Nobody's Child

by Austin Boyd

  “What I don’t figure is why Mendoza didn’t file the suit in Pennsylvania. I’m guessing your uncle is pulling the strings, and he’s not the brightest light in the lot.”

  “Don’t underestimate him.”

  “He’s cunning,” Stefany said, pausing to suck on her straw. “But he’s not what you’d call ‘book smart.’ “

  “That’s a pretty good assessment,” Laura Ann said, sampling a potato chip.

  “There’s more. I pulled some strings. You didn’t sign your privacy agreement at the IVF clinic until after you met Sophia. Why was that?”

  “I had so many forms to deal with, Stefany. I didn’t know it wasn’t signed. But when I met Sophia, and learned how she’d found me, I called the clinic the first chance I had after the flood. They faxed papers to the hospital when we were at Wheeling General. I signed them and sent the package right back.” She frowned. “My picture and personal data had been on their website for months advertising eggs from a full-blooded Scot with long brown hair. Even my picture, for crying out loud.” She shook her head. “It was horrible. But it’s gone now. I made them remove it.”

  “You might have made your data private but Mendoza sure didn’t. I did a web search on his name. The guy likes being the center of attention. Seems the creep really enjoys being a sperm donor too. He keeps a tally of all the kids he’s fathered. It’s freaky.” She shoved a sheet of paper across the table. “Read this.”

  Laura Ann took the printout and its words turned her stomach.

  38-year-old full-blooded Hispanic seeks fertile partners who don’t want to mess with the trouble of artificial insemination. 5’9”, 165 lb, athletic (runner), well groomed, black hair, brown eyes, physically fit. Attended a military academy, with prior military service, residing in Cincinnati. Laid-back and relaxed, musically inclined. IQ 160. Prefers to help women conceive through natural insemination. Strong credentials as an IVF sperm donor, but enjoys the conception event more than the end result. Will provide services at my place or yours. No emotional or legal baggage. Email address below.

  Laura Ann lowered the paper, her eyes wet. “Women turn to men like him to have a baby?”

  Stefany reached across the table and laid a hand on hers. “The sad thing is, this weirdo is one of hundreds, Laura Ann. All of them advertising on the web.”

  She shivered. “That’s disgusting.”

  “I’ve looked the papers over, Laura Ann. Count us in,” Mr. Brewer said an hour later, his voice loud but scratchy on the speaker of her cousin’s cell phone. Stefany bounced in the driver’s seat of the car while she drove, punching the air with a fist as she rounded a curve on Route 18. In their rearview mirror, Laura Ann watched the Ohio River fade out of sight as she and Stefany headed toward Middlebourne and the farm. “Mr. Brewer?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Laura Ann’s cousin, Stefany. In Pittsburgh I learned that Mendoza has parental rights — because the clinic lost its license before Sophia became pregnant.”

  The phone went silent for a long moment. “Yes. That’s correct.”

  “Did Sophia know about this before she started the in vitro process?” Stefany asked, driving like she had one eye on the road, the other on the phone that Laura Ann held between them.

  “I can’t say what she knew and when. But you’re right. Pennsylvania is firm on this parental rights issue. That doesn’t explain why James was placed in foster care, though.”

  “We know why,” Stefany whispered as she drove.

  “Excuse me? I didn’t hear all of that.”

  “My uncle Jack has some strong ties with Child Protective Services.” Laura Ann cleared her throat. “Friendship. Maybe money.”

  “Understatement,” Stefany said, her index finger piercing the air like a rapier.

  “Well, the good news is that Mendoza filed his suit in West Virginia. I’m licensed with the Bar there, and I’d be glad to support your case.” Mr. Brewer spoke to someone in the background at his office, and then asked, “Have you discussed what evidence you’re willing to present in court?”

  “Yes,” Laura Ann replied. “If it’s possible, I’d like to win this without revealing that I’m the biological mother. Rumors spread fast here, and I’d rather be remembered as James’s adoptive mother. For the baby’s sake, for Ian’s … and for mine.”

  “I can’t promise that strategy will work,” Mr. Brewer said. “Are you willing to prove your parentage if we have to use it to win?”

  Laura Ann paused a moment before answering, “Absolutely.”

  “Good!” Stefany exclaimed, whipping her car around a slow-moving truck. “Let’s nail this thing.”

