Qualified Immunity

by Aime Austin

  Judge MacKinnon took her seat behind her high wooden bench when the clerk was done. She appeared to scan some paperwork then peered down at everyone. “Good morning.”

  Like good elementary school students, everyone murmured “good morning” back.

  “The guardian for the child, Ms. Otis? She had to run to another courtroom, but gave me a written report. She’ll be back as soon as she can.” Judge MacKinnon squinted above Casey’s head. She turned around to see what the judge was looking at. “And who’s that in the back?” the judge asked.

  A woman brought her considerable bulk to full height. “Ma’am,” the woman said. “I’m Keith’s fiancé, Valene Winstead.”

  “Ms. Winstead, I’m very glad you’re here to support the father and Olivia. Our county’s children need as much support as they can get. But we have a rule here in juvenile court that non-related parties cannot stay in the courtroom.”

  Valene waved at Keith, grabbed her purse and left the courtroom. Casey faced forward again. “Mr. Grant,” the judge continued. “You’re the father.” Keith nodded. “Where’s your lawyer? I’m looking at the file here, and there’s nothing about anyone making an appearance for you. Did you need the public defender? If we need to postpone this hearing so that you can get adequate representation—”

  “If that man thinks…” Casey heard Sheila mutter.

  Fortunately for Keith’s bodily health, he spoke up quickly. “Ma’am…I mean Your Honor, my lawyer is Vernon Dinwiddie. I don’t know why he isn’t here.”

  “Counselors, let’s take a five minute recess and find Mr. Dinwiddie. We can’t continue this without the father represented.” Judge MacKinnon rose from the bench and disappeared.

  Casey watched Judge Grant make a beeline to her ex-husband, and said a silent prayer for him.

  “I can’t believe this,” Judge Grant hissed loud enough for everyone to hear. “Give me Dinwiddie’s number.”

  Casey listened as Judge Grant used her authority to summon Dinwiddie to the courtroom immediately, if not sooner. She knew that the lawyer’s secretary probably only heard the words, ‘judge,’ and ‘sanctions.’ It worked, because a scant quarter of an hour later, Dinwiddie swaggered into the courtroom in his customary western gear. The clerk informed the judge, and to Casey’s relief, court resumed.

  “Thank you for joining us this morning, Mr. Dinwiddie,” Judge MacKinnon’s sarcasm broadcast her displeasure. “Preliminary matters for Mom or Dad?” Casey shook her head and glanced at the prosecutor whose movements mirrored hers. “We’re getting a late start. Were the agency and the parents able to reach any kind of agreement?” The force of Judge Grant’s hands gripping the wood in silent objection shook the table. “If there’s nothing further, why don’t we have our opening statements? Mr. Foster?” Dick Foster stood, trying to smooth out the wrinkles of his light grey pinstriped suit. “I’ll waive opening statement, Your Honor.”

  “Good morning, Judge MacKinnon,” Casey said while standing. “At this time, I’d like to reserve my opening statement until the presentation of Judge Grant’s case.”

  “And you Mr. Dinwiddie,” the judge inquired, her eyebrow raised.

  “I’ll waive too, Your Honor,” he said with a dismissive flick of his wrist.

  The judge looked toward the prosecutor. “Okay, Mr. Foster, ball’s in your court. Call your first witness.”

  “Your Honor, we call Agnes Wingfield.”

  An older woman in a navy coat dress made her way to the stand. Her reading glasses swung to and fro as she was first sworn in and then gave her name.

  “For the record, can you tell us where you work?”

  “I’m a support officer at CSEA, the Cuyahoga Support Enforcement Agency,” Wingfield said.

  “Are you familiar with the Grant case?”

  The support officer opened a manila folder she’d brought to the bench. “Yes, I have reviewed the file.”

  “How long have the Grants been divorced?”

  “Ten years, approximately.”

  “During that time, how much support has Mr. Grant paid?”

  “Two hundred forty-two dollars.”

