Qualified Immunity

by Aime Austin

  “Are you awake?”

  “No,” she lied. “I was trying to catch a few more winks.”

  “Well,” Jermaine said, suddenly acting shy. “Can I give you this card anyway? I made it for you.” He tiptoed over the threshold and dropped the card on the end of the bed. When he got back to the door, he giggled and waved. “See you later, Olivia,” he finished in a sing-song voice.

  He was fifteen, but he acted really immature. But what did she know? Maybe teen-agers weren’t as mature as they acted on those TV soaps. Avoiding it wouldn’t make it go away, so she sat up and reached for the card.

  It was made from red construction paper, embellished with crayon. Olivia frowned, elementary school valentines crowding her memory. She’d thought it was going to be some corny ‘welcome’ card. Instead the front had a big heart. In it were the words ‘I Love You.’ The jangling alarm clock startled her and she dropped the card on the scarred hardwood floor as she scrambled to hit the snooze button. Bells were not quiet. She fell back into the scented pillow. Another day away from home had officially begun.

  Twenty-Four

  Retained Counsel

  October 26, 2001

  Turning left into her six-unit building, a weight lifted from Casey’s shoulders: home. Seconds after she inserted her key into the front door lock of her apartment, the smells assailed her. Greg and Jason were home.

  “Dinner. Ten minutes,” her neighbor Greg yelled into the hall.

  Her cat, long ignored, swiped at her leg. Sweating now in her haste to satisfy the neglected, she bent down, opened a lower cabinet and put a handful of Cat Chow in the bowl. Simba untangled herself from Casey’s legs and ran toward the food. She threw her coat toward the couch, and went across the hall where readymade food was waiting.

  The smell of the warm whisky-laden punch Greg poured when she entered the apartment unjangled her nerves so wound up by the judge. She took a large sip of the drink—definitely a heavy pour.

  “How are you?” Jason asked, settling next to her as she made herself comfortable on a kitchen stool. Greg adjusted his apron strings and got back to cooking whatever was responsible for the delicious smell. “We were just talking about how we haven’t seen you in days,” Jason continued.

  Another sip of punch and all the tension had fled. Greg and Jason’s apartment was a mirror image of hers, only warmer and cozier. They’d painted their stark white walls and added honey hued furniture. Hand woven rugs from their travels lay on the refinished hardwood floors. Casey’s apartment still had the vanilla walls and industrial Berber carpet that came with the lease. Every time she visited their apartment, she left with renewed energy for her own decoration project, until lack of time and money intervened.

  “Casey, taste this,” Greg said, extending a nicked wooden spoon her way. She had no idea what in the hell it was—but it was good.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  Greg patted his stomach as he answered. “First, I promise it’s low fat.” Casey repressed the urge to pat her own expanding waistline. “It’s Thai chicken and coconut soup.” She nodded like she had a clue. The food they made always had some exotic name or ingredients she’d never heard of. “It’s Asian fusion night,” Greg finished.

  Jason rolled his eyes dramatically. “As much as you can have in Cleveland.”

  Casey sipped her hot toddy and sat with Greg and Jason in companionable silence. At times, she envied them. She longed to find someone to share her life. Though Greg and Jason bickered and argued, they had a palpable love and affection for each other. It was great having friends like them, but when she went home at the end of the night, she was alone.

  Placing a bowl of bright green pea pods in front of her, Jason said, “We had to buy these frozen, but they’re still good. Have you ever had soy beans before?”

  Casey wrinkled her nose when Jason demonstrated pulling the beans from the fuzzy pods with his teeth. Nervously she tasted one. They weren’t half bad. Greg added salt and she had another. Now they were downright good. Jason had moved back to the stove. He was emptying the contents of a cutting board into the sizzling wok.

  “What else are we having?”

  Above the hot fat, she barely heard Greg. “Sesame beef, hot jasmine rice.”

