Qualified Immunity

by Aime Austin

  “Thank you,” Bennett said.

  Tommy disconnected the call.

  Thirty-Four

  She’s not my mother

  November 21, 2001

  Daydreaming was more fun than being stone cold bored out of your mind. She hated the pills. Sure, it made it easier to pay attention in class. Olivia’s formerly wandering mind was firmly focused on the teacher. But school lessons hadn’t gotten any more interesting.

  Math was her last class of the day. She’d already started algebra at Shaker. This teacher was taking more than a week to teach the metric system. Some of the other students were frantic note takers, while others goofed off. How many days would she be subject to multiplication and division by ten, she wondered.

  To keep herself occupied, she started writing down what the teacher was saying about millimeters, centimeters and the like. Mercifully, the end of the day bell rang.

  Olivia walked down the still unfamiliar hallway, hating school, but dreading home. Grateful her rusted locker opened on the first try, she took out the books she’d been given this week. As she picked up her Civics book, the pages broke away from the spine. Crap, these were some of the oldest books she’d ever seen.

  She bent down to pick up the scattered pages. Another student came to her aid. Olivia nearly cried when the girl helped her, rather than kick the book down the hall. She’d seen that more than once in her few days here.

  “I’m Vickie,” the girl said while their faces were pointed at the floor. “Where you from? You just move here?”

  Olivia’s face grew tight. She’d never met any other kid in foster care before she’d landed there herself. Facing other kids with her messed up situation had never crossed her mind. Warm with embarrassment, she answered the girl anyway. “I just moved in with the Williamses. They’re my foster parents.” When Vickie’s face changed, she hastened to add, “I won’t be there long. I’m going home really soon. My mom is straightening things out.”

  Vickie didn’t exactly recoil, but stepped back nonetheless. She thrust glossy textbook pages at Olivia. “Foster care? That’s messed up. Foster kids can become crazy folks. Your mom on crack? Your dad in jail?”

  Olivia’s eyes smarted. She purposely dropped a few more papers so she wouldn’t have to look at Vickie. “No, there’s nothing wrong with my mom,” she said, looking at the floor. “It’s a mistake from Shaker.”

  “You a Shaker girl. Oh, that’s why you talk like that. Don’t go gettin’ all uppity in here.” Vickie walked away. Olivia released her breath, glad she’d survived her first encounter. No sooner than relief flooded her body, she noticed Vickie’d joined a group of girls who were looking at her and laughing.

  Head down, she shuffled the remaining stretch of hallway. She was already late. Aunt Linda liked to keep her and Jermaine on a tight schedule. There were only two cars left in front of the school when she finally got there, a beat up Ford and Aunt Linda’s Cadillac—shiny from her and Jermaine’s weekend chores.

  A couple of boys were hanging by the front door. A chill went up her spine as they approached. They wouldn’t dare touch her out here in public.

  “You Olivia?” one asked. Before she could answer, the other said, “Your mom’s been waitin’ fo’ you.”

  A dull ache accompanied the full feeling behind her eyes. She pulled away from the tight circle the boys had made around her and yelled, “She’s not my God damned mother!” Then she snatched open the Cadillac’s car door, threw her backpack in, plopped down, slammed the door, and crossed her arms violently.

  Because Olivia was staring forward, trying not to cry, the slap on the left side of her face was unexpected.

  Thirty-Five

  Relative Placement

  November 26, 2001

  Keith was reclining in his green easy chair, waffling between the Plain Dealer and U.S. News when his girlfriend slash fiancé, Valene Winstead interrupted his thoughts.

  “Keith, honey, your aunt is on the phone.” She cupped the mouthpiece between her hands. “She says it’s important. Something to do with the county sheriff,” she whispered, then handed him the phone.

  “Auntie Cora,” he said. “How are you?”

