Qualified Immunity

by Aime Austin

  In what seemed like minutes after they’d walked down the aisle, Sheila announced that she wanted to go to law school. He’d mistakenly thought she’d be happy with college—be happy with the good paying office job she’d landed. But, no, law school was her ambition. He’d tried to convince Sheila that they were fine the way they were. He even tried to get her pregnant. But he never knocked her up, and wasn’t too surprised to find birth control pills in her dresser drawer near their first anniversary.

  Before he followed her to Michigan for three years, his mother warned him that giving in to this kind of whim would be the end of his marriage. And he might’ve listened to his mother if he’d had time to think. But law school was a roller coaster that never stopped. During the year, they were always going to one mixer or another. Her ‘summer’ jobs—nothing like the ice cream scooping they’d done in high school—were all consuming. He dropped out of her social life halfway through law school.

  There was nothing worse than going to all those lunches, dinners, and parties at the big houses on Fairmount or North Park Boulevard. He and her colleagues were as different as night and day. The attorneys she worked for were all white men whose wives didn’t work.

  Brad or Chet or Chip were always shaking his hand and asking him what he did for a living. Was he a golf man? Did he belong to the skating club? When he said that he worked for RTA, they started asking him about the big bosses. When Keith didn’t know them or when they looked at his hands and realized he didn’t work in the upper offices, they wrote him off.

  It didn’t take glasses to see that he didn’t fit into her world. All of the law school friends told jokes where the punch lines were in Latin. They talked about making money, and buying expensive things. No one seemed interested in starting a family and living a modest life.

  When Keith stopped going to her parties, the moot court competitions, and dinners with her employer, Bennett Friehof, Sheila didn’t complain. Instead she talked about getting out of Glenville and moving on up to Cleveland Heights or Shaker. They could be the first blacks in these once white enclaves and she wanted to be on the vanguard. Sheila talked about him going back to school. “You’re really smart,” she would say. “Smarter than a lot of these white guys I go to school with.”

  Live up to your potential, became her favorite line of advice.

  But Keith didn’t want to go to school. He’d barely gotten through high school with teachers who thought he was dumb. He couldn’t imagine showing his mug in college where he’d be older than everyone else. Besides, he was making more than Sheila and most of his friends from his job—even with occasional lay-offs.

  The best surprise of their marriage was when Sheila got pregnant with Olivia. Then, he was sure, things would change. His wife could give up practicing law. He was making more than enough at Birmingham Steel by then. Sure, Sheila’s paycheck was bigger than his, but they didn’t really need her money.

  He paid the mortgage on the Glenville House. He paid most of the bills. Her money went for the extras—the new Buicks in the driveway—house repairs. Like most of his co-workers whose wives stayed home, he thought Sheila could make friends with the women in their neighborhood, push swings, make dinner. Motherhood would change her, he expected.

  But Olivia’s delivery into the world didn’t make a damned bit of difference. After a few short weeks of what couldn’t even be called maternity leave, she was back to the long hours working toward the elusive partnership. Olivia couldn’t derail her, she said, as if their daughter was a nuisance. It was clear that Sheila didn’t need his income, so he stopped pulling double shifts and working overtime.

  When his mother wasn’t caring for Olivia, his daughter was with him. He couldn’t believe how much he loved Olivia when she was born. A female carbon copy of him, his little girl was feisty, smart and opinionated. He hoped his mother could steer Olivia in the right direction. She’d stayed home while his dad worked. They hadn’t been rich with material things, but he had grown up well loved. He wanted Olivia to have the same values he’d been taught.

  His mom’s sudden death was a blow. Olivia was in school by then, and Sheila wanted more. Get a better job, she insisted. They needed to get the hell out of Cleveland before Olivia’s schooling got serious, she’d said. Up like a hot air balloon Sheila’s career went, and he wasn’t going anywhere. So it wasn’t a surprise when the county sheriff served him with divorce papers. For years, Keith had suspected Sheila was having an affair with one of those white lawyers she worked with. At first he’d threatened to stay and fight, but lawyers cost money, and with his mom gone, he was without resources.

