Where Nobody Dies

by Carolyn Wheat

  “I know.” Mickey’s voice was rueful and her big brown eyes were concerned. “I got to thinking later about whether I’d done the right thing, asking you to get involved and all. But,” she said, looking straight at me, “I reckon I did. That woman needs help and so do those kids, and, like it or not, this is their last chance of getting it.”

  I nodded my agreement. “Once the court decides she’s an unfit mother, she’ll have no more visitation rights—or any rights. But—forgive me for asking, and it doesn’t really affect my ability to represent her—but is that really so bad for the kids? Wouldn’t it be better for them to have permanent adoptive homes, like the agency wants, instead of spending years shuttled from one foster home to another, waiting for Arnette to get herself together enough to take them back? Because you and I both know that’s a long way away, if ever.”

  “That all depends,” Mickey answered, in a voice several shades colder, “on which kids you’re talking about. The twins, Kwame and Kwaku? Two cute little boys, identical twins, came to foster care as toddlers, spent the last six years with the same couple, who are all set to adopt? Hell, yes, they’ll be fine without their real mother. They hardly know her as it is. But,” she went on, the warm brown eyes somehow accusing, “it’s a different story for the three older ones. One, they know their mama better. They’ll miss her if they don’t see her every so often. Two, they’re not going to be adopted, I don’t care what the agency lawyer says. Jomo’s in trouble in school, Tanika’s run away from four different foster homes, and Kamisha’s got a lot of hostility against her mother that she needs to work out. They’ve all three been bounced around different homes, usually split up, and terminating Arnette’s parental rights won’t make a damned bit of difference except to cut them off from the only person in the world who cares about them. Your client’s a whole lot less than the perfect mother, but she’s all the mother those three kids have got.”

  The waitress came back, bringing hot, fragrant foods. I concentrated on eating while I thought about what Mickey had said. Only after we’d finished and coffee had been ordered, did I move the conversation back to business.

  “So what do we do,” I asked, “to keep the court from ruling in favor of the agency? Judge Shute seemed pretty tight with the agency lawyer, and you know how she feels about me. So I’m not going to win this one on personality. As to the law—”

  “As to the law, there are some cases saying the agency has to show what efforts they made to keep the natural family together. I can guarantee that when you see those agency records, there’ll be nothing in there to show they did a damned thing to help Arnette Pearson to reclaim her kids.”

  I was impressed. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected from Mickey Dechter, but my prior dealings with social workers hadn’t led me to believe they knew much law. Vague theories and hand-wringing had been my usual experience.

  “I’ll do the legal research,” I promised. “And I’ll get the records the agency lawyer promised me. Will you help me decipher them and figure out places where they could have done more for Arnette but didn’t?”

  “Sure,” she agreed, sipping her coffee.

  “May I ask you a question?” I asked it anyway. “Why? Your department is officially on the side of the agency here, pushing for the termination. Why are you helping me help Arnette?”

  “Because I’ve been there,” she answered simply. “I was a foster child back in Maryville.” She pronounced it “Maryvl.”

  I was probably staring, but she went on as though unaware of my shocked reaction. “There were three of us, my older sister Loretta, me, and my baby sister Holly Ann. Our mother wasn’t bad, just crazy, and Daddy drank too much. So we lived with all kinds of foster mamas. They weren’t all bad, some of them were downright kindly, but I never felt I belonged. One place I stayed, the lady used to feed her own kids first and then us foster kids.” She snorted with a laugh that held no humor. “Not only did they get portions twice as large as we did, but when we were done eating, she’d lock up all the food so’s we couldn’t take more’n our share. But the worst part”—she gave me a direct look with her intense brown eyes—“was how they only talked to Loretta about Mama. And Loretta hated my mama, hated her so bad and so deep that she told Miss Hotchkiss she never wanted to see Mama again. And that’s all that old witch needed to hear.” Mickey’s eyes filmed, but her voice remained steady. “Never mind that I loved Mama and that Holly Ann and I needed her. All they cared about was that Loretta refused to visit Mama, so none of us could.”

  “And you feel the Pearson kids are going the same way?” I asked. “Because it’s good for the twins, the other three will lose their mother?”

