Qualified Immunity

by Aime Austin

  “I’m working hard on that right now. I’ve talked to Peyton. Hired a lawyer. We’re going to get you home as soon as we can,” Sheila said, glad her voice didn’t betray her emotions.

  “I hate it here. You have to get me out. They make us do chores all day, cook, clean, and morning calis— calis— I don’t know what you call it. Some kind of exercise. They don’t even have cable.”

  “Who is ‘us’?” Sheila was immediately suspicious.

  “Jermaine and I. He’s the other kid there,” Olivia answered.

  “Jermaine’s in foster care?” Sheila tried to pull her mind from the brink. Maybe mixing sexes was standard in foster care.

  “Yeah. He’s kind of weird.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Fifteen? I don’t know.”

  “Why is he there?”

  “I don’t know, Mom,” Olivia whined. “Why are you asking about him? I’m telling you, it’s awful there. And the school is bad too. The kids act up in class. The work is about two years behind.”

  Sheila set aside her unease. Olivia was right. Jermaine wasn’t the issue. Getting the girl home was. She couldn’t think of what to ask her daughter. How could she pick one thing when she wanted to know everything? For more than a decade she’d known everything there was to know about Olivia.

  For a single instant she knew what it was like to be Keith, having only glimpses of her daughter’s life. Olivia was looking at her, expecting more. She always expected more. Sheila sat up straighter and tried to engage.

  “Are you getting enough sleep? The calisthenics,” Sheila sounded out each syllable of the word that had tripped her daughter up, “should make you tired. At least you lost some weight.”

  “Oh Mom.” Olivia looked disappointed somehow, though Sheila couldn’t see where she’d failed. “Do you know when I can come home?”

  “Poppet—”

  In earnest, Olivia leaned forward. “I promise I won’t talk to any more counselors. I’m not stupid. I think Alison—Ms. Feingold, I mean, got me put here. I was just upset, okay? My grades weren’t good and I complained. If you’ll let me come home, I’ll be better. I won’t eat so much. I’ll watch less TV. I’ll even clean up more around the house,” Olivia paused, breathless.

  Sheila didn’t have any words to mollify her daughter. What more could she say? During the remainder of the two hours, Sheila talked to Olivia about work, the weather, anything she could think of to fill the silence. Too soon, the visiting coordinator cum driver was taking her away.

  Twenty-Nine

  The Case Plan

  November 15, 2001

  Easing her brown leather pumps from her feet, Sheila tilted her expensive chair and rested her feet on the leather desk pad.

  “Nancy! Chris!” she called out. No answer.

  Sheila had sent everyone home early, but she didn’t care for surprises from her more diligent workers. When no one responded, she opened her pencil drawer and pulled out the little brass key. The flat shiny metal fit smoothly into the lock of her middle right drawer. Easing open the antique wood, she pulled out a small accordion file.

  She pulled a cord on the desk lamp to chase away dusk. It was easier spending her evenings in her chambers. The apartment was preternaturally quiet without Olivia. She’d hated the constant drone of all those cable channels Olivia so loved, but without her daughter there, it wasn’t a home. It was merely a place to shower and sleep.

  Placing the small accordion file on her desk, Sheila pulled out every piece of paper she’d collected on Olivia’s case. Just as she knew that the Juvenile court action was unfair, she also knew from her years of practicing law that burying your head in the sand was never an adequate solution.

  Silently, she reread the complaint. Then she paged through the rest of the file, making sure she hadn’t missed anything her first, emotionally wrought, time around. Finally, she pulled out the case plan she’d gotten at Metzenbaum.

  Seven landscape oriented pages of text stared back at her. The first page had all the usual information, Olivia’s name, the county and court’s case numbers. Next was a list of people with relationships to the child. She, as the mother, was first. Her ex-husband Keith was listed as father PNE. PNE? Sheila pulled a yellow legal pad from her desk and made a note to ask Casey what that meant. Also listed was Sherry Otis as GAL. Sheila thought for a second. Wait, GAL had to be guardian ad Litem. Unbidden, Sherry Otis’s face came to her. She was the woman the magistrate had pulled from the hallway. Sheila wasn’t looking forward to dealing with her.

