Fraud on the Court

by Mike Chalek

  Bill Hopkins would also, as the Chalek family attorney, be the man who handled defending Glenn when he and a girlfriend got in trouble for armed robbery as a young man, long after I had left the family. Family lore said that Hopkins had made the entire thing disappear, sealed up as if Glenn had been a minor at the time (which he was not).

  I wondered which of Adela’s divorces had been secured by Mr. Hopkins. I supposed it must have been the first, when she was 14, not that it mattered much, except for the likelihood that if he were a close friend of the family and their regular legal counsel, he would have had to have known about Adela’s repeated fraudulent reporting of her age. I pushed the matter out of my mind to focus on the problem of Mrs. Fielding and her black market baby ring.

  I had thoughts of the Fieldings and the mystery lawsuit firmly in mind as I boarded a plane bound for Georgia in the spring of 1999. I took my seat and opened a notebook to begin sketching out more to-do lists and plans for how to find more old records to strengthen my case against the state of Florida. I remained absorbed in my task throughout take-off and well into the flight.

  Eventually, I closed the notebook and glanced at the passenger seated next to me. She was a middle aged businesswoman, who had a book in her hands and a bag of complimentary airline peanuts on the tray in front of her. She must have caught a bit of motion as I turned, because she glanced up from her book and smiled. Pretty soon we had introduced ourselves and were making small talk.

  I have never been shy about sharing my life story or talking about adoption issues with random strangers. I know that it is only through our stories that adoptees can help gain the broad understanding necessary to change the closed adoption laws. So I gave my fellow passenger a brief rundown of what I was working on, and why.

  She seemed very interested, and sympathetic.

  “How strange,” she said. “I’m from the Jacksonville area, you know.”

  “You live in Duval county?” I asked, probably a little too excitedly.

  “I sure do,” she said, smiling.

  “That’s perfect!” I said.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I need someone who lives down there to help me either get a copy of this mysterious lawsuit or who can help me find a trustworthy individual to go on my behalf,” I said.

  “You know,” she replied, “your story is just fascinating enough that I’ll do it myself.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I would appreciate it,” I said. “Let me give you my mailing address in case you find anything.”

  There was no real reason to believe this person would follow through on our hasty agreement, but a few weeks later I received a letter in the mail. Inside was a true and certified copy of a lawsuit filed against Lenora Fielding in 1952 by a claimant named Rebecca Cobb, Case #20657-L, Duval County, Florida.

  Ms Cobb alleged the following in her complaint:

  On or about June 18, 1952 the defendant [Mrs. Fielding] did falsely imprison the plaintiff and held plaintiff without just or probable cause in defendant’s house, and by physical force tried to restrain her from moving to another place of abode. Further, the defendant refused upon plaintiff’s request to relinquish plaintiff’s clothing and other personal belongings, which defendant retained by reason of a debt which defendant falsely alleged to be due to her from plaintiff.

  Plaintiff … further charges the defendant, on, to wit, June 18, 1952, did assault and batter the plaintiff, laid hands on the plaintiff and shook her, and attempted to drag plaintiff into defendant’s home, and used toward plaintiff language of a rude and insolent nature, threatening plaintiff and calling her vile names; whereupon plaintiff broke away from defendant and fled down the street in tears and humiliation and in bodily fear of the defendant.

  Plaintiff…further alleges that on or about June 18, 1952 the defendant did slander the plaintiff in that she did say to another, with intent to humiliate and degrade plaintiff, and with malice, that plaintiff was an unwed mother, and a slut, and a person not fit to associate with, and that plaintiff was a thief.

  Further, on or about June 20, 1952 the defendant did say to another, with the intent to humiliate and degrade the plaintiff, and with malice, that plaintiff was a slut and a whore and was sleeping with every married man in the neighborhood…

  Plaintiff says that all of the utterances of the defendant as alleged herein were and are false, and were uttered maliciously and with the intent to expose plaintiff to scorn and contempt.

  I knew enough about the adoption industry of the mid 20th century to read between the lines and to know that what Ms Cobb described in her lawsuit was an accurate picture of many of the “maternity homes” that came to define the Baby Scoop Era.

  Maternity homes were little more than boarding houses where families sent their unwed pregnant daughters during the “visible” portions of their pregnancies. The social stigma associated with children born out of wedlock and the double standards regarding male and female sexuality meant that many young pregnant women, who had received little-to-no sexual education and had zero access to birth control, were treated worse than common criminals. They were sentenced to a type of incarceration in the maternity homes, and were often told, “You can come home, but not if you bring back a baby.”

  For older single mothers who didn’t have the same family pressure to relinquish their babies for adoption (women like Ms Cobb), the maternity homes developed another fail-safe strategy. If a mother decided, after living in the home during any portion of her pregnancy, that she did not want to relinquish her child, she would be presented with an astronomical bill for room and board and often be subjected to verbal and psychological abuse much like what was described by Rebecca Cobb in her allegations.

