“Could you please take that card out?” he asked.
I took the card out, and the guy looked at it closely. “Could you please show me another piece of ID, please? One with your picture on it?”
I nodded my head, thinking that this security guard was probably one of the most suspicious I had ever encountered. Nevertheless, I took out my driver’s license and handed it to the guy. “Here you go,” I said.
He carefully examined each piece of ID, and then handed them back to me. “What does this visit concern?”
I sighed. I couldn’t very well tell him that I was there to ambush her to find out what kind of operation she was running here. I couldn’t tell him my suspicion that Louisa was brainwashing people, including Heather’s mother. “It’s confidential,” I said.
He narrowed his eyes, and I could see his cheek start to quiver beneath his left eye. I could almost see the wheels turning – that maybe he was thinking that he shouldn’t let me in, but, if he didn’t let me in, I could end up sending the authorities in there.
Finally, he made his decision. “Okay,” he said. “Louisa’s office is the first building on your left when you go in. Next time, please make an appointment.”
I nodded my head and drove through the gate.
The buildings behind the gate were cute enough – there were a series of smallish structures which were built of stone and wood, much like small cabins with wood porches. The words “ski lodges” popped into my head, because these little homes looked like miniature ski chalets, with their pitched roofs and homey looks.
I took a deep breath and gathered my thoughts as I knocked on the door.
And knocked again.
Finally, a woman answered. She was a petite woman, with blonde hair that was held back tightly by a bun. She had on a ton of makeup - blue eye shadow, caked-on foundation, false eyelashes and red lipstick. Under the makeup, I could see deep wrinkles, so I could only surmise that this woman was trying to cover up her age. As was usually the case, all she managed to do was make herself look older and pretty ridiculous.
As for her clothing, she was wearing a rather dated navy blue suit, with big gold buttons on the jacket. Her shirt was ironed and pressed and buttoned up to her neck. On her feet were a pair of flat blue shoes.
“Can I help you?” She asked. Her voice was high-pitched and Southern. I could imagine that she grew up in Alabama or Georgia or someplace in the Deep South.
“Yes,” I said. “My name is Harper Ross, and I’m an attorney. I need to ask you some questions.”
She cocked her head slightly. “I can answer a few questions,” she said in her high-pitched voice. She drew out her words, so that it took her about twice as long to get a phrase out as somebody who didn’t grow up in the South.
“Thank you,” I said. “May I come in?”
“You may.” She nodded her head. “Come in, please,” she said.
I followed her into a smallish office that was decorated sparsely. The walls were white and the desk was plain. The floor was carpeted, but it was the kind of carpet that looked like it was five dollars a yard and was a light color of taupe.
The only decoration she had on the wall was a picture of Jesus, who was looking into the distance with light surrounding his head.
“What is your visit regarding?” She asked me. Her blue eyes got wide, and she looked almost like she was in a trance. Spellbound.
I narrowed my eyes, thinking that this woman looked somewhat like a mannequin. Her affect was flat and, aside from the fact that her right hand had a tremor, I would have thought that I was speaking to a talking doll.
“My visit is regarding a…” I struggled for the word that I needed. Parishioner? Congregant? The term that I wanted to use was actually “cult member,” but I figured that if I used that term, the visit would end right then and there.
I finally settled on the word “parishioner.” “My visit is regarding a parishioner. Her name was Connie Morrison. As you probably know, she is deceased.”
She blinked her eyes rapidly, and, just like the guard, her cheek, just below her left eye, started to twitch. Other than these apparently involuntary tics, however, her demeanor didn’t really change. “Yes.”
I took a deep breath. “Are you aware that her daughter-“
“She didn’t have a daughter. She had a son.” Her eyes got huge when she said that. “A son, not a daughter.”
“Her daughter,” I said, looking her right in the eye, “noticed that-“
“Her son was perverted and was sinning in the eyes of God.”
I took another deep breath, trying to calm down just a little. If there was one thing that I hated, it was when somebody starts spouting off about The Bible, and how that particular book means that it was perfectly okay to hate gay people.
“Ms. Garrison, I would like to ask you something. Before I get to what it is that I need to talk to you about, I need to find out something first.”
She didn’t react, but her cheek continued to twitch under her left eye.
I took that as a sign that she wasn’t going to stop me from asking my question, so I soldiered on. “Do you believe that people who work on Sundays should be put to death?”
Her blinking got more rapid and her right hand involuntarily twitched even more than it did before.
I decided to press on. “Of course, The Bible specifically states that whoever works on the Sabbath shall be put to death. Do you believe that? And if you do, what do you propose our society does about the necessary workers on Sunday? The fire fighters, the police, the ambulance drivers, the doctors? If these people are forced to not work, or face death, what happens to all the people who need these services on Sundays?”
“No,” she finally said, carefully, as if she knew that she was falling into my trap. “Of course, people should be allowed to work on Sunday.”
I nodded my head. “The reason why I ask is that your website seems to advocate some controversial positions that are Biblically based. Such as approving of slavery, stating that women need to be completely subservient to men, even if the man is beating her, and changing gay people.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What is your point?”