  “And each other,” she added vehemently. “Once the twins are adopted, that mother isn’t going to be any too pleased to see the older ones coming around, especially with the trouble they get into. There were three years there when the only time I saw Holly Ann was at a special camp for foster kids. We got to stay two weeks and ever’ night, even though it was against the rules, Holly Ann would creep over to my bed and tuck herself under the covers. I’d have to wake her up at the crack of dawn and tell her to scoot on over to her own bed before the other kids woke up, or they’d tell on us and we’d be moved to different cabins.”

  My thought was, how could it be against the rules for two sisters to sleep together? Then I recalled Arnette’s account of the agency visits, with the children torn between two mothers. When agency policy was placed above human kindness, it seemed any cruelty was possible.

  There was a lot I wanted to say to Mickey Dechter, but before I could open my mouth, she was putting on her coat. “Just look at that snow!” she exclaimed. “I really have to run.” I suspected the snow had less to do with her sudden departure than the realization that she had spoken too freely to a stranger.

  I walked up to court slowly, letting the big flakes melt on my face, savoring the tingle. I couldn’t rid my mind of the image of two small blond girls huddled in one camp bed, afraid someone would see—and part them.

  “The prosecution is ready for trial, Your Honor.”

  “Defense ready,” I answered. No matter how ready I was, my heart quickened a little as I said those words. The roller-coaster ride from jury selection to verdict was about to begin, and I tensed up just as I had when I was a kid, waiting for the Blue Streak at Cedar Point to grind up the hill for the big descent.

  “Both sides ready,” the judge called to his clerk. “Send for a trial part.”

  I gave Terrell Hopkins a reassuring smile and walked back to the first row. I was surprised to see him looking distinctly worried. Maybe it was because his grandmother had left court early for a doctor’s appointment. I hoped nothing serious was wrong with her. Aside from my admiration for the old lady, I didn’t want Terrell’s mind distracted from the trial.

  We drew Part 14. Judge Murray Segal. A good man for a plea, but not my favorite trial judge. I like to ask my own questions, run my own defense. Judge Segal was one of those jurists who felt that any period of time in which he wasn’t talking was dead air. On the plus side, he wasn’t about to begin anything at four P.M. We’d schmooze a bit, set the agenda for the rest of the week, and go home. I’d have plenty of time to start preparing Terrell for the ordeal.

  When the housekeeping chores were done, I went up to the pens to talk to my client. I liked to give a pep talk, to acquaint my defendants with courtroom procedures and protocol. Seldom had I seen anyone in more need of a pep talk than Terrell Hopkins.

  “Listen,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table. He was jerking his knee as well. I’d never seen him so jumpy. “Listen, I got to ask you somethin’.”

  “Is something wrong with your grandmother?” I asked gently. “Is that what’s on your mind?”

  No answer. My client’s eyes were fixed on the iron door in back of me. His body swayed to unheard music while his fingers relentlessly bopped out the beat on the metal table between us.

  “Terre
ll!” I said sharply. “Will you pay attention? This is your fucking life we’re talking about here.”

  He stopped. He went as still as I could have wished, fixing me with his brown eyes. Then he asked his question. “Can I still get that flea bargain?”

  I was stunned. Yet, on swift reflection, I realized I shouldn’t have been. Terrell had never really wanted a trial. What he had hoped for was a miracle. Now that he knew for certain one wasn’t coming down the pike, he was ready to face reality.

  “I’m not sure,” I answered truthfully. “The problem is that the time to plead guilty is before you get moved to trial. You were offered a plea to rob two with a sentence of one and one-half to four years in jail. Now we’re in a trial part, and you may not be offered that. You may have to plead to rob one at two-to-six. And even that’s if I get Judge Segal in a good mood tomorrow. But”—I gazed directly into Terrell’s unnaturally still face—“are you sure that’s what you want?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Have you told your grandmother?”

  “Not yet. I be callin’ her tonight, I’ll let her know.”

  “Next question: Why?”

  “’Cause I’m tired of comin’ to court behind this shit,” he replied. “I want to get it over with.”

  “Is that what you’re going to tell your grandmother?”

  I didn’t catch the mumbled answer, so I asked him to repeat it. “Ain’t none of your business what I tells her.”