  Laura Ann looked to the right at Pastor Culpeper’s little Baptist church as they passed through the tiny hamlet of Pursley. The chapel’s faded white clapboard fried in the midday sun, the green trim of the steeple flaking off like wads of dried moss. Sophia’s limestone marker stood stark white against a field of greying stones. The fresh-piled dirt of her grave dried to a burnt umber.

  She closed her eyes.

  “Of course, my first recommendation would be to lead off with proof of your maternity, Laura Ann, but I understand your concern.” Mr. Brewer’s voice pulled her back to the present, dashing painful memories of a burial in that churchyard. “I’ll help you however I can. The entire staff will—for Sophia and James’s sake. And for yours.”

  CHAPTER 27

  SEPTEMBER 16

  Laura Ann’s heart raced as she approached the historic Tyler County Courthouse in Middlebourne on Thursday morning. Like the warm Judge O’Dell, something about the 150-year-old place gave her a sense of hope. A steeple rose from the center of the two-story brick and limestone building, its four faces announcing the time in every cardinal direction. A copper wind vane on a green copper roof pointed to the west. The direction of storms.

  Ian laid a hand on an old artillery piece as they strode up the courthouse steps, patting it on the side. “We have the ammunition now, Laura Ann,” he said, his fist like a gavel on the grey paint of the retired gun.

  “Got that right,” Stefany replied. “Remember, act natural and pretend you don’t see it coming. The Department of Agriculture will have a welcoming committee waiting inside. Federal agents will question your uncle Jack about irregularities with his crop insurance policies. I told them there was a good chance they’d find him here this morning.”

  “That ought to keep him off-balance,” Mr. Brewer said, offering an arm to Stefany when they reached the door. Ian steadied Granny Apple as he held the door open for her and for Laura Ann.

  Inside the foyer of the courthouse, Laura Ann spied Uncle Jack, hunkered in a corner, talking to a gathering of friends. Someone whispered “shhh” and Uncle Jack’s group turned, mouths agape. Perhaps he’d expected one or two people, but Laura Ann strode in with a team of five. He ducked her glance — her uncle the rat.

  Halfway across the foyer, their footfalls echoing in the old stone building, she saw his welcoming committee: Stefany’s friends from Agriculture and the IRS. Dressed in suits, two men surprised her uncle from behind, one flashing a badge, the other motioning him toward the main door with a firm grip on Uncle Jack’s elbow. All attention went from Laura Ann and her team to the agents. The crowd watched her red-faced uncle escorted ingloriously to the door.

  Tingles ran down Laura Ann’s spine. Someone else watched her. She turned and, to their left, Mr. Mendoza stood with Deputy Rodale. Mendoza’s eyes were wide, glancing between her team of five and Uncle Jack headed out of the courthouse with an official escort.

  A scant two or three minutes after arriving with Ian, she found her seat in the courtroom, Mr. Brewer and Ian flanking her at an aged oak desk. Stefany and Granny Apple sat behind her on benches that reminded her of church pews. Perched in the equivalent of a choir loft, Laura Ann felt like she was on display.

  They’d arrived early. A few people found seats behind her, most of them folks she recognized, no doubt all of them frien
ds of Uncle Jack—and most of them whispering, probably about him. A deputy arranged papers on the judge’s bench, preparing for the day’s case. Laura Ann said a quiet prayer for James.

  “Do you know him?” Mr. Brewer asked, pointing with a discrete finger in the direction of the lawyer who accompanied Mr. Mendoza into the courtroom.

  “No,” Laura Ann replied. “Granny Apple said his name is

  Daniel Whitt.”

  “I heard he’s local,” Brewer said. “May have been hired by your uncle, if Stefany’s instincts prove correct.”

  “They usually do,” Ian said with a quiet chuckle. “Prove to be correct, I mean. Her cousin’s a young Granny Apple.” Laura Ann saw him look back. Stefany winked, her red pen raised in a mock salute.

  “Ten o’clock.” Mr. Brewer looked down at his watch, then back at the gallery. “No crowds. That’s good.”

  “All rise,” a deputy bellowed as the judge sauntered through a door at the far left. The room rustled with moving chairs and the whoosh of padded seats, then went quiet.

