Good Intentions

by J. D. Trafford

  Finley recognized his mistake and tried to interrupt. “Your Honor, this answer goes beyond the scope of my question. It’s a narrative response. So I object and would like to instruct the witness to not provide narrative answers.”

  Norgaard stood. “I believe he asked ‘Like what?’ and the witness is trying to answer that very broad question. Usually a lawyer doesn’t object to their own question.” She smirked. “Even if the lawyer doesn’t like the answer.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll allow the witness to continue, but please keep it succinct. The attorneys will surely follow up.”

  Williams nodded. “Like I was saying, he was grooming the girls. He’d encourage them to bully their younger brothers. Although the reports are vague, I think he also encouraged them to physically abuse the brothers when they were small and couldn’t really fight back. He wanted to show the girls that they were his favorites. He spoiled them. He let them do whatever they wanted, provided them with alcohol and drugs. And now that they have hit puberty, I think it is only a matter of time before he sexually abuses them or uses them to lure other young women to him.”

  The questioning of the guardian ad litem went back and forth between Finley and Norgaard for the rest of the morning and into the early afternoon. Finley scored a few points, but there was little doubt that Williams knew the law and her role, and she had solid reasons for her opinions.

  Norgaard stood. “We have no further witnesses at this time, Your Honor.”

  I looked at the clock at the back of the courtroom. “Mr. Finley, are you prepared to go forward with witnesses or closing arguments?”

  Finley stood. “Your Honor, I want to review the testimony and evidence that’s been presented over the past several days with my client. I want him to advise me as to how we should proceed.”

  “How long do you need?”

  “Ideally, Your Honor, I’d like to come back in the morning. I’ve got some obligations at four today, a medical appointment, and I’d rather not miss it.”

  I looked at Norgaard, and she shrugged.

  “No objections to this, Ms. Norgaard?”

  “No,” she said. “The extra time to prepare my closing will actually be appreciated.”

  “Very well,” I said. “We’ll recess until tomorrow morning at nine.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  As I got into my car, the phone rang. I hoped it was Jarkowski with an update on Helen Vox. She now had an attorney, and they seemed close to a plea deal.

  But it was Nikki. “Where are you?”

  “I’m done with court,” I said. “Pulling out of my parking space now.”

  “Are you coming home?”

  I looked at my watch. “Soon, but I want to go visit Mary Pat.”

  “Why?” Nikki was probably suspicious. She knew I didn’t like to visit Mary Pat. It wasn’t that I didn’t love her. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate all that she had done for me. I didn’t like visiting Mary Pat because it was so hard to see her locked up in the hospital. Mary Pat didn’t understand what was going on, but she was smart enough to know that there was more to life. She just couldn’t remember it.

  “I want to talk to her about Harry,” I said. “Jarkowski’s done it a number of times and hasn’t had much success. I thought I could try.”

  There was silence, and then Nikki agreed. “I only wish I was there with you.”

  “I would like that, too. Next time we’ll go together. I just want to get this done.”

  I arrived at the Walker Assisted Living and Memory Care facility at dinnertime. Large stainless steel food carts zipped through its various hallways. I followed one toward the secure area where Mary Pat had lived for the past ten years.

  I checked in and went toward her room. As I walked in the door, a nurse delivering dinner was walking out. “Glad you’re here tonight,” she said. “Ms. Meyer has been pretty naughty lately.” The nurse pointed to a box on the wall. “It’s a wander alarm. She’s been getting up in the middle of the night.”

  “Has she done that before?”

  “Periodically,” the nurse said. “Comes and goes. Been worse lately, though.”

  “Wish you would have called.”

  She tilted her head and put her hand on my shoulder. “Not much you can do about it.” She retrieved two more trays from the dinner cart and went to the next rooms.

  “Hello, Mary Pat.” I smiled and kept my hands visible. Mary Pat turned her attention away from the television mounted on the ceiling and looked at me. I thought I saw a flicker of recognition, but then it was gone.

  “Can I help you?”

  “It’s me,” I said. “Jim Thompson.” I remembered the last conversation we’d had. “You remember, don’t you? Little Jimmy Thompson, now all grown up.”

  Mary Pat shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t.” She looked back at the television—Jeopardy!—and played along. How could a woman who didn’t recognize me identify world capitals and Broadway musicals?

  I sat down in a wooden chair near the window as the game broke for commercials. I figured it was now an appropriate time to talk.

  “I was wondering how you’re feeling,” I said.

  Mary Pat looked away from an image of a woman running through a field due to a new prescription medication. “Are you my new doctor?”

  “I’m not. I’m Jim Thompson. Your husband was a friend of my father’s. We spent a lot of time together growing up.”

  “My husband?” Her eyes grew wide. “You’ve talked with my husband.”

  I paused. I didn’t want to lie, but I also didn’t want to upset her.

  “Not recently,” I said as the game show started again, and the host introduced the contestants. “But he was a good man.”

  She gave me a look of indifference, and then turned her attention back to the television screen and mumbled along with the category “1776.” I left her alone. As the show continued, I looked out the window, wondering whether I should just leave. After another five minutes and questions related to “X Marks the Spot” and “Exotic Soups,” a new series of commercials began.

