After a meal that she couldn’t eat, and after betrayals by Anne and that teacher from hell, Jada was beyond anger. She was frozen. For some reason, she thought of the TV shows her husband liked, the ones where actors played the parts of criminals while real police and FBI reenacted raids and arrests. Fictional shows pretending to be real life. All that had been presented during this endless day was a fictional show that had nothing to do with her real life.
When at last Clinton took the stand, he looked better than he had on the day she first met him. He was sworn in.
“Before I begin direct, I would just like the plaintiff to identify himself,” Creskin said. In a strong voice, Clinton gave his name and address. More amazing was that under Creskin’s questioning, she watched while Clinton became the Perfect American Black Man. He had his own company, he had built a house for his family in a fine neighborhood, and though he was undergoing some pressures in the marketplace right now, while dealing with the bigotry of both suppliers and prospective clients, he was confident he would survive. He spent all the time he wasn’t out there looking for new contracts with his children. He provided all their care.
He and, he implied, their children had been abandoned by the wife and mother of the home. “Sometime I feel like she got something to prove against me. Or that she got a plan that we just don’t fit into,” he said, sounding sad.
During Clinton’s testimony, Jada felt the ice melt in her chest and turn into something a lot hotter than molten steel. She just wanted to get up, throw herself across the table, and in three strides be in front of her husband’s face. She’d slap it until those stupid glasses flew off and his lying mouth was silenced. But instead she just sat there. She couldn’t take notes because her hands were trembling too hard. Every now and then, Angie gave her a small tap on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry. We’ll get him,” Angie murmured. “I’ll just get a few of the facts out now. Then I’ll call him to the stand later and take him apart.”
And that’s what she did. Calmly, but as efficiently as a surgeon slicing into infected flesh, Angie opened Clinton up and pulled out all sorts of nasty bits. She asked his income for the last five years, year by year. It went from minuscule to nonexistent. She asked for the names of recent prospective clients he had given proposals to and he couldn’t give her any. She even asked if he had a word processor, business cards, a pager, or any standard office equipment. Reluctantly, to each question he had to admit he didn’t.
“In the interest of brevity, I’ll dismiss the witness now, but reserve the right to recall him later,” Angie said. She sat down while a far less cocky Clinton left the stand and almost shuffled to his seat.
Jada felt a little bit better and trusted that Angie could do even more dire things later. Next there was some discussion between the judge and George Creskin, and a large TV monitor was rolled in. “If it pleases the court, I’m about to show a video tape taken two weeks ago. Mr. Jackson’s wife had two hours of visitation with the children and was returning them.”
Angie stood up. “Objection, Your Honor. We were not made aware of this exhibit or its contents. We completely object to—”
“In the interest of brevity, Your Honor, I think we can agree a picture is worth a thousand words.”
“Your Honor, there’s absolutely no call for this and we strongly object.”
“Sidebar, Your Honor,” Creskin said.
“What’s a sidebar?” Jada asked Michael. Angie got up and walked to the judge’s bench. White people.
“We didn’t know,” Jada heard Angie whispering.
“… sent it … didn’t get it?” was all Jada heard Creskin reply. She looked at Michael for some reassurance and he rubbed her back with his left hand. “… faxed confirmation, sir,” Jada heard, and saw Creskin hand over a piece of paper.
“… problem with machine … but, Your Honor …” Now Angie sounded defensive. This couldn’t be good.
“… postal receipt right here …” Creskin snapped.
“… we can’t allow …” was the last she heard from Angie. Then the judge said something and her friend turned around and walked back to the table. Jada didn’t like the look on Angie’s face. Was it due to the new evidence, or because she had to stand so close to Creepy Creskin?
“If this was a trial, I couldn’t allow this evidence to be submitted, but since it’s only a pendente lite hearing and the defense has presented to me proof of mailing, notification, and the like, the defense may present this exhibit.”
George Creskin, in a move rather like a technology magician, pulled out a small remote control and hit a button.
