who has access to your home?”
“That’s not what I’m trying to say. Look, this is going to sound crazy, but I think someone is trying to frame me so they can take away my baby.”
“I see,” he said.
I could hear his skepticism, and it was hard to blame him. I sounded crazy to me too.
“I have this video from a security camera,” I continued. “The day before the Sheriff’s Office raided my house, a man in a fake plumber’s van came up my driveway and spent about fifteen minutes at my house, then drove away. I didn’t call a plumber. I’m pretty sure that’s the man who planted the drugs.”
“Have you been able to identify this mystery man?”
“No.”
I heard him sucking air through his teeth. “Well, if you can figure out who this fella is, I can subpoena him, and then he’d have to show up in court and explain what it was he was doing in your driveway. Problem is, if he has a criminal record with drug involvement, the other side can try to argue he was there to buy drugs.”
I felt my exasperation growing.
“So it’s hopeless.”
“Now, now, it’s not hopeless, Ms. Barrick. And you won’t help yourself much with that attitude. It’s just a long process. You may or may not believe what I’m about to tell you, but the judge really wants to give you your child back. You just have to listen to him and show you’re willing to do whatever it is he orders. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes, of course I can,” I said. “But what if . . . I mean, what if I’m convicted on those drug charges against me? The prosecutor said something about the sentencing guideline being five years. Would they . . . would they wait until I’ve gotten out of jail and then deal with me?”
My lawyer’s voice got quieter. “Well, now, no. That’s . . . that doesn’t happen. It takes a minimum of a year to terminate parental rights. But most judges don’t like to let cases go on much longer than that. They might wait a few months if they knew you were about to get out. But not five years. I’m sorry.”
He let that hang out there like a massive, gut-spinning, heart-eating lump. My accompanying gasp was, apparently, audible to Mr. Honeywell on the other end.
“Let’s just take this one step at a time, Ms. Barrick,” he said in a lame attempt to now sound upbeat. “The first step is Tuesday. That’s when your five-day hearing has been scheduled. It’s on the docket for ten thirty. It’s important to get off to a good start with the judge. You show up early, you wear a nice dress, you do your hair up real pretty, like you’re going to a dinner or something. Can you do that?”
“Sure.”
“Good. That’s the right attitude to have. Now, I have to run off to court for another matter, but I’ll see you on Tuesday, okay?”
I assured him he would, then mumbled my thanks.
In some ways, I didn’t really need him to tell me more about this process. The contours of my future were already becoming clear to me. I couldn’t convince a judge I was a worthy mother to Alex if I was incarcerated.
The assault case was mostly a nuisance. I couldn’t imagine they’d really lock me up for more than a year for scratching an officer.
The drug case was another matter. That sentencing guideline was this towering monolith I couldn’t go around or tunnel under. I had to go over it, but I didn’t even know where to start the climb.
I had already seen how ineffectual my protests were. I could squeal out “but those drugs weren’t mine” as many times as I wanted.
No one—not even my own lawyer—would believe me.
I needed to find real proof, not just of my non-guilt but of my actual innocence.
If I didn’t, I would lose my son.
It really was that simple.
TWENTY-TWO
I was still pondering the impossibility of my task a few hours later when Teddy’s rust-bucket truck came roaring up the driveway.
He leapt out, then beat me to the front door, bursting into the house a little out of breath.
“Hey, this is going to sound weird, but go get a bunch of underwear on,” he said. “Four, five, six pairs. Whatever you can fit.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Remember that friend whose mom works at the courthouse? He just called me. The grand jury met this morning. You got indicted on possession with intent to distribute. That’s big-time. She just had to issue a warrant for your arrest. The sheriff is going to be coming here to take you in. Probably real soon.”
“Okay, but . . . why the underwear?”
“Because Middle River takes your clothes but lets you keep your underwear. If you bring your own, you don’t have to use jail underwear. And trust me: Jail underwear blows.”
I was still just standing there, a little dazed, staring at him. He must have seen that I didn’t get it yet, because he gently grabbed my shoulders.
“Sorry, sis. Even if they give you a bond, I can’t help you this time. I’m tapped out. You’re going to be in there for a while.”
“O-okay,” I said, and, at my brother’s behest, went into my bedroom and donned as many pairs of bras and underwear as I could make fit over each other. Then I put on some baggy old jeans and a sweatshirt. More room for the underwear.