  There was no longer any question in my mind that what Mrs. Fielding was running out of her Jacksonville residence was a maternity home, and one of the more destructive ones. I knew from the caseworker’s notes in my adoption file, and also from conversation with Winnie Faye, that Mrs. Fielding had applied enormous pressure to the birth mothers to get them to put a falsified name on the hospital records and birth certificates. Family rumors over the years, and my adoptive parents’ many hateful insinuations, indicated that the $200 the Chaleks testified that they paid to Mrs. Fielding for the birth mother’s expenses was far under what they actually paid to the baby broker to secure my transfer.

  Later, I also found copies of newspaper clippings regarding the Cobb vs Fielding lawsuit. One of them gave a little more insight into the State Welfare Board’s attitude toward the Fielding operation. A representative called Ms. Cobb’s allegations a beginning for stopping the state-wide baby selling racket they were fighting on multiple fronts. The representative also indicated that the welfare board had been investigating Ms Fielding for many years prior to this incident. Also, according to Ms. Cobb’s testimony, four other girls had given birth during the time that she lived in the Fielding home. Each of the birth mothers was paying room & board, while the adoptive parents handed over an unknown sum of their own to “acquire” the infants.

  Unfortunately, the lawsuit was dismissed in 1954 because Ms. Cobb had left Jacksonville before the matter could be heard. It seems that Lenora Fielding’s baby selling days were over, however. After 1952 I could find no more mention of her in conjunction with private adoptions, and I haven’t met or talked with any other Fielding babies whose birth dates would contradict this assumption.

  * * * * * *

  What I saw before me now was a clear legal argument for having my adoption annulled and my birth certificate reinstated with my mother and legal father as the parents. I also wanted all of the Chalek’s parental rights rescinded (posthumously of course), and I was hoping to convince Mallory to sue the lawyer, William Hopkins, as well.

  I sent Mallory copies of everything I had discovered, and I summarized the case as I understood it:

  My birth mother contacted Mrs. Fielding because she was afraid that she would be unable to adequately
care for me and thought an adoption would be in my best interests. She had no problems with registering my birth in her real name, but came under extreme pressure from a known black market baby broker to use a false name. When the state welfare worker initially phoned her, she asked if she could have me back. When they met in person, she asked again if she could have me back. The worker persuaded her that if she cared about me, she would leave me with my adoptive parents, and that the state would put significant barriers to my return if she pursued that line of inquiry.

  In the meantime, my adoptive parents had been reported to the welfare board and it was discovered that they had not obtained a legal adoption of me, they had simply brought me home from the hospital and called it good. They indicated to the social workers that they had avoided the approved adoption agencies because of the extensive wait times and the likelihood that their application would be rejected. No one questioned what that meant. But they also lied about and covered up their marital histories and problems with violence and instability.

  The lawyer for my adoptive parents was also the State’s Attorney, and it is likely that his elevated position may have unduly influenced the court to look the other way when it came to the known falsified information on my birth mother’s consent and on my birth certificate.

  The baby broker was also well connected, and was being pursued by the welfare board for her black market activities.

  I can’t see why, after taking all of these facts into account, a judge would not feel compelled to grant me my requests.

  After I provided Mallory with the proof and with my list of requests, I felt certain that he would agree immediately to take the case.

  Instead, on April 20, 1999, Mallory Horne sent me a letter declining to take my case. He blamed it on the distance between his office in Tallahassee and the courts in Gainesville where the motions would be filed and heard. He additionally stated that he was concerned that I was so “emotionally charged” that winning the legal battle would not bring me any closure.

  I held his letter in my hands and for the briefest of moments, gave in to the overwhelming surge of disappointment.

  Chapter 8

  In the end, I wasn’t any better at taking “No” for an answer than I had ever been in my adult life. So I picked up the phone and called my brother, Robert. He had started this ball rolling, he was going to help me keep it that way.

  “Robert, you’ve got to call and talk to Mallory,” I said when my brother answered the phone.

  “What’s this all about?” he asked.

  “He says he’s not going to take my case. You need to call and convince him to change his mind. Use the ‘bonds of brotherhood’ argument, or whatever it is that the Masons call it. But get him to take the case,” I pleaded.

  “All right, Mike, I’ll call him. Don’t worry about it, he’ll come through,” Robert told me. His calm was unshakable.

  I thanked my brother and hung up.

  It worked, playing the trump card the way that I had. Two days later, Mallory changed his mind. Instead of sending me a letter, though, this time he called me to let me know of his decision.

  “I guess I’m taking your case after all,” he said, dryly.

  “It’s a good case, Mallory,” I told him.

  “No one has ever won anything like this. If I lose, it will really give me a black eye around here.”

  “We’re not going to lose,” I said. “I can feel it, like when I filed that petition to open the records. We’re going to win this thing.”

  “You’re crazy, Mike, you know that. But maybe you’re right. If the evidence wasn’t there, no amount of arm twisting would get me to take this into court.”

  I figured that it was as good a time as any to ask him to take on another giant. I wanted to sue the daylights out of the State’s Attorney who had ignored all of the signs that I was a black market baby and had helped to cover up his clients’ attempt to circumvent the system.