  Quickly he learned that she was good at her job. Papers were coming in the mail nearly every day accusing him of this and that, requesting income and property information, and probing every aspect of his life. Even though it nearly broke his heart to abandon Olivia, Keith decided to leave. Crossing the Cuyahoga River and settling first near West Twenty-fifth Street, then Ohio City, was easier than he thought it would be.

  He didn’t show up for the divorce. It was a foregone conclusion Sheila would get what she wanted—with the help of her high powered lawyer friends. And what would happen to a black man like him if he did show up, without a lawyer, without means to pay child support? It wouldn’t be good. He’d heard from his friends in the old neighborhood that the county would take him straight to jail from the court room. And if he was in jail, he’d lose everything. It was better if he stayed away.

  The door opened and Valene bustled in. She was the kind of woman he should have had in his life all along.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. She hung her coat by the door and came over to give him a kiss on the cheek. Her warmth and bulk made this sterile apartment home.

  “Thinking.”

  “About Olivia.” Her statement wasn’t a question.

  He turned and watched while she opened the fridge and cupboards, pulling out ingredients for a meal. “How’d you know?”

  “I can see it written all over your face.” She lifted turned on the burner under a cast iron pan. “Call her.”

  “She’ll have Child Support after me faster than you can say, ‘jump,’ he said.

  “Not your ex. Call your daughter. You know Sheila works twenty-four seven. That girl is probably alone after school. Try calling her. That girl would love to hear from her daddy.”

  Valene somehow started him down and peeled onions at the same time. As fast as the knife flew, she didn’t even cut a finger. Snapping the newspaper into a careful fold, he walked to the wall phone in the kitchen.

  He dialed the seven digits his auntie Cora had given him when she’d heard Sheila’d moved.

  With each ring his heart sped up, then it stopped with each pause. After six rings, the answering machine picked up. He hung on Sheila’s voice.

  “Not home,” he said guilty that he felt nothing but relief.

  “She’s at that age. Probably with some friends. Try again tomorrow.”

  He nodded and walked back to his chair. He’d give it a couple of weeks, work up his courage. What if his daughter hated him, wanted nothing to do with him. That rejection would be nothing but his own damned fault.

  Thirty-One

  Behind the Closed Door

  November 17-18, 2001

  Exhausted, Olivia laid in her borrowed bed. Saturday at the Williamses was not a day of rest. That was reserved for Sunday, the Sabbath. No one in the house on Hathaway Avenue lay around, watched TV, or snacked all day like a normal family.

  Mr. Williams ran the house like he was still a Navy lieutenant and the rest of them were seamen. This morning had begun with the usual calisthenics in the backyard. Her complaints about the cold, damp weather had fallen on deaf ears. She’d huffed and puffed through jumping jacks, squats, and the single pushup she could manage. All the while, Mr. Williams muttered disappointment under his breath.

  Through his cupped hands, he yelled, “Olivia, you’re not keeping up! A strong body is e
ssential for a clear mind!”

  Her mother had taught her better than to talk back. Rather she tried, halfheartedly, to push her body up with noodle-like arms, but her shaking muscles had refused to cooperate. Jermaine had come to her rescue. “Watch this,” he whispered before breaking formation and running a lap around the yard. When Mr. Williams’ eyes were no longer on her, Jermaine had done one arm pushups that had both distracted and wowed her taskmaster.

  After all that at six a.m., Olivia was ready to go lie down on the couch, remote in hand, and watch a couple hours of children’s programming. Even without cable, she’d have been willing to settle for whatever the local networks had to offer. But even that meager desire went unsatisfied. Where Mr. Williams had left off, his wife took over.

  Aunt Linda said that foster kids should work for their keep, so Olivia had taken up a rag and dusted. Last week, she’d vacuumed, scrubbed the floors, washed the walls, and ironed the clothes. And the weekend before, her hands had been rubbed raw from bleach and ammonia.