  She put her empty mug on the counter and walked into the large dining room. Without being asked, she started setting the table, only stopping to run to her own apartment to get two bottles of wine, one red, the other white—her usual contribution to dinner. After they sat down to dinner, and she’d poured them all glasses of Shiraz, Casey got serious.

  “I know I ask you guys for advice all the time, and only take it half the time, but I really need your help.” Before she had a chance to continue, Greg and Jason interrupted with their usual suggestions.

  “Get paying clients!”

  “Work smarter, not harder!”

  “Seriously, guys,” she said, silencing their laughter. “You’ve got to keep this in confidence.”

  “Don’t we always?” Greg’s tone was sober.

  “I had the weirdest day. A judge came to me for advice. Her child was removed by the county. She wants to get her daughter back home, of course, but she needs to keep it a secret to protect her job.”

  “Shit,” Jason said.

  “I know. I handle cases in Juvenile all the time, but this.” She shook her head. “This is big time. I mean, I think I could do this case with one hand behind my back. But what if I fuck it up? I could ruin a girl’s life. The mom’s career.”

  “At least the judge will pay,” Greg said.

  Casey closed her eyes in shame. “That’s true. I hate to say it, but that’s a real factor in taking the case if she wants to hire me. The rent is due. I’m tired of looking at my anemic bank balance while my clients find excuse after excuse for not paying.”

  “Money is good. Really good,” Jason said. “But you have to decide if you can live with her second guessing every decision you make. You need to make sure she doesn’t want a marionette. Working with professionals can suck.” He was interning with a family doctor in Beachwood. “When we get doctors in, they’ve already self-diagnosed. They treat us like a treatment center. ‘Write the scripts. Order the tests.’ Puts us in a precarious position.”

  “I need to get out of this hole.”

  “You’re always so damned vague about your past. What in the hell happened?”

  “I got blackballed.”

  “How? The law isn’t some private club,” Jason said.

  “But it kind of is. At least in Cleveland,” she said.

  Greg topped off all three wine glasses. “Now that we’re sufficiently lubed up, spill. It can’t be as bad as you say.”

  Casey hadn’t told anyone, other than her parents, her sordid tale of woe. And her parents still didn’t get it to this day. As far as they were concerned, graduating from college and law school made her a success. If only parental pride paid the bills. “I crossed the Strohmeyer family.”

  “Strohmeyer as in Meyer Beer?” Jason asked.

  “‘You’ll be a high flyer when drink Strohmeyer’ Beer?” Greg sang the jingle as familiar to her as the Alphabet song.

  “The very one,” she said.

  “How?” Greg asked. The boys had both leaned forward, dinner all but forgotten.

  “Ted Strohmeyer—heir apparent—was a year ahead of me in law school,” she started. Casey took a deep breath. She’d trained herself not to think about, and definitely not to talk about what had happened. “I was on the law review.”

  When she stopped talking, Greg prompted. “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “In theory. So I was looking for stuff to publish, right? And I saw Ted’s article. I mean, maybe his name stood out and I picked that one up. Anyway, it was pretty good. A new area of the law and all that. So I stayed late, started vetting it to make sure no one else had covered the same ground. Legal journals pride themselves on being on the cutting edge.”

  “An
d?” Jason asked.

  “And this school in Indiana, Valparaiso had already gotten there before us. I was reading the other article and it seemed the same. But I didn’t trust myself. So I went home and did a copy and paste of each article into Word, then did a doc compare.” She took one large gulp of wine. Then another. “Turns out Ted wasn’t so original after all. He’d copied whole paragraphs, footnotes, everything.”

  “Rich guys always think they can put one over,” Greg said.

  She nodded. “Yep. And I went down in flames. The school trumped up charges against me, stripped me of my place on the law review. My job at Morrell Gates mysteriously disappeared. Boyfriend too.”

  Greg’s next comment was a statement, not a question. “Nothing happened to Ted.”

  “Not after his family single-handedly brought the Browns back to Cleveland. Not after building that brand new stadium. He worked at a big law firm for a few years, then went in house with dear old Dad.” She was loathe to admit that she’d followed Ted’s upward trajectory, the polar opposite of hers.