  “Goddamn it, Terrell!” I banged my hand on the metal table and had the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. “Don’t lie to me, don’t lie to your grandmother, and above all, don’t lie to yourself! You want the plea, fine, I’ll bust my hump to get it for you. But don’t tell me you’re copping out because you’re tired of coming to court. You want the plea because you know you’re going to blow trial and the reason you’re going to blow it is that you stole the coat.”

  My mind flashed from Terrell’s sullen face to his grandmother’s hopeful one. “You want that poor woman to cry herself to sleep every night thinking of her grandson who’s upstate for something he didn’t do? When all the time you know you did do it and you’re afraid to admit it to her. She loves you, Terrell, and she’s not going to stop loving you because you made a mistake. Not if you tell her about it honestly and ask her to forgive you.” I switched to a gentler tone of voice. “Look, think it over tonight. Call your grandmother. I know it’ll be hard to tell her the truth, but I know one thing, Terrell. Once you’ve done that, really faced it, hard as it is, and gone through with it, you won’t be a kid anymore. You’ll be a man, because it takes a man to stand up and say he made a mistake.”

  Stepping out of the courthouse, I entered a fairyland. Snow blanketed everything, and though the cars on Court Street honked their annoyance, and people who’d forgotten their boots hopped gingerly over the snow mounds piling up at the curb, I strode into the blizzard with a smile on my face. I’d been waiting for this.

  I walked over to Clinton Street, to where rows of stately brownstones stood, the snow on the window ledges and door frames creating what seemed like endless blocks of gingerbread houses. Most of the buildings had elaborately curlicued cast-iron fences, which collected snow rapidly. What a picture, I thought exultantly. What a fabulous series of black-and-white shots I could take! Each fence had a distinct design and the row itself, repeating a single theme of orderly brownstone beauty, would make a stunning wide-angle shot. I stood and framed shots, people slipping on the ice and lugging groceries passing me by, snowflakes on my eyelashes, until I finally realized something. It was too damned dark to take photographs.

  I was in the middle of cooking—well, defrosting—dinner when the phone rang. It was Marcy Sheldon. She got right to the point.

  “That envelope you asked me about?” I nodded into the phone, but Marcy wasn’t waiting for an answer. “I’m at Harry’s house in Midwood. He has something Linda gave him to keep. Could I bring it by later on my way home?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Anytime tonight.” I was numb; while I’d deduced the existence of a second envelope, a part of me had never expected to see it.

  I hung up the phone and went to take my frozen entrée out of the oven. For about the hundredth time, I found myself wishing Dorinda would listen to Ezra and start selling take-out. On the other hand, I decided, looking at my boeuf bourguignon, Dorinda was already turning me into an involuntary vegetarian. The only time I saw meat anymore was when I spooned it out of little tin trays.

  The hot meal, the evening news on TV, my comfortable chair, didn’t relax me as they usually did. Maybe it was the thought that Terrell Hopkins might choose trial after all that kept me tense. Or maybe it was the realization that Marcy Sheldon, no-nonsense businesswoman, wasn’t just going to hand over the precious envelope and go away. She was going to demand to know what was in it. And I wasn’t looking forward to telling her.

  16

  The doorbell rang. I buzzed in my visitor, then put a kettle on to boil. Tea was already in the pot, and two mugs stood on the table, flanked by milk, sugar, honey and a plate of lemon slices. As a hostess I’m no Dorinda, but I could rise to an occasion, such as entertaining one of my few paying clients.

  I needed an extra cup. I should have known, I realized, recalling that Marcy had said she saw her father only because he wanted contact with Dawn. But still I was unprepared for the tall, awkward figure in my doorway. I froze for a moment, wondering how she felt at being in the house where her mother had died. Then I wondered how Marcy and I could discuss blackmail with Dawn present. I was so disconcerted I forgot my manners, and Dawn stood immobile, unwilling even to loosen her scarf or take off her knit hat without permission.

  Recovering quickly, I said, “Here, let me take your coat. It’s a new one, isn’t it?”

  “Aunt Marcy bought it for me,” Dawn replied. “She’s parking the car. She said to tell you she’d be right up.”