  “Judge Dennis O’Dell.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to sit on this case,” Laura Ann whispered. “I talked to him at length. Will it be okay?”

  “No problem,” Mr. Brewer replied. “This may work out well for us.”

  Judge O’Dell took his seat and motioned everyone to sit down. He conferred for a long time with his deputy, and with a clerk at his right. She ran out, brought back more papers, ran out a second time, and at last, he addressed the courtroom.

  “Mr. Mendoza and Mr. Whitt?” he asked, waving in the direction of the oak desk to her right.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” replied the man next to Mendoza, a medium-height attorney with a starched white shirt. He stood to address the judge.

  Judge O’Dell nodded in Laura Ann’s direction and rattled off three names. “Mr. Brewer, Ms. McGehee, and Mr. Stewart?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Mr. Brewer replied, standing at their desk.

  Judge O’Dell waved his hand again in the direction of the assembled teams. “Counselors, please approach the bench.”

  Mr. Brewer smiled and pushed back from the table, touching Laura Ann on the forearm. “Here we go. Keep praying.”

  Both lawyers approached the judge, leaning into a tall wooden bench adorned with carvings on both ends and a thick walnut top. She’d seen this scene on television — but it went nothing like TV. She could hear every word. Perhaps Judge O’Dell wanted it that way.

  “Alright, gentlemen. I know you expected Judge Spencer on this case, but Roger’s out of circulation for a while. Health issues. I’ve prepared a summary of the conversations I had with both of your clients over the past week, to keep everything aboveboard.” He handed a sheet of paper to each attorney, and then continued. “I think we’re clear on any conflict of interest.” He looked at both for a response.

  “No complaints? Very well. So, let’s get right to it.” Judge O’Dell leaned forward over the bench. “Mr. Whitt, I’ve reviewed this case and find that your client has failed to provide evidentiary proof of his alleged parenthood. Do you have state-certified documentation that proves the putative father is in fact the donor in the assisted reproduction of James McGehee McQuistion?”

  The lawyer fumbled with some papers, then replied. “Yes, Your Honor. We submitted that as part of the initial filing.”

  Judge O’Dell pursed his lips. “I see documents from a fertility clinic in Morgantown that state Mr. Mendoza donated his sperm, and more documents from the gestational agreement that affirm Ms. McQuistion requested to be inseminated with the same. But no sperm donor contract in this filing, and nothing that proves he is the true biological father.”

  “Your Honor, this filing is very clear,” Mendoza’s lawyer argued. “Clinic records show that Sophia McQuistion chose the plaintiff, Felix Mendoza, as her sperm donor. The physician at the clinic used a fresh semen sample that traced directly back to Mr. Mendoza. She became pregnant through the process of in vitro fertilization, and — “

  “I can read, Mr. Whitt,” Judge O’Dell quipped. “I don’t need a lecture on insemination, thank you.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” the attorney replied. “Nevertheless, we have solid evidence, as you see, that Ms. McQuistion visited Mr. Mendoza to thank him for his role in her pregnancy. She sought him out as the father of her child.”

  Judge O’Dell waved his head from side to side. “Do you watch television, Mr. Whitt?” he asked, setting the papers down.

  The attorney ran a finger under his collar. “Yes, sir. On occasion.”

  “Well, let me give you some down-home advice, from a man who loves his recliner and a good TV show. Every day I see this ad for a genetics company out in Utah. It sickens me, to tell you the truth. They offer paternity testing, as if a woman needs a test to tell her who the father of her baby is. But I guess that’s where our country is headed. Men and women sleeping around so much they don’t know who the baby’s daddy is.” He stopped, looking out at the audience, then lowered his voice. Even in his quiet tone, Laura Ann could understand him.

  “So, you ask, where am I going with this little rant? I’ll tell you, Mr. Whitt. You and your client worked some unexplainable magic with our county’s social services and ripped a child away from a nursing mother. She’d been in that house caring for that child, not bothering anyone, for a long time before you showed up. I disagree completely with the county’s decision to remove the child. Unfortunately, that’s their domain, not mine.” He frowned, bushy eyebrows furrowed over his glasses. “But your case is my domain, and I’m trying to tell you that it’s incomplete.”

  He waved at Mr. Mendoza, and then toward Laura Ann.