I returned to my living room and kept a wary lookout with Teddy. My new phone was still sitting on the coffee table, where I had left it. I was now even less sure what to text Ben, and I was running out of time to think of something.
“You’ll tell Ben I was arrested, right?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
The next sentence sort of just fell from my mouth. “Can you also tell him I went by JMU to look for him today?”
“Uh, yeah. Why?”
“Just tell him,” I said. I felt like that would be enough to signal to Ben that I knew what was going on without involv
ing Teddy too much. I didn’t know how to explain to my kid brother that my husband had been living a blatant lie for months.
“I can’t believe this is my life,” I said.
“Me either,” he said.
After thirty seconds he said, “You’ll be okay.”
He patted my hand.
“Don’t do that,” I said. “You’re going to make me cry.”
We waited in silence for a moment. Then I said, “Did you get my email, by the way?”
“Did you sent it to my Gmail or my work email?”
“Gmail.”
“Oh. I haven’t checked that account in a while.”
“Would you mind checking it?”
“Yeah, what’s up?” he asked.
“I sent you a picture of someone who got caught on one of Bobby Ray’s cameras, coming up my driveway. It was the day before the drug bust.”
Teddy understood immediately. “You think it’s the person who planted that cocaine?”
“Yes. But just give it a look. If you know who it is, great. If not, don’t go doing anything else with it, okay?”
“Okay.”
We lapsed into silence as we stared down the driveway.
It didn’t take much longer. They sent three cars, which struck me as overkill. But I guess, according to that prosecutor, I was a danger to the community.
Not wanting to make this any more difficult than this needed to be, I went out on my porch with my hands up. I know the Sheriff’s Office doesn’t make a habit of roughing up white girls, but I didn’t need them breaking down the door on me. I wanted them to know I was going peacefully.
In truth, I didn’t have the energy to resist.
* * *
• • •
They let me keep my underwear, just like Teddy said.
Otherwise, it was the same pushing and prodding, the same strip search, the same series of humiliations. The magistrate again denied me a bond—I was a violent offender, after all—meaning I’d have to wait until Monday for a judge to assign a bail amount that I couldn’t afford anyway. Knowing I was now in for the long haul, until May 18 or longer, made everything that much more dispiriting.
My lone act of optimism was that, every few hours, I went into the bathroom, knelt in front of the toilet, and milked myself. I was determined to keep my supply up. That this qualified as a hopeful gesture perhaps speaks to how desperate my situation had become.
After a night of still-strange noises and a barely edible breakfast, I was just settling into life in the dormitory, trying to find something to read, when Officer Brown—who I still wasn’t able to place—approached me. Without giving any acknowledgment of our past interaction, she told me to line up against a wall with some other inmates.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Saturday morning is visiting hours,” she said. “Someone is here to see you.”
“Who?” I asked.
But she had already moved on to another inmate, leaving me to wonder. We were soon led into a hallway, where we stood in line some more. I was already starting to learn that jail was all about waiting. We all had the time.
When it finally became my turn to be allowed into the visitors’ room, one of the guards—not Officer Brown—said, “Melanie Barrick?”
“Yes?”
“You got thirty minutes. Go ahead.”
Then he opened the door for me. Sitting at a table against the wall was Ben.
He stood when I came through the door. For a moment, that was as far as I got. I was unsure whether to run to him or flee back to the dorm. I could see from his face he had accurately parsed the message I had Teddy relay for me. His shame was that obvious.
Even after a night in jail—time I had to myself, with nothing else to do but think—I didn’t know what to do with him. I hated that the first clear emotion I was experiencing was this flood of relief at seeing him: Ben, my comfort blanket, was there to rescue me, just as he had so many times before.
And yet, at the same time, I also hated that he had lied, hated even more that I had caught him at it. What had possibly made him think he could get away with it? Didn’t he know something like that would eventually come out, one way or another?
I don’t know what it was that made me decide to walk over to him. Maybe it was curiosity: I had so many questions that only he could answer. Maybe I wanted to punish him, to inflict on him some fraction of the hurt he had made me feel. Maybe it was simple loneliness, which would have been the most pathetic possibility of all.
Whatever it was, my legs eventually started moving. As I neared him, he approached like he was going to hug me. There was nothing more I wanted, of course. I just didn’t want him to know it.