  So I asked. And Mallory’s response was absolute.

  “I am not suing Bill Hopkins,” he said. “I know him, he’s a friend. And there wouldn’t be any point.”

  Not wanting to test our new partnership any further, I reluctantly decided to let the matter of William Hopkins fall by the wayside.

  Over the next several months, Mallory filed all of the motions necessary to combine my pro-se petition to open with our new Petition for Annulment of Adoption and Termination of Parental Rights and For Amendment of Certificate of Live Birth. Yes, it was a mouthful. I was asking for a complete and total break with my adoptive family, as if it had never happened at all.

  Winnie Faye was in enthusiastic support of the efforts. As a matter of fact, once the media became aware of the upcoming trial they were interviewing anyone and everyone they could reach. My mother still didn’t have a phone, but one intrepid reporter was able to track her down. She supported my case both in that brief interview and in deposition with Mallory. Her desire to have our familial bonds reinstated was one of the central arguments of our petition.

  In the meantime, it was discovered that Winnie Faye was suffering from advanced multiple sclerosis. It was the reason she was confined to the wheelchair, and it took a toll on both her physical and emotional well being. Our conversations became more erratic than ever, sometimes deteriorating into tirades. She became angry with Robert and had a complete falling out with him and Jackie. I was glad to have her support and to have found my mother when I did, but it was painful to watch her slow descent into a horrible disease.

  From the time we filed our motions in June of 1999 to our day in court in mid December, life was a flurry of activity. I was trying to direct my involvement from thousands of miles away, and eventually I gave it up and arranged an extended stay with Robert and Jackie throughout November and December. The atmosphere in their home on this trip was remarkably uncomfortable. Jackie barely disguised her distaste for me, and I spent more time with Mallory than with my brother, partly to avoid the pointed stares of my sister-in-law.

  Mallory and I became great friends during this time, a friendship that would endure until his death many years later. He forgave me for the somewhat dastardly trick I had played in using my brother to get to him. I came to admire him greatly, and he became more of an uncle to me than any of my adoptive or biological relations ever would be. He frequently told me, with gusto, that when it was all over I was to write a book and he’d back up “any damned thing I wanted to put in there.” Then he’d point to the box of cigars on his shelf and tell me to be ready, because we were both having a good smoke when we won this thing.

  As my lawyer, Mallory came to know my story backwards and forwards, although it frequently happened that I would surprise him with a previously forgotten detail. When I read through Adela’s records from her second divorce and remembered her stories of acting in the Tarzan movie, I naturally told Mallory. He replied by telling me that he, too, had been one of the local youths who took a part as one of the extras on the film. He clearly remembered the pretty girl who had stood in for Jane, and we marveled at the strange coincidence that he had once been acquainted with Boots in her youth.

  Getting back to work, we agreed to try and track down my elusive adoptive brother in time for any hearings. We attempted service on Glenn multiple times, requesting his presence to answer questions and testify as to the remarks in Al’s will and to defend the virtual hostage he had taken of my personal items and records. Glenn managed to avoid service every single time. No one has found or talked to him to this day.

  Mallory was certain we wouldn’t need the testimony. But I was denied my final hope of getting back my grades, photos, and scouting awards, including the Eagle Badge. I began to wonder if they hadn’t all been destroyed, and the thought was a painful one.

  In the meantime, another of the strange coincidences that marked my story happened as I came to know Mallory’s secretary, Rita, through Mallory’s suggestion. Rita performed many investigative services in her role as se
cretary. She invoiced me for her time as often as Mallory did. One day, when Mallory had to leave unexpectedly for a last minute deposition, he suggested that I invite Rita to lunch instead since he had to cancel on me.

  So I did, I walked out to her desk and said,

  “Mallory thought you might like to go to lunch with me.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Oh he did, did he?”

  “It’s all right if you don’t. Doesn’t make a difference to me,” I replied.

  But she was already gathering up her things.

  “No,” she said. “I’ve always been curious about some of the details of your life that aren’t in all this paperwork. Let’s go get something to eat, and maybe you can fill me in.”

  And so began another friendship. Rita, it turned out, was an adoptee herself. Her adoptive father had for many years been mayor of a little town called Sopchoppy, and he even had a park there named after him. We chatted about her family, and about my personal history, until finally she mentioned that she had grown up in a house that was once the main roller skating rink for the entire county.

  Her remarks stopped me dead in my tracks. I looked at her across the table, my fork halfway to my mouth.

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “No, really. It was wild,” she said. “This big huge room in the middle of our house, with a scuffed up wood floor and the names of every kid who ever skated there carved into the beams that hold up the walls.”

  “I know about that place,” I told her.

  “How?”

  “Boots used to talk about it all the time. About how she would go out there with friends and the fun they would have.”

  Rita shook her head.

  “It’s a small world…” she sang.

  I laughed.

  “Seriously, could you take me to see the place sometime?”

  She thought about it.