  “I’m ordering a state DNA test for Mr. Mendoza. You can buy a paternity test over at Prunty’s Pharmacy, a block down the street, for a hundred and fifty bucks. I couldn’t have accepted it as evidence, but you might have at least tried for some kind of solid proof. You’ve had plenty of time to prepare your case, and you can’t even come to my court ready to argue it?”

  He stared at Mr. Whitt, the red of the attorney’s neck deepening.

  “Yes, Your Honor. We can do that. But we—we’ll also need access to the child.”

  “Agreed. The court orders a state-administered DNA test for the child in foster care, James McGehee McQuistion. The court will coordinate a cheek swab test for the infant. Now, do you think you can come prepared next time?” Judge O’Dell stared down the gun barrel of his nose for a long pause, waiting on the sweating attorney to answer.

  Mr. Whitt turned around, glancing toward Mendoza, who shrugged, a bored frown crossing his face. Mr. Whitt turned back to Judge O’Dell. “Yes, sir. We’ll need a few weeks.”

  Judge O’Dell looked back to the papers and started to stack them, then handed the pile of materials to his clerk. He never looked back at Whitt. “No, you won’t. I made a trip to the drugstore to read the instructions on the paternity test myself. Doesn’t take weeks. Not at the pharmacy and not in my court. Easy as pie, Mr. Whitt, and ninety-nine point nine nine percent accurate. If Mr. Mendoza is the father.” His emphasis on the word if was impossible to miss.

  Judge O’Dell looked up, and then stood in front of the attorneys. “You have one week.” He raised a gavel and slammed it into the wooden base on his desk. “Court’s in recess until this time next Thursday.” He lowered the gavel to the desk and bent over toward Mr. Whitt.

  “Don’t be late.”

  SEPTEMBER 17

  “You’ll never win.” Uncle Jack wagged his head, a frown his only expression. “It’s Mendoza’s kid, so you may as well save your pennies and quit.”

  Laura Ann sighed. Just her luck to run into her uncle at the Witschey’s Market parking lot a day after the scene at the courthouse. Auntie Rose huddled in the front passenger seat of his pickup, hands folded in her lap. Uncle Jack wouldn’t let his wife speak, so deep ran his emotional abuse. In the two weeks that James spent at the farm, she’d never hear
d from her aunt. Not a call, not a visit. “Good or bad, he’s my husband, and Jack’s the boss,” she’d said once. His wishes always came first.

  “What makes you think you’ll beat me?” Laura Ann asked, moving toward him. An occasional pickup circled past them in the parking lot. With Ian back at work the day before their wedding, and she afoot with bags of groceries in her arms, she battled her uncle alone.

  “Beat me?” Uncle Jack asked with a laugh. “It’s not about me. That suit was filed by the Mendoza guy.”

  “Everything’s about you,” Laura Ann shot back. “I know how Mendoza found out about Sophia. You located him and brought him here. You bribed the child protection office to take my son away. You’re in this paternity suit up to your ears.”

  Uncle Jack fidgeted. “You have no proof.”

  “Proof? I have witnesses, Uncle Jack. You were at the hospital in Wheeling, digging around to find some dirt to give you leverage.” She gripped her bags tighter. “The nurses told us.”

  “This is a waste of time. Just remember who offered you a way out of that mortgage.” He put the truck in gear, leering at her, his face flushed. “You snooze, you lose.”

  Laura Ann shifted the grocery load in her arms again, sweaty palms threatening her grip on the paper bags. “Then you’d better not sleep, Uncle Jack. ‘Cause I’m on to you.”

  He hesitated just a moment, but she could see it in his darting eyes: the squint. His dread that she really did know of his role and would make it public.

  But that wasn’t what she meant.

  Proof of her maternity would trump Mendoza. Question was, could she muster the courage to share it?

  CHAPTER 28

  SEPTEMBER 18

  “Forget it, lover boy,” Stefany said, pushing Ian through the doors of the church. “You’re not supposed to see the bride before she enters.” Laura Ann stifled a laugh, watching through a space in the door that led out the side of the reception area at the front of Pastor Culpeper’s church. She kept the door barely cracked, sure that her game-tracking soon-to-be husband would find her out. Stefany pulled his attention in the opposite direction, and gave him another shove toward the chapel.