Jada watched the screen fill, and on it her own car pulled up to the front of her mother-in-law’s dump. It must have been the visit when she took them to the house. Clinton had a close-up of Kevon hanging his head and crying, running toward the camera, away from Jada. Then there was a close-up of Shavonne, her face angry, pulling away from her mother’s hands, refusing to hug her. The shot continued to reveal that even Sherilee was crying, but that was only because she’d just been woken from her nap.
Jada saw it all, but couldn’t believe her eyes. “The children were crying because I told them I had to take them back to their grandmother. They had expected to stay with me that night,” she whispered fiercely to Angie. Then, in a terrible insight that came far too late, Jada wondered if they’d been specifically told they were staying with her—told that so they’d be so upset. Could Clinton be that clever, that diabolical?
Angie, white-lipped, was nodding her head and took some notes. “We’ll certainly get this disallowed,” she assured Jada.
But as Jada watched, she felt like one of the martyred saints. She was having her heart torn out before her eyes. If the people in this courtroom actually believed her children wanted to run from her, she may as well be drawn and quartered. If the judge believed that, she might as well be dead.
When, at last, it was Angie’s turn to call witnesses, she began very simply. “Your Honor, I’d like to recall Mr. Clinton Jackson to the stand.” Clinton didn’t look so crestfallen as he had after his last turn with Angie. That the man could be proud of the videotape was in itself a guilty verdict, but the judge wouldn’t know that.
“So you’ve testified under oath that for the last several years you’ve been taking care of the children’s needs at home, Mr. Jackson?” she asked. He nodded.
The court stenographer asked for a verbal response and he said, “Yes, I do,” a little too loudly. Good. Maybe he was nervous, Jada thought.
“What is your eldest daughter’s favorite dinner?” Angie asked.
Jada watched Clinton pause for a moment, caught off guard, and behind his fake glasses, she thought she saw a little spark of fear in his eyes. She almost laughed. It was such an Angie question, a woman’s question, and Jada knew Clinton hadn’t a clue. “Ah, Shavonne, she likes pizza,” he said.
“You don’t cook pizza yourself, do you?” Angie asked.
“No. I call out for that.”
“So aside from what you call out for, what is Shavonne’s favorite meal?”
He paused again, this time longer. “Meatloaf,” he said. “Meatloaf and cream corn.”
Wrong, Jada thought. He liked meatloaf and creamed corn. Shavonne liked macaroni and cheese with ham.
“And how do you prepare that for her?”
“Objection, Your Honor. This isn’t a cooking lesson. Next we’ll have the young counselor calling Betty Crocker as an expert witness.” Creskin laughed. Jada hated the man so much she thought that the Lord might never forgive her.
“Overruled. But make it quick, counselor,” Judge Sneed said.
“How do you make that meatloaf?” Angie asked.
Jada thought she heard Michelle giggle. Clinton couldn’t make a cheese sandwich.
“Well, I put some meat in a long pan, you know, one of those pans.”
“What kind of meat?”
“Like a chopped meat. You know, li
ke maybe a hamburger meat.”
“And do you put anything into the meat?”
Creskin audibly let his breath out, as if his exasperation was too much for him.
“No.” Clinton paused. He seemed to reconsider. “Oh, yes, salt and pepper.” He said it with such pride, as if he’d just won Jeopardy.
“And that’s all you put into it?” Angie asked.
“Uh-huh. But I use real good hamburger. That’s why they like it.”
“And how do you make the creamed corn?”
“Well, I get a can of corn and I put some whipped cream in it. And then I stir it around until it’s hot in the pot.”
Angie could hardly believe it. Did the judge know just how ridiculous Clinton’s “recipes” were? “And you’ve testified you make a lot of meals for the children?” she asked.
“Oh yeah.”
“So what would Kevon’s favorite meal be?”
George Creskin rose. “Objection, Your Honor. This information is irrelevant and—”
“Overruled,” the judge said. Angie smiled. He did know how ridiculous Clinton was.