  This week Jermaine took on the tasks she hated, saying his hands were used to it. Grateful, she gave him the bucket and rags. She stayed as quiet as possible, making sure every surface gleamed with furniture polish. Before dinner, Jermaine had pulled her into the corner of the dining room and given her a hug. During the embrace, he’d whispered in her ear, “See, we got to stick together. That’s the only way to get through this here.”

  Having an ally should have lessened her fear of this unfamiliar house. Despite bone deep exhaustion, she couldn’t sleep. Gray shadows filled the darkened room. Mind racing, her heart was doing its best to keep up. Blood pulsed between her ears.

  Falling asleep and staying that way had always been easy. But in a strange house, all bets were off. The green numbers on the clock glowed nine-thirty. All she wanted was the oblivion to come so she could stay awake during the two hour church service tomorrow.

  Her body jolted like someone was walking across her grave. The small Strawberry Shortcake night light flickered on, bathing the room in an odd pinkish-yellow glow. She’d forgotten to lock the door like she’d been told. What was there to fear? Her mother had long ago told her that monsters weren’t real.

  “Aunt Linda, is that you?” Olivia asked. Her eyes tried to adjust to the faint illumination.

  “No, it’s Jermaine,” the visitor whispered in response.

  Relief flooded her body. Breath escaped her burning lungs. He was at least one person in this mess on her side. The way he took up for her this morning, first with the exercise, then with the cleaning was cool. But she didn’t want to buddy up now; sleep and its companion, oblivion, is what she craved.

  “Why aren’t you in bed, Jermaine? We have to get up early again tomorrow. Church, remember?” Olivia whispered, hoping their voices didn’t disturb the quiet the Williamses required.

  “Did you read my card?”

  Olivia squinted at the figure filling the doorframe. He’d left it right on her bed. How could she have missed it? “Yeah.”

  “I wanted to come in here and tell you how much I love you.”

  He’d been a big help today. But he was a strange boy. “Okay, well…thanks. I’m ready to sleep now. Good night,” Olivia said, turning away from the door and pulling the covers to her chin. Now she could get some sleep.

  Olivia heard the door close, so she was surprised when Jermaine’s heavy weight depressed the mattress. She didn’t mind so much when he started kissing her. It was kind of disgusting that his tongue tasted like the cigarettes he must have smoked in secret, but it felt good having someone touch her. It was difficult trying to be cool and sophisticated—wasn’t that how she was supposed to act—when he took off her t-shirt, then her training bra.

  With surprisingly strong hands for a boy, Jermaine grabbed her upper arms and pulled her out of bed, and up to the full length mirror on the closet door. They stood immobile, side-by-side for a long moment. She only had on knit shorts. His pajama bottoms tented in the front. Olivia looked away from their shadowy figures, embarrassed.

  With probing fingers, Jermaine turned her face back to the mirror. “Don’t, baby. You’re looking good.” He moved behind her, and she could feel him pressing into her back. With clumsy hands, he squeezed her newly forming breasts and pinched at her nipples. God, that felt good. She saw her reflection squeezing her legs together. His hand slipped down probing at the space between her legs. Dinner churned in her gut. She wanted to pull him closer and push him away at the same time.

  It wasn’t right. This shouldn’t be happening. How could she stop him, though? On all of her favorite teen dramas, and the weekday soaps she watched re-runs of on SoapNet, the girls liked this kind of attention from boys. They dated one boy then kissed another, without feeling guilty or bad like she did now.

  Jermaine’s breathing changed. With a hard push, she was back down on the bed. One arm pinned her chest, while the other pushed down her shorts. Her nearly naked body was his to use. Pushing against his chest did nothing. With a single hand, he held her wrists above her head, thrusting his smoky tongue into her mouth. The two hands that had done pushups and taken over her cleaning chores had turned into an octopus’ eight.

  So many thoughts…. Images of Jon Heath, her Shaker crush, giggling hallway chatter of teenage television vixens talking about making out and bases. She’d probably passed from first to second tonight.