He was maybe five feet away when I gave him a small, almost imperceptible head shake. He immediately backed off. And damn him if that wasn’t one of the things I loved about him. He almost always knew how to read me.
I sat at the table.
He lowered himself across from me.
“There’s a lot I need to say,” he said softly, earnestly. “Do you mind if I go first?”
“I guess not.”
“The first thing I want to say is, I’m sorry. I’ve been lying to you and I feel . . . I can’t tell you how awful I feel about it. This is going to sound like a lot of rationalization, but it really did start as something I was doing because I thought it was best for you. That was . . . I mean, that was a mistake. But then once I made that mistake . . . I don’t know, it became a lot bigger than I ever thought it would. And somehow that made it even harder to tell you the truth.”
“You’re not making any sense right now,” I said.
“I know, I know. I’m sorry.”
“Why don’t you, just for a real change of pace, start by honestly telling me what’s going on and what you’ve been doing?” I asked. I didn’t like that I was hiding behind sarcasm, but sometimes you don’t get to choose your defense mechanisms.
“Okay, that’s . . . that’s fair.”
He took in a deep breath, then he sighed.
“I guess it started when Kremer announced he was leaving last spring,” he said.
“For Temple. Yeah, I heard about that.”
“Just to put it in context, he told me . . . Gosh, end of April? With what you were going through, I didn’t . . . I don’t know, I felt like it would be selfish to even say anything to you about it. I mean, for me it was this total academic and professional crisis, yeah, but it felt . . . I guess it felt pretty small compared to . . .”
The end of April was when I learned I was pregnant.
“You could have told me,” I insisted. “You should have told me. I’m not some fragile piece of china.”
“I know, I just . . . I didn’t want to bring everything down when you . . . you needed me to lift you up. It was this big, steaming pile of bad news I thought I needed to swallow myself. Kremer was . . . To state the obvious, he was my guy. You know the politics in that department, and without Kremer around to advocate for me . . . I already knew we could kiss that tenure-track position goodbye.”
“So you just quit?”
“No. Kremer actually wanted me to come with him, but I told him that wasn’t possible. I went into the summer, still plugging away on my dissertation, thinking I’d just keep my head down and finish it off. The first domino to fall was when Portman”—the department chair—“assigned Scott Eaton as my new thesis adviser. He had been on sabbatical and didn’t come back until the fall, and then he took his sweet time reading what I had sent him. When I finally did meet with him, it was . . . I mean, it was awful. He wanted me to add some new chapters, blow up most of the ones I had already done. He was pushing this document analysis that . . . I mean, I don’t even know if it was possible. Like, the documents might not exist. He was basically talking about starting
over. I was looking at another two years, minimum, to do it his way. And I . . . I couldn’t deal. It was so depressing to even think about it.
“I went to Portman and asked if I could switch advisers, and he flipped out on me, going on about how Kremer had always coddled me and this was life in the real world and if I didn’t like it I could just leave. He said it was Eaton or nothing.”
Ben shook his head. “So we’re now up to, what, October? I had been in touch with Kremer the whole time, and he suddenly had a slot open up for a PhD candidate to start in January. But I had to tell him quickly. Like, in a week. And at that point, you were seven months pregnant and we had just closed on the house and Temple is . . . I mean, it’s fine for Kremer, because they gave him a bunch of money. But it’s not like it’s Penn, you know? I told him what was going on with you and he gave me this big lecture about how I had a lot of potential but I needed to see the bigger picture and be willing to make sacrifices for my career. He said if I didn’t take this opportunity he wasn’t going to be able to help me anymore and . . . I don’t know, it was pretty bad. It was like every arrow was pointing to the same conclusion: that I wasn’t meant to get this doctorate.”
“Jesus, Ben. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me any of this.”
But I also could believe it. This was so typical: both of my husband, who was more likely to swallow a problem as it grew in size, and of our relationship, which was always about my issues, not his.
“I know,” he said. “But I just felt like so much had happened, and I couldn’t dump it on you at that point. We had this baby coming, and the new house, and—”
“And you thought it was your kid,” I said matter-of-factly.
Ben had been looking down at the table. When I said that, he jerked up.
“No,” he insisted. “No, that wasn’t part of the calculus at all. I was thinking about you. About us. Whether Alex was mine or not, I mean . . . He is mine. He’s my son.”
I didn’t know if I believed him. What man wouldn’t let a child’s biological paternity enter his mind, at least a little bit?