“You will answer the question,” the judge directed.
“Spaghetti and meatballs,” Clinton said. Then he smiled. “You know, all kids like spaghetti and meatballs.”
“And how do you prepare that, Mr. Jackson?” Angie asked.
“Well, you get the box of spaghetti and you put it in a big bowl. Then you get those cans of spaghetti sauce—he likes the spicy kind—and you heat it. Then you pour it on the spaghetti.”
Angie smiled directly at Judge Sneed. Then, keeping the smile on her face, she turned back to Clinton. “So, let me understand this. You take a box of spaghetti, empty it directly into a serving bowl, and then cover it with hot sauce.”
“Yeah,” Clinton said. “Then the hot sauce kinda makes the spaghetti soft and you’re ready to eat. Even the baby loves that.”
Angie shook her head in disbelief for both Clinton and Sneed to see. “Mr. Jackson, isn’t it true that your wife does virtually all the cooking in your home? Remember, you are under oath.”
“I cook for them. I cook for them all the time!” He paused. “Well, plenty of the time.”
Angie turned to the judge. “Your Honor, against this testimony I would like to submit a dozen recipes for meatloaf. You will notice that in none of them is chopped meat the lone ingredient, because it wouldn’t make a loaf if it wasn’t bound with egg or sauce or bread crumbs. Most often creamed corn comes that way in a can. I also think you and the court understand that spaghetti must be cooked before it’s served. Lastly, I would like to submit as evidence some interview results from the social worker, who found”—Angie looked down at the report—”that Kevon loves hot dogs with catsup, no mustard, while his sister prefers macaroni and cheese.” After the exhibits were stamped, she turned back to Clinton. “Now, you’ve been home with them after school.”
“Yes. And most evenings.”
“So who is your daughter’s idol? Can you tell me her favorite movie star? Or her favorite music?”
Clinton stared at Angie and now he looked angry. “I don’t know,” he admitted, then corrected himself. “I mean, there are so many of them, I’m not sure who’s her favorite.”
Jada watched her husband make an ass and a liar out of himself. And she enjoyed it. She could answer every question that Angie asked. She knew the name of Kevon’s imaginary friend, and that her daughter loved Sonya Benoit, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Puff Daddy. But Clinton didn’t know a thing—and Angie was relentless.
“What are your daughter’s grades like, Mr. Jackson?”
“She gets good grades. She’s never had any trouble with grades.”
“So they haven’t suffered because of this so-called problem with their mother?”
Ha! Damned if he said they did, damned if he said they didn’t.
“Well, maybe a little, but she gets good grades. I help her,” Clinton lied. “She’s a smart girl, I’m proud of her.”
“I’m sure she is and I’m sure you are,” Angie said mildly. “How does she do in math?”
Jada watched her husband’s face take on that closed look he got when she caught him out and he knew it.
“Objection, Your Honor. We don’t need to go into these tiny details or we’ll be here all month.” Jada watched as Angie threw a dirty look at Creskin, but she herself kept staring at her enemy in the witness box.
“Your Honor, with a moment more of this line of questioning, you’ll see the relevance,” Angie said.
“Objection overruled. Continue,” Judge Sneed said. He looked at his watch.
“She’s always done fine,” Clinton said.
“Mr. Jackson, I have your daughter’s report card, not only from this year but from the last three years. Would you read out her grades in math, starting with this one from two years ago.”
Jada kept her mouth perfectly still, surpressing a smile. Bless you, Lord, she thought, and thank you for putting this lawyer friend in my life. Clinton was reading out the pathetic third-grade math scores that had kept Jada up at night, back when her nights were a lot simpler than they were now. “C, C, D, C, D, F,” Clinton was forced to read.
“Would you call those good grades, Mr. Jackson?”
“No,” he said reluctantly, and began to add something until Angie stopped him.
“Please read these.” She handed him what Jada recognized as Shavonne’s fourth-grade report card.