“I would like to know how you square that circle. How can you pick and choose – you state that people should be allowed to work on Sunday, which is clearly against The Bible. So, as I see it, either all of The Bible is true or none of it is. Or maybe just some of it is true?”
She stood up at that point. “I won’t be condescended to,” she said. “By somebody who is evidently a heretic.”
I shuddered. “A heretic. That’s a word I haven’t heard in awhile. Isn’t that what they would call the people who were burned at the stake for believing in something different than what other people believed?”
I wasn’t going to get anywhere just yet, but that was okay. This visit was really my way of trying to suss out what kind of person I was dealing with, and this woman was quite the doozy.
She was now shaking, from head to toe, and her bony fingers were gripping the side of the desk. “You do not know about the good book. You are a secularist, and you need to leave this office right now.”
I raised an eyebrow, suddenly knowing that this woman was going to be quite easy to crack on the stand. She didn’t exactly have a poker face.
I didn’t quite get the answers I was seeking, but it was all starting to make sense.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The next day was the hearing for the girls in the Family Court. I hated going to the Family Court – the waiting room was always packed with people, and the court rarely ran on time. I could never forget the one time that I had an assigned case in the Family Court, and it was scheduled for 1:30. At 5 PM, my case still wasn’t called, and then I was informed by the bailiff that my case was going to be postponed for another week. So, yeah, I spent over three hours wasting my time in the waiting room of the court, only to be told that I needed to go home.
When I got t
here, though, Alexis came up to me to tell me that the hearing was going to be on time. “Rick Haverford is here,” she said. “And he’s pissed. So are the parents. Well, Seth Brown is. Marina, the mother, seems to be kinda quiet about it all.”
“I wonder why?” I crossed my arms in front of me and raised my eyebrows. “Could it be that she’s afraid to say anything?”
“I don’t want to hear about that, okay? You need to do what’s right.”
“I am doing what’s right. I’m keeping the girls away from an abusive situation.”
Alexis rolled her eyes as I was approached by Rick Haverford, who was the attorney for the parents. “Here,” he said, giving me a copy of the contempt order that he drafted. “This is a copy of the order I’m going to have Judge Michaels sign.”
I nodded my head as I examined the order. It was pretty standard – the language on it was that I, Harper Ross, was ordered to bring the girls back to the home of the Browns within 24 hours. “Thanks for that.”
Rick shook his head. I got along with him about fifty percent of the time. The other fifty percent of the time, I found him to be an arrogant boor. He was kinda nebbish, with his bald head, glasses, ill-fitting suits and pot belly, and he wasn’t very tall – he was probably only about 5’5”, and I towered over him, especially when I wore high heels. “What are you doing, Harper?” he asked me. “Why are you risking your career and your freedom like this? You know that when this judge orders you bring back those girls, and you refuse, you’re going to be put into jail until you comply. You’re not going to get out of this. I don’t understand your motivation of doing this.”
“I’m standing up for what’s right,” I said. “Your client’s son, Peter, is a pervert. Your client, Seth, is abusive. I won’t let those girls be subjected to that for even one second.”
“Do things right,” he said. “If you think that’s happening, then send the girls back and open up an investigation with Alexis and the social worker who’s doing the home study. Go through the proper channels. This grandstanding is going to get you nowhere.”
“You didn’t hear me. I said that I’m not going to let those girls be subjected to that household for even a second. Not even a millisecond. I mean, what’s going to happen if I send them back there and go through the proper channels, as you say, which will take months, by the way, and they are abused sexually and physically in the meantime? What then? Maybe they’ll even end up dead. What then? Sometimes you can’t go through the proper channels. Sometimes the proper channels just grind too slowly, and you have to have a faster solution.”
“Dammit,” Rick said. “You’ve done domestic cases. Not a lot of them, but you’ve done them. What do you do whenever one of the parents keeps the kids away from the other parent? The parents make stuff up, and so do the kids. Two sides to every story. If your client is the mother and the father is keeping the kids away, you would rightfully file every motion in the world to prevent that. And you know that the judge in that case will actually use the father’s obstruction against him having the kids in the future. You know that. Yet, you’re using the same sort of tactics that underhanded parents use. You’re digging your own grave.”
“So be it.”
The case was called, and we all took a seat around a table in the courtroom. Seth Brown was there, giving me dirty looks the whole time, but he kept quiet. I guessed that Rick talked to him and told him that he needed to control himself, but he still looked like he was about to explode. Alexis was there, and so was Rick. Marina, for her part, sat quietly next to Rick. I shook my head as I looked at her. She looked terrified, and it looked like there was yet another new bruise, this one on her upper arm. She was wearing short sleeves, so she didn’t even try to cover it up. I wondered if that was her way of crying for help.
“All rise,” the bailiff called out.
The judge came out, and we all stood up and sat back down.
“The court calls the case of Brown v. Ross,” she said. “Mr. Haverford, please call your witness.”
“The plaintiff calls Seth Brown,” he said.