  Olivia struggled a little when Jermaine’s hands probed in her underwear between her legs. This was getting worse and worse. She hoped he would just go away already, satisfied with kissing and touching her. Relieved when his weight lifted from her, she took a deep breath, ready to say good night. But her reprieve was short lived when Jermaine pulled his swollen penis from his pajama bottoms.

  All thoughts of first, second, and third bases ceased. No! she screamed in her head, but she was determined to stay quiet. She didn’t want to think of what would happen if either of the Williamses came up here. They’d told her to be quiet time and again. Now if they found out the noise was from the foster kids making out, who knew where she’d end up. Still, she wanted him to stop.

  Olivia began to struggle in earnest. The words finally moved from her brain to mouth. “No!” she whispered loudly. “You can’t do that. I have a boyfriend, and Jon…wouldn’t…. His name is Jon,” she stammered. “He’s not going to like this.”

  Jermaine put one of his many hands over her mouth and whispered. “I love you, girl. I won’t hurt you. You know this feels good.” Assuming her acquiescence, he rubbed his penis against her thigh and stomach.

  Olivia’s heart nearly broke her ribs with its pounding when she realized he wanted to have sex with her. Remembering his ease with the morning’s exercises, she knew he could overpower her. And true to her realization, Jermaine held both her wrists in a viselike grip, continuing to thrust his thick, smoky tongue into her mouth, blocking all speech.

  When Olivia started to kick, he lay his entire heavy weight on her, covering her mouth even more thoroughly.

  The pain was a shock. Olivia went as still as a statute. Minutes later, when she again became aware of her surroundings, one of his hands was over her mouth, and he was thrusting into her, tearing her apart. She moved her head from side to side, and his grip loosened. But she didn’t scream. What would be the point now? It was already done.

  Jermaine rose up, thrusting harder. “Girl, I love you so much. I want to make a baby with you.”

  Olivia didn’t know what to say, had lost her will to scream. Instead, she felt the wetness of silent tears coursing down her cheeks. The taste of salt on her tongue accompanied the realization that she was no longer a virgin.

  When he was done, Jermaine left her. She was never so happy to be alone. She put the borrowed t-shirt and shorts back on and tried to sleep with the disgusting taste of stale tobacco in her mouth and the stickiness between her thighs. She wanted nothing more than to brush the taste from her mouth, wash his nastiness from between her legs,
scrub the smell of his sweat from her body, but leaving her room was against the rules.

  Aunt Linda would be furious if she discovered Olivia had strayed from the room during the night. The foster kids weren’t supposed to leave their rooms, disturb Mr. Williams’ rest, unless there was an emergency. This didn’t qualify.

  It took what seemed like hours to finally drift off again, then the door opened a second time. Jermaine came back in, pulled down the covers, and got into bed with her, pushing his hard penis against her butt once again. It was all her fault for not listening to Jackie. It was all her fault for not locking the door like she’d been told. Her mother had always said she was hard-headed, didn’t listen.

  Olivia was grateful when she woke up in time to get ready for church, and he was gone.

  Thirty-Two

  Shattered Glass

  November 16, 2001

  Casey watched the winds whip up white caps on Lake Erie as she inserted a jazz CD Jason had burned for her into her boom box. The sound of a woman singing in French filled her office and Casey sat down at her desk. Everything was set up for a work filled morning. Her coffee was on her right, her time slips on her left. In front of her was Sheila Harrison Grant’s very thin file. Jenny Nolan in the juvenile court clerk’s office liked her. Maybe she could ask for a small favor. Thank goodness the clerk answered on the first ring.

  “Are you looking for more cases? I have a ton to get off my desk today.”

  Knowing she’d have to scratch Jenny’s back, Casey agreed to take ten of them—having no idea of the commitment involved, but knowing they’d all be limited to the standard two hundred fifty in compensation. Ten percent of her work done in an instant, Jenny said, “So what can I help you with this fine morning?”