  She turned to page two of the case plan and looked at the list of county ‘recommendations’ for action that would bring about family reunification. She shook her head. The county had reduced thirteen years of parenting to a form, and a bad one at that.

  The boxes on the left addressed the so-called problems with her little family. ‘Mom has parenting issues,’ and ‘Mom has alcohol issue,’ it read. To address their fabricated issues, the county proposed solutions. The boxes on the right outlined what steps Sheila was supposed to take—all under the county’s supervision. They’d have her enroll in a thirty-day inpatient drug and alcohol treatment program, enroll in a sixteen-week parenting class, and of course keep her house suitable, and her job on an even keel. These looked like the aspirations of a twenty-something with little time on the job and middle-class ideals.

  Sheila shook her head. If she agreed to do all of this, Olivia wouldn’t even be eligible to come home for four months. How could any social worker, prosecutor, or judge think this was a good idea?

  Pulling Casey’s card from a paper clip on the front of the file, Sheila dialed Casey’s office number on the off chance that the young attorney would be working late. The phone was answered before the first ring was completed.

  “Casey Cort.”

  “Sheila Harrison Grant,” she announced. There was a pause on the line. Casey didn’t rush to fill in the silence. She had to hand it to the girl, she was a quick study. She’d make a really excellent lawyer someday. “I was just reviewing the documents in my case. Did I mention I got a case plan? I’ll fax it over when I hang up,” Sheila paused. “I know my posture had been to fight this case, but I’m thinking of doing what the social workers want. I want this done, over with. If that would work, Olivia and I could survive the four months.”

  Sheila gave her declaration a moment to sink in. She took the tiniest sip of the rum on her desk. Without ice, the drink should be silent.

  “Realistically, if I stopped fighting—promised to do everything asked of me—could Olivia be home by Christmas?”

  “Judge Grant, the parenting classes themselves are at least sixteen weeks. Maybe we could get you into a twelve-week class, that’s the shortest I’ve seen. But they have to be completed before the county or the court will consider reunification,” Casey said.

  Sheila threw the papers on her desk in frustration. “How in the hell do parents do this?” she asked. “This process doesn’t seem geared toward keeping families together, but toward pulling families apart.”

  “Many of my clients have felt that frustration,” Casey said diplomatically.

  “Level with me. How many cases have you been involved with in juvenile court—even where you were the Guardian ad Litem?” Sheila asked.

  “About two hundred-fifty, more or less,” Casey answered.

  “In all of those cases where the county was seeking temporary custody and the parents were making an honest effort at it—in how many of those cases have you seen reunification?”

  Casey didn’t respond right away. Sheila could hear breathing in the receiver, the squeak of an office chair as Casey leaned forward or back. Then Casey spoke. Her voice seemed far away, though the girl was less than a mile away.

  “Truthfully…none. I’ve never seen a child go home.”

  Easing her brown leather pumps from her feet, Sheila tilted her expensive chair and rested her feet on the leather desk pad.

  “Nancy! Chris!”
she called out. No answer.

  Sheila had sent everyone home early, but she didn’t care for surprises from her more diligent workers. When no one responded, she opened her pencil drawer and pulled out the little brass key. The flat shiny metal fit smoothly into the lock of her middle right drawer. Easing open the antique wood, she pulled out a small accordion file.

  She pulled a cord on the desk lamp to chase away dusk. It was easier spending her evenings in her chambers. The apartment was preternaturally quiet without Olivia. She’d hated the constant drone of all those cable channels Olivia so loved, but without her daughter there, it wasn’t a home. It was merely a place to shower and sleep.

  Placing the small accordion file on her desk, Sheila pulled out every piece of paper she’d collected on Olivia’s case. Just as she knew that the Juvenile court action was unfair, she also knew from her years of practicing law that burying your head in the sand was never an adequate solution.