  “How much does he owe Olivia?” Foster’s voice took on a dramatic tone. Casey tried not to roll her eyes. The prosecutors always did this to try to show how bad the parents were. Never did they point out that most parents were broke. No doubt coached on playing her part in the little drama, Wingfield straightened up.

  “At your request, we did an arrearage calculation. Because there was never a modification upwards or any report of employment, Mr. Grant was only required to pay the state minimum of fifty dollars a month. Subtracting, of course, the amounts he has paid, by our calculation, he owes five thousand six hundred fifty eight dollars.”

  Casey doodled on her pad as the prosecution lay down the basics. It was their case to win, and Foster was one of those lawyers who built it brick by boring brick. There’d be little cross examination this first day.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Wingfield,” Foster said.

  “Now, on November sixteenth your agency was also asked to administer a routine paternity test to Mr. Grant and Olivia. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. At the request of CFS, we did a DNA test on Olivia and Keith Grant.”

  Judge Grant leaned forward, her body tensing, her pen nearly snapping in half in her hand. Alarm bells started going off in Casey’s head. Why was her client so tense? All this stuff was routine. She resisted the urge to look at or shake her client. She didn’t want to tip off the judge that something may not be right. Casey put her own pen down and started paying close attention to the evidence being offered.

  She took the papers Foster handed her. Identical sets went to Dinwiddie and Judge MacKinnon. “Your Honor,” he said, “I’ll ask the attorneys for the parents to stipulate to the reliability of the DNA results.”

  The judge lifted her head and looked at each lawyer at the defense table in turn, expectant.

  “I’ll stipulate, Your Honor,” Casey said.

  Dinwiddie was close behind her with his, “I’ll second that.”

  The judge slid the copy to the side, motioning for the prosecutor to continue with the witness.

  “Mrs. Wingfield,” Foster asked, “can you please read the results to the court?”

  “When we compared the DNA of Keith Grant with that of the North American black population, the results show with a ninety nine point nine percent degree of accuracy that Keith Grant cannot be Olivia Grant’s father.”

  Professionalism that kept Casey silent in court, no matter what happened, slipped. She couldn’t control her audible gasp that escaped. She looked over at her client. Despite the rigid posture and knuckles gripping the wood table, Judge Grant didn’t blink. Keith Grant’s anguish was obvious in his watery eyes and shaking hands. Judge MacKinnon, not willing to litter the transcript with family drama, called a ten minute recess.

  “What in the hell, Sheila?” Keith Grant said. “Did you know all along Olivia wasn’t mine?” Judge Grant didn’t have a moment to answer. But the silent communication between her and her ex-husband told Keith and Casey the truth of the matter. “Were you ever planning to tell me?” Then some kind of understanding dawned in the man’s eyes. “Don’t think I don’t know who the father is. All those nights you spent working late. I always knew…something was going on. My mother always said—”

  “You mother was the damned problem,” Judge Grant snapped. She rose from the table and stalked from the courtroom. Casey breathed in deep to calm her heart. The worst had happened. She’d gotten an unexpected surprise. The world hadn’t ended. The case wasn’t lost. She rose from her wood chair on wobbly legs and joined Foster and Dinwiddie.

  “… tell your client that CFS is going to have to remove Olivia from his house. We cannot have the minor child staying with a non-relative who’s not certified by the county. I suggest you and your client coordinate with the ongoing worker to arrange placement.”

  Of course, Olivi
a couldn’t stay with Keith Grant. Casey tried not to close her eyes and click her heels together. Judge Grant had created this hell for all of them and the flames were licking at Casey’s ankles.

  Foster’s nod barely acknowledged her. “We’re taking Keith Grant off the complaint and the case plan.” When Foster finally laid his judgmental eyes on her, it was all Casey could do not to shrink back. “Ms. Cort, if your client wishes to name the father of her child, we can bring him in, have him waive notice and go on ahead since the allegations only concern the mother. Otherwise we’ll have to adjourn until we can serve him and start this all over again with the real father.”

  Casey was shaking her head even before she realized it. She didn’t give a damn who Olivia’s father was. Adjournment wasn’t an option. If she agreed to postpone the hearing, they’d never get this thing done. It would be six months before Olivia got out of foster care. That was too long.