  “Boy, don’t how you do me. Get your black ass over here. Some deputies came by with some court papers for you. I didn’t have no address to give them, but I sure could call you to come get these papers. You know I don’t like no po-lice coming round my house. Here in Cleveland, them po-lice ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”

  Under the gruff exterior, his auntie was a marshmallow. “I’ll be over later tonight to pick it up with my mail,” Keith said, ending the call.

  Valene cocked her head. “What’s the problem?”

  “Auntie Cora said the police dropped off some papers for me,” Keith repeated.

  “You ain’t in trouble, is you? I ain’t never heard of no one getting any papers delivered like that. Are these more divorce papers? I bet them child support folks is after you. They really crackin’ down on brothers, you know. A lot of guys I know are going to jail behind this child support mess. I always said that you should try to get custody of Olivia. Sounds to me like your ex-wife’s downtown job is more important than raising that girl.”

  Though Keith no longer communicated with Sheila, he’d read about her appointment to judge. Secretly, he was proud of her. Against all the odds, she’d made it. And there wasn’t a day that went by that he didn’t think about Olivia, his heart. But he knew with an ex-wife who was now a judge, and him not having paid more than a few hundred dollars of child support, he was in a mess of trouble if he tried to exercise his rights.

  Despite the promise to his mom’s sister, Keith didn’t pick up the papers waiting for him that day or the next. Until he couldn’t put off picking up his bills any longer, and after some persistent nagging by Valene—only then did he swing by Cora’s house and pick up his mail.

  While riding the red line home and after looking through and discarding his junk mail, and glancing at his credit card bills, he opened the envelope from Juvenile court.

  The summons was stamped in large black ink with the words PERSONAL SERVICE. It was addressed to him with a case number typed on the cover. It stated:

  A motion for Temporary Custody has been filed in this court, a copy of which is attached concerning the child or children named on the attached complaint. If the court grants temporary custody of the child(ren), the parents and other relatives will lose rights, and privileges. See Box 3 reverse side for additional rights. YOU ARE HEREBY COMMANDED TO APPEAR BEFORE THIS COURT AT 2163 East 22nd Street, Cleveland, Ohio on December 18, 2000 at 1:00 P.M.

  This matter has been assigned to the docket of Judge Dorthea MacKinnon.

  The next paragraph said:

  The Party/Parties herein required to appear may lose valuable rights or be subject to court sanction if such party/parties fail(s) to appear at the time and place stated in this summons.

  He couldn’t make immediate sense of what he was reading, but the name at the top of the letter got his attention: Olivia Grant. He looked over the papers again, but didn’t think he was being sued for child support. He flipped to the next page headed COMPLAINT.

  It stated:

  CELESTE YOUNG, Social Worker, Cuyahoga County Department of Children and Family Services, first being duly sworn, states upon information and belief that a child in Cuyahoga County Ohio is NEGLECTED and DEPENDENT as defined in Section 2151.031(B) & 2151.04(C) of the Ohio Revised Code in the following particulars:

  * * *

  1. The child was removed on October _, 2001 pursuant to an ex-parte order granted by Magistrate Chambers.

  2. On October _, 2001, CCDCFS was contacted through the hotline. The caller stated that Mother was unable to care for daughter due to alcohol problems.

  3. Mother has been uncooperative with CCDCFS

  4. Alleged Father has never established paternity and had minimal contact with the child.

  5. Alleged Father provides
no care or support for his child.

  * * *

  Reasonable efforts were made by Cuyahoga County Department of Children and Family Services to prevent the removal of the child from the home, and removal is in the best interest of the child.

  * * *

  Olivia was gone? He looked at the paper again. There were no dates, just blank lines. So, October? His mind racing, Keith missed the Madison stop on the train, and had to get off and turn around at Triskett to get home. He was relieved to find Valene busy in his kitchen.

  He laid the mail and his newspaper on the table. “I picked up the court papers from Auntie Cora’s house today,” he said without preamble.

  “’Bout time.” Valene didn’t turn away from the stove.

  “I think Olivia’s in foster care.”