  I decided to take a chance. I had nothing to lose.

  “I saw your husband at the bank the other day,” I said. “Seemed like he was withdrawing quite a bit of money.”

  This got her attention. “It’s his money,” she said, but she was annoyed.

  As the commercial for erectile dysfunction ended and a commercial for replacement windows began, I decided I’d push a little more. “I know he earned the money, but you’re married. You should have a say.”

  She shook her head. “I have said many things.” She folded her arms across her chest. “But he doesn’t listen. Harry can’t let it go. I tell him that it wasn’t his fault, but he doesn’t listen. He says he signed the order, but that’s nonsense.”

  My heart skipped. I realized that Mary Pat was talking about the case that I had been trying to find. After hours reading the journals and sifting through Karen’s spreadsheet, I was sure that it was somehow connected to Harry’s murder.

  Questions filled my head. I almost blurted one out, but I caught myself. I had to remain calm. Mary Pat was fragile, and I didn’t want her to lose the thread as I’d seen so often over the past ten years. I needed to allow her to lead, until the time was right.

  “You can only make the best decision you can based on the information you’ve got,” I said. “Nobody can predict the future.”

  “Exactly.” Mary Pat shushed me as the categories for Double Jeopardy were announced, and a librarian from Oklahoma began working her way through the board. I couldn’t wait for another commercial. I had to ask.

  “Mary Pat,” I said. “Do you know how they get the money?”

  “Through that lawyer.” She answered without looking at me, still focused on the game. “Harry gives the money to her, and she gives it to them. The government lawyer. I don’t trust her.”

  Only one government lawyer I knew of could have matched the timelin
e in Mary Pat’s memory. “Helen Vox?”

  Mary Pat finally looked at me, angered. Her nostrils flared. “That’s the one.” She shook her head. “I don’t trust her.”

  I pushed my luck. “I keep forgetting their names. Do you remember?”

  “The kids?” She laughed. “How could I forget?”

  A small pad of paper with the Walker logo printed on the top sat near the telephone. I took out my pen and wrote down the name: Plank. Although it was odd to suddenly stop a conversation, jump out of your seat, and scribble something down on a random piece of paper, Mary Pat didn’t seem to mind. It was now Final Jeopardy, after all.

  I politely folded the piece of paper in half and said my goodbyes. Tomorrow, I doubted that Mary Pat would remember me or anything she had said.

  I drove home as if I had a winning lottery ticket in my pocket.

  By the time I got home, Nikki had already eaten without me. I went into the kitchen and kissed her quickly on the cheek, and then I walked straight to the computer and pulled up the list of twenty names that I had culled from Karen’s spreadsheet.

  It was there. A little more than halfway down the list was the name: Jennifer Plank.

  I screamed so loud that Nikki dropped the dish she was drying. It shattered on the kitchen floor, and Augustus scrambled into the bedroom. “I found it.”

  Nikki looked out at me from the kitchen. “Are you OK?”

  I looked at the pictures on the corner of the desk. “I think I found them.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The first thing I did in the morning was call the file clerk. The twenty files still hadn’t arrived from archives, and I wanted to let her know that I hadn’t forgotten. Then I called Benji Metina. She was still glowing about her exposé. “Are you calling to buy me that cup of coffee?”

  “You haven’t won the Pulitzer yet.” I put her on speakerphone and took a tie out of my briefcase. “I believe that was what I promised. First the Pulitzer, then coffee. You don’t get the coffee first.” I walked over to a small mirror.

  “Well, I have a place on my shelf just waiting for that gold medal.”

  I had missed a spot on my neck while shaving, but there was nothing that I could do. I buttoned the top button of my shirt and lifted the collar. “Are you coming to the end of the Thill trial, closing arguments?”

  “That’s my plan, although things are pretty hectic over here. The editor has put together a whole investigative team.”

  “All the more reason to see the end of the trial.” I put the tie around my neck, looped it over and under, and pulled it up. “I have a favor to ask you.”

  “I now see the real reason for your call.” Metina laughed. “What is it?”

  “I’m still working on those photographs I found in Judge Meyer’s home,” I said. “Could you run a name through your database? I don’t know where it fits in, but it could be interesting.”

  “What name?”

  “Plank,” I said. “Like the piece of wood. First name Jennifer.” I heard a knock on my door, and the deputy undersheriff poked his head into my chambers to see if I was in. I held up my finger, walked over to the phone, and turned it off speaker. “Somebody’s here. I’ve got to go.” I hung up and turned to the deputy. “Good morning.”

  “Can I talk to you, Judge?” Deputy Ben Kasper was in charge of courthouse security, and I would’ve been stupid to say no.

  “Sure.”

  “This shouldn’t take long, Judge.” Deputy Kasper closed the door. “Just want to let you know that there was a loud argument this morning up by the courtrooms. It was Finley and that guy Thill. Some of our deputies overheard, and we’re putting extra security up there. Seems like Peter Thill is more fired up than usual. He went through our screens, so we know he doesn’t have a weapon, but just so you’re aware.”