  She found her client on a bench in the deserted hallway. Judge Grant looked surprisingly composed when Casey sat next to her. But of course, she was the only person not surprised by what had happened.

  “Lying has consequences. You’ve made an uphill battle into Mount Kilimanjaro. But you know that.” Casey wasn’t a nagger. But she wanted the truth. Now. “How long have you known?”

  “Since she was born.”

  Casey held her breath, trying to calm her breathing. This was a client. She had to remember, betrayal had no place here. Forging on was what she needed to do. “Do you want the father involved? Does he know?”

  “He assisted me with the confirmation process. His wife, his kids…they only know us as acquaintances.”

  Casey realized she hadn’t been clear. “Unless he comes here today and waives notice, your trial won’t end today or tomorrow. You don’t want to do that. She’s already going to have to move to another foster home.”

  Judge Grant didn’t blink. “The hearing will have to be postponed.” Casey wanted to wring her client’s neck. Who in the hell needed this kind of protection? Even the last president had been disgraced by an extramarital affair and had been elected anyway. Olivia’s father couldn’t be that prominent.

  Ah, hell. None of this crap mattered. Taking the decision out of Judge Grant’s hands, she spoke. “I am going in there and telling the prosecutor that the father is unknown.” The consequences would come from Judge MacKinnon soon enough. Casey rose and pushed open the double doors. She could hear the click of her client’s heels behind her.

  When everyone had reassembled, Judge MacKinnon came back to the bench. “Mr. Grant and Mr. Dinwiddie have been excused. Judge Grant, do wish to name Olivia’s biological father?”

  Casey stood and answered for her client. “Your Honor, at this time Olivia’s father is unknown. We’d like to proceed with adjudication and disposition.”

  “If you have no questions for Mrs. Wingfield, I’ll ask her to step down.” After the CSEA officer left, Judge MacKinnon fixed her gaze on Judge Grant. “Understand, that when the father is unknown we will have to give notice by publication delaying this hearing. Your daughter will remain in CFS custody during that time.”

  Casey looked at her client, her stomach cramping. It would only take two words and a single phone call from her client and the father would no doubt be here. Judge Grant remained steadfast.

  Into the strained silence, Judge MacKinnon spoke. “We’re done for today. I’ll send the file to the clerk’s office for service by publication in the Legal News.”

  Forty-Three

  You Can Never Go Home Again

  December 21, 2001

  By now, Valene was used to Olivia’s daily baths. So she wasn’t surprised when she opened the apartment door and found the bathroom door closed and heard the faint sound of water sloshing. Now that she and the girl had a rapport, she merely knocked once before taking up her usual perch on the toilet seat.

  Her sigh was deep, straining her bosom against the buttons of her flowered blouse. She lifted her head and looked at Olivia.

  “I have something I need to tell you.” But before Valene could say more, the girl peppered her with questions.

  “Where’s my dad? Did you go to court today? What happened? Am I going home? Staying here?”

  “You know that social worker of yours, Jackie?”

  “Did you see her?”

  Valene nodded. “Yes, I saw her and your mom in court today.” With a swift movement of her hand she silenced Olivia. Valene needed to get this out before she lost her nerve. “The thing is, Olivia, you’re going to have to go back to foster care.”

  All movement from Olivia stilled. Soap and washcloth drifted to the bottom of the tub. Bubbles swirled to a stop. “Valene,” she whispered. “I can’t go back to the Williamses. I don’t want to see Jermaine.”

  “The other foster kid? I know you said he was fresh, but boys are like that. Even if you go back there, it won’t be forever.”

  Tears streaked down the girl’s cheeks. Valene wanted to wring that Sheila’s neck. Cool, calm and collected that woman had looked, skinny in her perfect suit. Not blinking an eye when the truth was exposed for all the world to see, Keith had said.

  She looked back at Olivia, the girl shaking. It was probably cold in there. Valene looked around for the towel.

  “I can’t go,” Olivia whispered insistently.