  “Nice colors,” I commented. The peach scarf-and-hat set definitely warmed Dawn’s skin tone, and the fawn-colored down coat made her look far more grown-up than the baby-pink jacket her mother had foisted on her. I began to feel a little better about Marcy’s chances of obtaining custody. Surely the court had to give points for such subtleties as helping an adolescent girl make the most of her looks.

  “I’m making tea,” I said. “Do you drink it, or should I fix you some cocoa? Or would you like a soda?”

  “Cocoa, please,” Dawn replied. I motioned her to the table, then went to the cupboard for the chocolate mix and an extra mug.

  I was about to ask Dawn how things were going at school, when I remembered my Great-Aunt Hester. She’d asked questions like that when I was a kid, and I’d hated it. Instead, I asked bluntly, “Have you seen your father?”

  Dawn nodded, her eyes wary. “Aunt Marcy didn’t want me to go,” she explained, “but I had to.” She paused and looked away, her face half-hidden by her honey-colored hair. “You have to wait outside,” she whispered, “in a long line.”

  I nodded. I’d passed the mournful procession often on my way into the Brooklyn House of Detention. Lawyers go in by a special entrance and are whisked in and out; families aren’t.

  “Then they search you. I had to leave my purse in a locker. In case I was trying to help him break out,” she added scornfully. “Like if I had a gun or something.”

  “They do the same to me,” I commented. “It doesn’t mean anything.” Then I had a thought. “Would you, if you could? Break your father out?”

  “Yes!” came the impassioned reply. Leaning forward across the table, here eyes intent, Dawn said, “I know he’s innocent. I know Daddy didn’t kill Mom. So why should he have to be in jail for something he didn’t do?” She fixed me with what I felt to be an accusatory gaze. “Isn’t there any new evidence?” she asked. “Every time that cop talks to me, I know he thinks Daddy’s guilty.”

  “There could be,” I began, against my better judgment, “some new developments.
I can’t talk much about it, but—”

  “Did you talk to Congressman Lucenti?” Dawn interrupted. Her face was flushed with eagerness; I got the uneasy feeling she was expecting a lot more than I was prepared to deliver.

  “I can’t,” I explained. “He’s in Washington. I’ll have to wait till he gets back.”

  Dawn’s face fell. “But he …” she began, then stopped as if afraid to say too much. “He might know something about who killed Mom,” she finished lamely.

  The raucous buzz of the doorbell startled me so that I jumped. Only then did I notice I’d boiled away nearly all of the water. I refilled the tea kettle and ran for the buzzer. While I waited for Marcy to walk up the flights of stairs, I said to Dawn, “I’m working on something that might help. But,” I cautioned, “don’t expect miracles.”

  One look at Dawn’s face, radiant with hope, told me that my Great-Aunt Hester had been a whiz with kids compared to me. I’d have done a lot better to stick to seventh-grade math as a topic for discussion. A miracle was the least of Dawn’s expectations, and I was the self-proclaimed miracle worker.

  Marcy sailed in, her fur-trimmed coat already open. I took it from her and hung it up as she joined Dawn at the table. “… took me forever to find a parking space,” she was saying. “Everybody in this neighborhood must own a car.”

  “Everybody but me,” I agreed cheerfully, pouring the tea. I put out a plate of cookies as well. They were the last of my Christmas cookies, brought back from Ohio in a tin. It’s a New York Christmas ritual, as stylized as a potlatch. From Manhattan and parts of Brooklyn, the children of the Midwest send presents bought at the Museum of Modern Art. From Omaha and Iowa and Ohio come back nutty ginger cookies, frosted animals with silver balls for eyes, pfeffernusse and all the other tastes and colors of childhood. I glanced at Dawn as I set out the plate, hoping to give her a tiny taste of the warm family life I’d known as a child.

  Conversation was light, deliberately kept that way, I decided, by Marcy Sheldon. I was beginning to realize that just as my defense orientation was instinctive, her public-relations talent stemmed from a deep need to put the best face on things, to manage, edit, and, ultimately, control perceptions of reality. She’d done it with Detective Button, subtly turning Linda’s murder from sordid to tragic. I wondered how she’d handle Linda’s blackmail, and Dawn’s reaction to the truth about her mother.