  Steak and onions forgotten, Valene whipped around from the stove. “I knew you should have gotten that child before now. That woman you were married to sounds like she wasn’t giving that baby what she needs.”

  “What do I do?”

  “We get a lawyer and sue for custody. There’s no reason that child should be in foster care. She needs to be here with us.” Smoke caught Valene’s attention, and she turned back to the blackening food.

  Keith walked from the small kitchen to the bedroom, where he sat down and made a series of phone calls.

  He dialed the number he’d kept in the back of his wallet. Wishing he’d tried harder to get in contact with Olivia, he listened to the phone ring, wondering if Sheila would even pick up. Sheila’s home number had been unlisted for years.

  Seeing the folks from her old neighborhood when she visited there was one thing, but getting phone calls from wayward relatives who wanted money—because they thought she and all lawyers were rich; or free legal advice—because that’s what family was for; or favors like fixing parking tickets—because they didn’t know the difference between a lawyer and a court clerk was trying on her nerves.

  Keith knew the diatribe backwards and forwards. But Olivia always kept Auntie Cora apprised of their phone number. Today was not a day for social niceties.

  “Sheila, what in the hell is going on over there? I just got some papers from Auntie Cora’s house talking about Olivia being in foster care.”

  “Good evening Keith,” Sheila said. “It’s so nice to hear your voice. You haven’t seen your daughter in what, three or four years? Do you have a job yet?”

  “Cut the bull—acting like your shit don’t stink. How in the hell did Olivia end up in foster care?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Are you planning to get her back or drink yourself into oblivion?”

  “How dare you? Who in the hell gave you the right to pass judgment? Didn’t want to leave your momma’s house. Didn’t want to keep a job. Then when I left your lazy ass, didn’t step up and do the manly thing and take care of your daughter.

  “Don’t start talking to me about how to raise a child. You aren’t here day in and day out to deal with the everyday stresses. Is she fitting in? Does she have enough friends? Is she eating too much junk food? What to tell her when she cries that dear dad doesn’t love her. So don’t come in here like you’re father of the year,” Sheila said.

  Keith took several deep breaths then glanced at the bedroom door. It was closed. Though the walls were paper thin, he hoped Valene wouldn’t hear most of this; she hated anger. But he needed to ask this next question even if it resulted in a full-blown argument. “Are you drinking?”

  “Hell yes, I’m drinking,” Sheila answered blithely. “I need a little rest and relaxation at the end of the day. Maybe I have a cocktail or a night cap, but I’m no drunk. This whole mess in Juvenile court is a mistake. You know they don’t like to see black people make it in Cleveland.”

  Keith couldn’t fault her logic. The daily newspaper was filled with black leaders taken down by extramarital affairs or unpaid taxes. Look at what the FBI tried to do to Martin Luther King. “What happened?” Keith asked, conciliation in his tone.

  Sheila’s voice lost its impatience. “Olivia’s guidance counselor got a little overzealous. She’s one of those young white girls out of school—you know the type—gonna save black folks from themselves.” He did know the type. He’d met them when Sheila had been in college and in law school. He’d have preferred a life without those people. But Sheila had sought it out. And this was the result. He tuned back in to what his ex-wife was saying. “She called the county and told them some crap. But I’ve got it handled. I am a judge, you know. And before that I was one of the best trial lawyers in this town. Give me a couple of weeks.”

  “I’m not here to pass judgment. I have no idea whether you and your high-powered friends can get you out of this mess, but I know I’m not going to leave my daughter in foster care. There are all sorts of nasty folks who take kids in. You remember Mrs. Embertson always had some raggedy ass foster kids running through the neighborhood. You know she wasn’t treating those kids right. She didn’t give a lick about what happened to them. Just collected her checks and went right on. I don’t want Olivia living with a Mrs. Embertson,” he finished. He’d probably said more words in these last few minutes than he’d done in the last few days. He wasn’t a talker, but Olivia needed him.