Seth got up and was sworn in, and he sat down behind the witness stand.
“Please state your name,” Rick said.
“Seth Brown.”
“Mr. Brown, you are the foster parent of two girls, Abby and Rina Caldwell, is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Are those two girls currently under your roof? Are you currently caring for them?”
“No.”
“And why is this?”
Seth took a deep breath and hung his head. I could tell that he was trying hard not to pop off and come over the stand and throttle me. “Because that woman there, Harper Ross, took them from me. She refuses to bring them back.”
Rick paced around the floor a little, and took off his glasses and bit the handle of the glasses. That was his little trick, his way of looking like he was being thoughtful and ponderous. I wondered if he did it deliberately, or if that was something that was unconscious, but it was something that he did a lot. “She refuses to bring them back. Does she have any reason to refuse?”
“No. I will say that she wants to adopt those girls, and that could be why…”
“Objection,” I said, standing on my feet. “The witness is speculating.”
“Sustained,” the judge said. “Mr. Brown, please refrain from speculating on why Ms. Ross would refuse to bring back the children, and stick to what conditions, if any, in your home might be the reason why Ms. Ross would refuse.”
“Well, then, no. I don’t know why Ms. Ross would refuse to bring back the girls. Our home is a peaceful home, and we’ve taken very good care of those girls.”
I rolled my eyes. Yeah, your home is so peaceful. It’s so peaceful that there are holes in your walls and your son is forcing Abby to jack him off.
“Your witness,” he said to me.
I nodded. “Mr. Brown,” I said, pointing to Marina Brown. “I notice that your wife has a bruise on her upper arm. I also notice that she has a faint bruise on her face. Do you know anything about that?”
Seth’s eyes got wild, and he looked like he wanted to kill me. I saw him take a huge breath and count to 10, and then he answered me. “What are you getting at?”
“I would just like to know where she got those bruises. I’m going to call her to stand, too, even if Mr. Haverford doesn’t, and I’m going to ask her about the bruises. I would just like to hear it from you.”
He looked over at Marina, whose eyes didn’t meet his. She was staring at the ceiling, and the judge was looking over at Marina questioningly.
“I don’t know. My wife is clumsy. She got hit on the face with a door, and then, the other day, she fell off the bed.”
“I see. Isn’t it true that your house has holes in the walls because you and your son have punched the walls on more than one occasion?”
“No.” He crossed his arms in front of him. “That’s not true.”
I knew that he wouldn’t admit to this, but I wanted this fact out there in front of the judge. I also knew that, with the body language he was displaying as I asked him this, the judge was probably thinking that he was lying.
I got an idea as I looked at Seth. I knew that the next question I was going to ask was something that was objectionable, but, as with the question about the holes in the wall, I wanted the judge to know that this accusation was “out there.”
“Mr. Brown, do you know that your son forced Abby Caldwell, age 11, to masturbate him?”
“Objection,” Rick said, rising to his feet. “This calls for speculation and is frankly offensive.”
“Sustained,” Judge Michaels said, pointing at me. “You know better than that, Ms. Ross.”
“I apologize your honor. I have nothing further for this witness.”
“Ms. Winters, do you have any questions for this witness?”
“No, your honor.”
“Mr. Brown, you may step down. Mr. Haverford, please call you
r next witness.”
“I have no further witnesses, your honor.”
“Okay. Ms. Ross, please call your witnesses.”
“I would like to call Marina Brown to the stand,” I said.
Marina looked at me questioningly. I guess that she wasn’t prepared to take the stand. She looked at the judge and then at me and then back again.
“Ms. Brown, please take the stand and raise your right hand to be sworn in,” Judge Michaels said.
Marina tentatively got out of her seat and then walked to the witness stand, was sworn in, and then sat down.
“Ms. Brown,” I said, deciding just to jump on ahead to ask her what I really wanted to know. “I notice that you have a bruise on her upper arm. Can you please tell the court how you got that bruise?”
She looked desperately at her husband, and I turned around and saw that Seth was staring daggers at her. “I was playing softball with my son, and he accidentally hit me with the ball.”
I nodded my head, knowing that Marina apparently didn’t hear her husband say on the stand that she got the bruise when she fell out of bed. I wasn’t surprised – she didn’t seem to be paying much attention to what her husband was saying on the stand. “I see. Your husband’s testimony was that you got that bruise when you fell out of bed.” I stated that as a fact. “But you’re now saying that you got the bruise playing softball. So, which is it?”
Her eyes got wide as she looked over at Seth, a look of apology on her face. I turned around and saw that Seth’s arms were crossed and he was shaking his head as he glared at her. I then looked at the judge, and she was watching Seth very carefully, her eyes peering over her glasses. She then made notes, and I felt encouraged.
“Softball,” she said in a quiet voice. She looked down at the stand, looking like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.
“And the bruise on your face? How did you get that?”
“That same softball game,” she said. “My son doesn’t have a good aim.” She laughed nervously. “To say the least.”
“You didn’t get it when you ran into a door? Because that was what your husband testified to.”
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