  “You couldn’t get another job?”

  “This is Cleveland, not New York or L.A. What damage the Strohmeyers didn’t inflict, the Brodys did.”

  “Brody? As in a senator or something like that?” Greg asked.

  “Attorney General,” Casey corrected. “And judge and prosecutor. The Brody family’s got the whole justice system covered.”

  “Your boyfriend was a Brody?”

  “Tom. Dumped me ten seconds after the school offered me up as sacrifice.”

  “I never knew,” Jason said. “Damn, I’m really sorry that happened to you.”

  “Not your fault. I wish the others were as sorry as you. I was disposable and I was disposed of.”

  “And there’s no way—”

  Casey shook her head forcefully. “Nope. I’ve tried all the avenues, and unless I leave the state and try my luck elsewhere, I’m dead to the Cleveland legal community.”

  “But you work for yourself, right?” Greg shrugged a single hopeful shoulder.

  “Yeah, and I’m left with the cases no one else wants. I’m maxed out at a few hundred from the county.”

  “So to do well, you have to do volume. Sounds like the medical racket,” Jason said.

  “Yeah, but I can’t squeeze child custody matters into a ten minute visit.”

  “You need more money per hour then with no maximum,” Greg computed.

  “And that’s where this potential client comes in..”

  “She’s willing to pay through the nose, right?” Greg asked.

  “Probably. And I handle cases in Juvenile all the time. I just worry about what you said earlier. Can I work for a professional? Will she be scrutinizing every damn step I take? Am I good enough to work a miracle and save her daughter and her job?”

  “Whoa, pull back on that God complex there, Casey,” Greg admonished. “You didn’t get her into the situation she’s in. You’d only be one player in what sounds like a very complex system.”

  “That’s true,” Casey said. They ate for a while without speaking. Then, “I hate to say it, but the money’s the main factor in maybe taking the case. I mean, the rent for this place is due on the first. I’m tired of giving temporary shots to my anemic bank balance.”

  When Casey got back to her apartment, Simba was nowhere to be seen, but her answering machine’s insistent red beacon pulsated in the hallway’s telephone alcove. Playing the single message, she was surprised to hear Judge Grant’s disembodied voice. She suppressed a shiver that the judge had somehow gleaned who was the subject at tonight’s dinner conversation.

  “Ms. Cort. Judge Grant. I would appreciate a call back regarding the matter we discussed today. Though you’re the youngest and least experienced attorney I consulted with, you were the only honest one. I’d like to retain your services. Call me when you get this message so that we can set up a strategy meeting and get my daughter home.”

  Casey pressed a button on the machine, saving the message. She’d sleep on it. That passive-aggressive message made her Spidey senses tingle. As she got further into this law thing, she was learning not to take every client who walked in the door. Judge Grant could be more trouble than she was worth.

  The summons forgotten, Casey woke from a fitful sleep the next morning. She was a crusader, wasn’t she? As a lawyer she was in the perfect position to go against the status quo. Most of her cases were lost because of broke and recalcitrant clients. She could do more if the county would pay more. Her witnesses would be better prepared, her investigations more thorough. She’d seen too many children snatched from their homes without solid evidence, and here staring her in the face was a chance to challenge the system.

  Back and forth she seesawed on the tram ride to work. At One Hundred Sixteenth Street, she was going to take the case. By Fifty-fifth, she’d talked herself out of it. At Tower City, she decided that she was done with fear ruling her life.

  Immediately upon arriving at her office, Casey whipped off her coat and picked up the phone before she could change her mind again.

  “Judge Grant,” her potential client answered the phone after Casey made it through the screening.

  “Casey Cort. I’ll be happy to handle your case.” She could have cursed herself. ‘Happy?’ Having your child removed by the county wasn’t happy. But for once, she didn’t try to fill up the silence on the phone line.