“C, A, A, B, A,” Clinton read, though he almost mumbled it.
“Well, it seems that your daughter didn’t always get good grades in math. Though you don’t seem to remember that. Do you remember what happened to change those very poor grades to excellent ones?” Clinton looked over at Creskin’s table, but Angie pursued it. “What happened?” she asked.
“I talked to her. I told her to knuckle down. I told her no Jackson’s got failin’ grades. So she studied harder.”
“Mr. Jackson, do you recognize the name Allesio? Mrs. Allesio?”
“No,” Clinton answered, as if afraid he was going to be accused of having slept with her. Jada almost laughed out loud again. All the preparation time she’d spent with Michael Rice and the others had been worth it.
“You never employed her?”
“No. I certainly never did.”
“Well, I’m surprised at that. She’s been Shavonne’s math tutor for the last two years.” Jada actually enjoyed watching Clinton’s face drop. “No more questions, Your Honor,” Angie said. She finally turned away from him and looked at the judge.
Surely, Jada thought, this man had to understand that it was she who had watched over her babies, who had cooked for them and took them to the doctor and gotten them tutors and confronted Kevon’s bigoted kindergarten teacher. She had attended all the PTA meetings and nursed them when they were sick. He had to understand all of that.
“We’ll take a brief recess.” The judge looked down at his watch. “I want everybody back in this room in fifteen minutes.” He looked at Angie. “Then, counselor, I want you to wrap this up.”
He banged the gavel and the bailiff yelled out, “All rise.”
“Your Honor,” Angie began once court was again in session. “I would like to call Dr. Anna Pollasky to the stand as an expert witness.”
Dr. Pollasky rose and walked from the back of the courtroom down the center aisle. She was a tall woman with a tremendous amount of presence. Her gray hair was cropped in a stylish but conservative bob and her grayish blue suit gleamed with authority. She’d written a dozen books on modern child care and had appeared on probably a hundred television programs. She stepped into the witness box, took the oath, and sat down.
Angie had to qualify her as a witness and went through a long list of Dr. Pollasky’s degrees, accreditation, published works, and the positions she’d held both as a professor of child development and the current director of the Yale Center for Childhood Studies. She was an impressive woman with an impres
sive background. “I move to certify the expert, Your Honor,” Angie said, and could almost feel how much she was going to enjoy wiping out the social worker, Tonya Green, and Mrs. Jackson’s testimony with what would come next, but then George Creskin rose.
“I object to the expert witness, Your Honor.”
“Object?” Where was the objection? Angie wondered. Judge Sneed asked the same thing as he raised his brows. It was clear that everybody knew who Dr. Pollasky was.
“May I cross-examine on this issue, Your Honor?” George Creskin asked. Sneed nodded, though he looked as surprised as Angie. “Dr. Pollasky, you testified you are a medical doctor licensed in the State of New York?”
“Yes,” Dr. Pollasky answered calmly and surely.
“You’re certain of that.”
“Yes,” she said. “Of course.”
“And you’re being paid to testify here today.”
It was a stupid trick, if Creskin were doing this to make Pollasky deny she was paid. Some tyros did that, feeling guilty. Pollasky knew better, and Creskin should have known she would.
“Yes,” she said. “It is customary to pay for a doctor’s time. They also paid for my expenses to get here from New Haven.”
Angie wondered what the hell Creskin was doing. It was the first time he’d looked foolish since the trial began.
But his objection was a lot simpler than that. Creskin pulled out a few sheets of paper. “I’m afraid, Doctor, that you are in noncompliance. You’re not certified in this state.” He put the papers before her, and handed copies to the judge and to Angie. “We inquired with the board and you are not licensed.”
Dr. Pollasky, clearly confused, looked down at the papers. “But I have been licensed in New York for more than twenty years.”
“But not now,” Creskin said.
Dr. Pollasky was quiet for a moment. She looked over the sheets before her. “It seems my secretary forgot to send in the registration.”
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