  Silently, she reread the complaint. Then she paged through the rest of the file, making sure she hadn’t missed anything her first, emotionally wrought, time around. Finally, she pulled out the case plan she’d gotten at Metzenbaum.

  Seven landscape oriented pages of text stared back at her. The first page had all the usual information, Olivia’s name, the county and court’s case numbers. Next was a list of people with relationships to the child. She, as the mother, was first. Her ex-husband Keith was listed as father PNE. PNE? Sheila pulled a yellow legal pad from her desk and made a note to ask Casey what that meant. Also listed was Sherry Otis as GAL. Sheila thought for a second. Wait, GAL had to be guardian ad Litem. Unbidden, Sherry Otis’s face came to her. She was the woman the magistrate had pulled from the hallway. Sheila wasn’t looking forward to dealing with her.

  She turned to page two of the case plan and looked at the list of county ‘recommendations’ for action that would bring about family reunification. She shook her head. The county had reduced thirteen years of parenting to a form, and a bad one at that.

  The boxes on the left addressed the so-called problems with her little family. ‘Mom has parenting issues,’ and ‘Mom has alcohol issue,’ it read. To address their fabricated issues, the county proposed solutions. The boxes on the right outlined what steps Sheila was supposed to take—all under the county’s supervision. They’d have her enroll in a thirty-day inpatient drug and alcohol treatment program, enroll in a sixteen-week parenting class, and of course keep her house suitable, and her job on an even keel. These looked like the aspirations of a twenty-something with little time on the job and middle-class ideals.

  Sheila shook her head. If she agreed to do all of this, Olivia wouldn’t even be eligible to come home for four months. How could any social worker, prosecutor, or judge think this was a good idea?

  Pulling Casey’s card from a paper clip on the front of the file, Sheila dialed Casey’s office number on the off chance that the young attorney would be working late. The phone was answered before the first ring was completed.

  “Casey Cort.”

  “Sheila Harrison Grant,” she announced. There was a pause on the line. Casey didn’t rush to fill in the silence. She had to hand it to the girl, she was a quick study. She’d make a really excellent lawyer someday. “I was just reviewing the documents in my case. Did I mention I got a case plan? I’ll fax it over when I hang up,” Sheila paused. “I know my posture had been to fight this case, but I’m thinking of doing what the social workers want. I want this done, over with. If that would work, Olivia and I could survive the four months.”

  Sheila gave her declaration a moment to sink in. She took the tiniest sip of the rum on her desk. Without ice, the drink should be silent.

  “Realistically, if I stopped fighting—promised to do everything asked of me—could Olivia be home by Christmas?”

  “Judge Grant, the parenting classes themselves are at least sixteen weeks. Maybe we could get you into a twelve-week class, that’s the shortest I’ve seen. But they have to be completed before the county or the court will consider reunification,” Casey said.

  Sheila threw the papers on her desk in frustration. “How in the hell do parents do this?” she asked. “This process doesn’t seem geared toward keeping families together, but toward pulling families apart.”

  “Many of my clients have felt that frustration,” Casey said diplomatically.

  “Level with me. How many cases have you been involved with in juvenile court—even where you were the Guardian ad Litem?” Sheila asked.

  “About two hundred-fifty, more or less,” Casey answered.

  “In all of those cases where the county was seeking temporary custody and the parents were making an honest effort at it—in how many of those cases have you seen reunification?”

  Casey didn’t respond right away. Sheila could hear breathing in the receiver, the squeak of an office chair as Casey leaned forward or back. Then Casey spoke. Her voice seemed far away, though the girl was less than a mile away.

  “Truthfully…none. I’ve never seen a child go home.”

  Thirty

  Daddy’s Little Girl

  November 21, 2001

  The black and white sheriff’s car pulled in front of the blue wood framed house on East Ninetieth Street. There was one difference between this and other official vehicles. The side panel had the added words: Civil Process.

  Cuyahoga County sheriffs served all subpoenas, warrants, and writs in the county. The two sheriff’s deputies who emerged from the vehicle, looked at each other in silent communication.