  “Good. I’ll messenger over a signed retainer agreement and the check.” A dial tone let Casey know that the judge was done.

  When Letty walked in to show Casey the check before it was deposited into her trust account, Casey savored the moment. Twenty five hundred bucks was the largest retainer she’d ever asked for. Finally, she was going to get paid.

  Twenty-Five

  Special Needs

  November 6, 2001

  Olivia hitched her nearly empty backpack higher as she stepped off the bus and walked toward the office. This was her fourth school in nearly as many months. The kids at Harry E. Davis Middle School looked anything but friendly. In their dress code adhered white oxford shirts and navy blue pants, they marched toward the school like little soldiers.

  She was dutifully dressed like the other kids. The Williamses had bought three of each, shirt and pants. The stiff clothes hung in her closet alongside the few items she had: the clothes from her last day in Shaker, and a few cast offs from other girls who’d stayed here. Not a single item fit right.

  Butt numb, she shifted in her seat. Jackie Foley was supposed to meet Olivia and get her enrolled. Her social worker had only been ten minutes late. But since she’d arrived, the second hand had swept around the clock face about forty times.

  It was because she was a ‘county’ kid, she knew. When they thought she was out of earshot, that phrase was used plenty. They said it like she had a disease or something. The office door in front of her opened and closed, Jackie emerging. She bent down to address Olivia face to face, like she was a little kid in need of calming down.

  “Olivia, before you get to class, we’re going to have you tested to make sure you’re in the right grade. The counselor and I have been reviewing your records and something doesn’t match up.”

  Olivia looked at Jackie’s face. “I’m not going to school now?”

  The social worker shook her head. “We don’t think it’s a good idea to put you in school until we’re sure the class is the right one.” It’s not that Olivia wanted to go to Harry E. Davis, but she didn’t want to go back to the Williamses either. Her disappointment must have shown on her face.

  Jackie countered with a smile. “Look at it as a surprise vacation!”

  For three whole days, she pulled weeds till her fingers were numb. Then she burned the same fingers in scalding water washing floors, walls, and everything in between. If Olivia never smelled lemon furniture polish again, it would be okay with her. Television was out, even as a treat for all the work she did. Reading, too. She tried that as an e
xcuse from chores.

  Olivia was never so happy to see anyone when Jackie came to the house to take her to the county psychiatrist’s office for testing. Even dressing in uncomfortable jeans was a price worth paying. Sitting in a chilly office, filling in bubble forms was a more welcome vacation than time with Aunt Linda and her endless tasks.

  Olivia took three tests. One asked her about her feelings, another asked weird questions and expected her to memorize lots of lists, and the last seemed like the same kind of test she’d taken dozens of times in school. The rest of the week passed before Jackie came again.

  This time, the social worker talked with Mrs. Williams a long time before she came to Olivia who’d been told to wait in ‘her’ room. She was up like a shot to unlock the door when Jackie’s knock finally came.

  The worker’s smile wasn’t real. “Okay! We’ve got your test results,” she enthused. “You’re going to be starting at Davis on Monday. We’re really happy with your results.” Jackie tweaked Olivia’s nose. She tried not to shudder. She wasn’t a puppy.

  “Am I still in the seventh grade?”

  “Yep. You’re one smart cookie. We think we’ve figured out why your grades don’t reflect your aptitude scores.” The worker paused a long time. Olivia tried not to panic. She wasn’t crazy or anything, right? The doctor had been a psychiatrist. Maybe there was something wrong in her head. She felt her bottom lip tremble involuntarily. Pressure built behind her eyes. She blinked back tears.

  “Oh, honey,” Jackie soothed. “This is nothing to worry about. You’ve got something called Attention Deficit Disorder.” The woman smoothed the Pepto Bismol-pink covers and joined Olivia on the bed. “Do you sometimes have difficulty focusing in school? Like, do you daydream during class?”

  Olivia nodded. “Sometimes…when I get bored.”

  “There you go. Your mom missed this. But we’re going to give you medication that will make school much easier for you.”