  I nodded. “Thanks for telling me.”

  “You need anything, just let us know.” The undersheriff stood. “Remember that the bench is bulletproof. Got a two-inch-thick piece of steel behind that fancy wood.”

  “Good to know.”

  “And press that panic button if you think it’s appropriate. That’s what it’s there for.”

  Finley stood an arm’s length away from his client. “We’re ready to proceed, Your Honor.” Peter Thill remained seated, shaking his head. He was obviously frustrated but was working hard not to do anything that would allow the three deputies in the courtroom to take him into custody.

  I knew better than to ask any questions. I wanted to keep this part of the record clean and didn’t want to create issues on appeal. I didn’t want Thill to claim that his attorney was ineffective or that he wasn’t acting as a zealous advocate. By not admonishing Thill’s behavior or seeking a detailed waiver of his rights, the transcript would never reflect what Thill did with his head, his facial expressions, or his sighs. The appellate court would never know.

  I looked at Norgaard, then back at Finley. “My understanding, then, is that the respondent will not be calling any witnesses, and so we will then proceed with closing arguments.”

  “That’s correct, Your Honor.” Finley sat down, and Norgaard stood just as Benji Metina entered the courtroom and sat in the back row.

  “Thank you.” Norgaard grabbed a small wooden podium and brought it near where she had been seated during trial, then opened a folder and began her closing arguments.

  “Your Honor, may it please the court, this is a sad case. It’s never easy to terminate a parent’s rights, but the law is clear. And there is no doubt that Peter Thill is an unfit parent. The law states that anyone convicted of criminal sexual conduct shall have their parental rights terminated. Peter Thill has been convicted of such a crime and has further demonstrated that he is not done. I don’t think Peter Thill or his attorney will argue that some of the statutory requirements have been satisfied, while others are in dispute.”

  She took a step away from the podium. “And so we then turn to whether it is in the children’s best interests to see Mr. Thill’s parental rights terminated.”

  By the time Norgaard sat down, she had provided a detailed summary of all the evidence against Thill and had outlined the danger to his daughters, the psychological damage inflicted on his sons, and the risk to his children’s friends.

  Bob Finley looked at his notepad, then tossed it on the table. I knew Finley was about to let it rip. “Your Honor, my client isn’t a good guy,” he said. “He’s done horrible things, terrible . . . but that isn’t a legal basis for the government to take such an extreme action. Terminating a parent’s rights is, in my opinion, far more significant than locking somebody up in prison. It’s altering an individual’s family tree. It’s taking a kid and telling that kid that their dad is not their dad, their mom is not their mom.”

  Finley looked at Thill, then back at me. “It has to be in the best interests of the children, and, in this case, the children love their dad—however flawed he may be. None of the children want the court to take this action, and they are old enough to understand what is going on. They are old enough to understand that their dad’s been to prison. The girls were even present when the state outlined every criminal act committed by Mr. Thill. Yet they do not want his parental rights to be terminated. They want him to be their dad.”

  Finley shook his head. “My client is not a man who has ever hurt his children. There are no allegations that he ever physically or sexually abused them. This court and I have known parents who have done heinous things to their children, but not Mr. Thill. There is no evidence he is into incest. There is no evidence he harmed any of their friends. There is no evidence that he so much as spanked these kids, and yet here we are.”

  Finley put his hands on his hips. “What does the future hold for these kids in foster care? Who’s going to adopt two teenage girls or two boys with mental health and behavioral issues? We both know where that path leads. So why not let Mr. Thill continue to be their dad? I’m not saying he’s going to be father of the ye
ar, but he is going to be a father, which is more than these kids will have if you terminate his parental rights. There is absolutely no way that the foster care system is better. It’s arrogance.”

  Finley picked up his notepad and flipped through his notes. “Again, Your Honor, our job is to look at this without passion or favor. Terminating an individual’s parental rights is not and should not be a mere extension of the criminal punishment that has already been meted out by the court.”

  It was a good argument, and hopefully it would be enough to calm Peter Thill.

  “Thank you,” I said as Finley sat down. “I’ll take this matter under advisement and issue my order shortly.” The clerk gaveled the court to a close. I heard Thill as I walked out the back door.

  “That’s it? He ain’t gonna decide now?”

  Benji Metina and I decided to meet for a late breakfast at the Tin Cup, the place I was supposed to meet Harry the morning he was killed. I invited Jarkowski, too. It was Friday. My trial had just ended, and I needed to get away. My guess was that Metina and Jarkowski wanted an excuse to get away and have a stack of pancakes as well.

  We easily found a booth near the back. The diner was an early-morning breakfast place, so it was practically empty now.

  The waitress brought out three cups of bottomless coffee and took our orders. Afterward I asked Metina if she’d found anything.

  “It didn’t take too long,” she said. “Our archivist pulled up this story. It’s a puff piece about National Adoption Day.” She gave one copy to me and another to Jarkowski. “Recognize anything?”

  Just below the article’s headline was a large photograph, the same one I’d found in Harry’s office: the three children holding the baby.

  “That’s it,” I said. “That’s them.”