  “What’s going on?”

  Olivia’s voice became so quiet, Valene had to lean close to hear the faint sound, the words puffs of breath against her ear.

  “He did it to me.”

  Valene didn’t have to ask what ‘it’ was. She closed her eyes and cursed God for making women’s lives such nightmares. Olivia had joined the unfortunate club of women that Valene herself and nearly everyone she knew belonged. Pulling a towel from the back of the door, she half pulled, half lifted a crying, shaking Olivia from the tub, and wrapped her in a towel and a hug.

  “C’mere baby. Why don’t you go lay down in the big bed. I’ll call Jackie and get this figured out.”

  After Olivia disappeared into the bedroom, Valene quieted her shaking hands. Plucking Jackie’s card from the fridge, she dialed the phone.” When the social worker answered, she said, “This is Valene Winstead, Keith Grant’s fiancé. We have a problem.”

  “I’m sending someone there to pick her up in the morning like we all talked about. Will you have her stuff packed?”

  Putting steel into her voice, she said, “You. Will. Do. No. Such. Thing. This girl isn’t going anywhere right now. She needs her family. That Jermaine you stuck her with had sex with this girl.”

  The pause on the line was interminable. “Are you sure?” Foley finally asked. Valene wanted to stick her hand through the phone and strangle whoever it was at CFS who’d placed Olivia with this rapist. “I have a lot of experience with this, and sometimes these girls make up allegations so we won’t change their placement.”

  Valene prayed silently to the almighty to give her strength. “I’ve seen this child. She’s not making this up.”

  “Don’t do anything rash. I’ll call you back.”

  Later, Valene brought Olivia a tray of food and tucked the girl in with some DVDs and the remote. When the phone rang, she answered it.

  “I’m sorry,” Jackie said, contrite. “I just spoke with Jennifer—that’s Jermaine’s worker—and it’s possible something may have happened.”

  “What do you mean?” Valene’s voice rose again. “Did you know he was bent that way?”

  “He came from an extremely abusive environment. The agency was waiting for a bed to open up at a therapeutic group home in Bainbridge.”

  “Waiting for a bed?” Incredulity filled Valene. She hung up on Jackie before she took the Lord’s name in vain. It was quiet from the bedroom. Olivia was sleeping. It had been her favorite activity after bathing since she’d gotten here. Valene wrung her hands, drank some tea, then summoned Keith home, a move she hoped wouldn’t get him fired. Bowing her head, she prayed.

&n
bsp; Olivia was still asleep when Keith walked in the door.

  “You know I can’t up and leave work. I had to bribe Joe to come in and take over my shift. I’ll be working Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years for the rest…” She knew her face had said it all. “Did they take her early? What did you say to her? Is she okay?”

  “You need to sit down,” Valene said. “Olivia was in the bath again when I got here after work. She looked so down. I talked to her a little bit about leaving.” She paused, the tears she’d kept at bay all afternoon spilling down her face. “She was molested.”

  Keith didn’t speak, instead dropping his head into his hands. His shoulders shook in silent misery. Valene let her own tears flow. Neither of them spoke for long minutes.

  He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned his face. “What are we going to tell her?” Keith asked. “She has to leave tomorrow. We’re not a certified foster home. There’s no way we can keep her here.”

  “Are you going to tell her that you’re not her father?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who her father is?”

  He looked away, his gaze shifting out the window. Her eyes followed his. There wasn’t much to see. “I think so,” Keith finally answered.

  “Is he going to step up for his daughter?”

  “Uh uh.” Keith shook his head forcefully. “This is a rich white man from a rich white family.” No more needed to be said. It was an age-old problem. But Keith continued anyway. He spoke more than she’d heard from him in a long time. Lord knows how long he’d carried this burden.

  “I wanted her home. I wanted a family, but Sheila disappeared. She worked twelve-hour days. But instead of being tired, she walked around with a smile that wasn’t for me. Wasn’t but a few words a day came out of her mouth and it was always ‘Peyton this’ and ‘Peyton that.’”