  “Look Keith,” Sheila said, her tone softening. “Even though you haven’t been around and haven’t paid a dime, I know that you love your daughter.” Keith gripped the phone, hard. His knuckles strained against the molded plastic. Why she had to always get a dig in, he didn’t know. “I’ll never forget how you were when she came home from the hospital. Look, I’m going to do what I have to do. And you do the same,” she said, ending the call. Even though he hadn’t called asking for permission, he’d gotten it.

  After pushing food around his plate for twenty minutes, Keith filled in Valene on the call from Sheila. “I haven’t been able to save much money since I’ve been here. There was the time I was out of work for a while.” He ducked his head. Even if layoffs were as common in Cleveland as lake effect snowflakes, it was still hard to put his failure into words. Thinking about Olivia, he soldiered on. “I’m just getting those credit cards and payday loans down. I can’t figure how I’m gonna be able to afford a lawyer.”

  “Now, you know as long as we’ve been seeing each other, we’ve kept our stuff separate. I’ve never asked to move in, or messed with your money or anything,” Valene paused. Her substantial bosom heaved with a heavy sigh. “I’m not one to be all up in your business, but let me have my say. I think it’s very important that you get custody of your daughter.” She held up a hand to stop his response. “I know I been sayin’ this all along. And it weren’t no big thang when she was with her mother, ‘cuz I know how that is. I raised all my kids without the help of no man, but this here is serious.

  “I’ve seen this happen to a lot of women at my church. Once the county gets a hold to them, Family Services never gets out of your life. They always stoppin’ by, checkin’ the fridge, countin’ the bedrooms, wantin’ to see your light and heat bills. I know a couple of folks. Let me call around and try to set up some appointments with some lawyers.”

  Glad he wasn’t going it alone like last time, he grasped Valene’s hand in his. “Thanks,” he muttered.

  “Honey, this is important. Just be sure that you can get some days off work. You’re going to need them.”

  First thing the next morning, Keith called the phone number on the back of the summons. After working his way through a seemingly endless touch tone menu, finally he connected with a live person.

  “I need to speak with the social worker handling my daughter’s case,” Keith said.

  “Do you know who’s assigned to it?” the voice asked.

  “No, ma’am. My daughter’s named Olivia Grant.”

  The sigh from the other end of the line was heavy. “Unfortunately, sir, we can’t look up children that way. Do you have her case number?” Happy he could provide at least that, Keith recited the number from the summons in his hand. He
r sigh went from weary to exasperation. “Sir, I can’t look up cases by juvenile court case number. Do you have the CFS case number by any chance?”

  “Ma’am,” Keith said, trying not let his own exasperation show, “I don’t have any of that information. I just got some papers in the mail saying that my daughter’s in foster care. My ex-wife didn’t even tell me that anything was going on. I can take care of my daughter, I just need her social worker to know that I can take custody.”

  “Okay, hold on sir. What did you say your daughter’s name was again?”

  “Olivia Grant.”

  Keith was put on hold for ten minutes. The line was so quiet, he thought several times that he’d been hung up on. About to give up, the operator came back.

  “Look sir, we’re not supposed to look up stuff for the clients, but I feel for you and your little girl, so in between calls, I found your social worker. Do you have a pencil? You should write this down.” Keith clicked his ball point, poised to take notes. He wrote down the social worker’s extension first. “Her name is Jacqueline Foley. If she’s not in, leave a voice mail, and she’ll return your call.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Keith said, sending up a silent prayer.

  “I’ll connect your call,” the operator said.

  Dutifully he left a message then went to work on the night shift.

  When he returned home nine hours later, there was a message from Foley. She’d gone ahead and made an appointment for ten that morning. So with no sleep or time to spare, Keith showered, changed, and walked to the RTA stop.

  At ten A.M. exactly, Keith stepped off the bus and walked into the Jane Edna Hunter building’s cavernous lobby. Avoiding a collision with two rambunctious boys, he made his way to the reception desk.