  “Between you and me,” the older deputy said to the younger, “this is probably the mom’s house. These guys make babies. The moms never see them again. This,” he paused as he looked at the subpoena, “Keith Grant isn’t here. He’s out in the wind.”

  The deputies adjusted their holsters and walked to the door. The younger one rang the bell, and someone shuffled to the door inside. And elderly black woman opened it a crack.

  “Can I help…. Oh dear,” she said when she took in the uniforms, badges, and guns.

  “Mrs. Grant?” the older deputy asked.

  “No. I’m Mrs. Bigham.”

  “Are you Keith Grant’s mother?” the younger deputy asked.

  “No. That’s my sister Mildred’s boy. She passed on a couple of years back,” Mrs. Bigham said.

  “We have a subpoena for Keith Grant. Does he live here?”

  “Oh, no. That boy moved over to the west side after he divorced that Sheila. She was the death of him, you know…with her bourgeoisie ways. What’s that you got there?” She gestured to the papers in the deputy’s hand. “Is Keith in trouble? That can’t be,” she said more to herself than them. “He was always a good boy. I can’t imagine he’s in any kind of trouble….”

  “Ma’am, we’re here to serve a subpoena from the Cuyahoga County Juvenile Court. We either need to leave this with you for Keith Grant or get his current address.”

  “I don’t have no current address for him. But he does come around to pick up his mail.” Mrs. Bigham reached out a hand—the other remained fixed on the knob—to brace herself or to make a quick getaway, it was hard to tell. “I’ll give it to him when he stops by.”

  The deputies looked at each other. Shrugged. They gave the documents to the older woman. She was a competent adult, this was the respondent’s last known address. They had done their part.

  Keith Grant watched the drizzle outside his nondescript Ohio City apartment. The views weren’t as pretty as the east side, but life on the west side of the Cuyahoga River gave him the sense of a fresh start without leaving the city.

  He glanced at the time displayed in the lower right hand corner of the television screen. It was already afternoon, and he hadn’t gotten much done during his one day off from rounding up graffiti-spraying hooligans. Even MetroHealth Hospital wasn’t free from urban blight, hence his job there as a security guard. He muted the afternoon news, as depressing as the rain, and picked up a copy of
the Plain Dealer. The city’s newspaper wasn’t a beacon of sunshine, either. Folks couldn’t catch a break in Cleveland.

  USX looked like they were moving from three shifts to two, one headline proclaimed. Another announced that LTV was planning to turn off its main burner—a sure sign the steel mill was shutting down. Birmingham Steel was closing. Cheap steel was the reason cited. Ohio firms couldn’t produce steel at the cheap prices of European and Japanese firms. Why the paper harped on this bad news, he didn’t know. If no one in Cleveland had a job, no one would buy the ever thinning newspaper.

  Snapping the broadsheet closed, he momentarily closed his eyes in silent prayer, grateful that he had a job. It may only be enough to pay for an apartment—near the Norfolk Southern—an active railroad line, nonetheless. But he was off the court’s radar. The independent company that had hired him to work security for the hospital was letting him work under the table. They saved on payroll taxes, and he could keep the court from reaching into his pocket for child support.

  He wanted to care for his daughter in his own way. Keith was not a deadbeat dad. But Ohio required child support be deducted from every paycheck. Essentially, the courts were saying he wasn’t trustworthy. And he couldn’t turn a blind eye to the huge bureaucracy that had sprung up to squeeze blood from turnips. All that money for all that ‘enforcement’ that could go to help kids who really needed it. And while he took care of Olivia as best he could, Sheila didn’t really need any help from him.

  His ex-wife had always been highfalutin. His mother, God rest her soul, had been right on the money about Sheila. She wasn’t content to live a life like his parents—buying a house in Glenville, working regular jobs, building a family.

  When he’d dated Sheila in high school, then when she went to college, he knew she wanted more. And that had been part of the attraction. He’d sit with her while she studied, and they’d have those kinds of big intellectual discussions that hadn’t been part of his own family life. He’d been so proud when she flipped her tassel at college graduation, he’d proposed to her that night at her parent’s house.