Etched in Sand

by Regina Calcaterra

  Rosie got married and gave birth to a son, but by the time we knew about any of it, all the momentous events had passed. Occasionally, she mails Camille and me photographs, in all of which she’s clearly a loving, doting mother . . . but on the rare occasion the photos are accompanied by a letter, the communication is all very matter-of-fact. Everyone here is fine, she says. Hope you’re great. She wants us to be aware that she’s adjusted well as an adult, but she doesn’t want us to be present for it.

  In December 1999, a colleague tells me he’s venturing into Times Square to ring in the new millennium. “You used to work for the City, right?” he asks. “What’ll be the best way to navigate the streets?”

  I call someone whom I heard now works as the special assistant to the NYC police commissioner: Todd Ciaravino, the handsome, stoic aide to Giuliani whom I knew from my years at the comptroller’s office. After sharing the layout of the security route, Todd remembers my burgeoning golf hobby and says it might be nice to hit the driving range at Chelsea Piers when the weather warms up a little.

  Todd is sensitive to my guardedness—unlike other guys I’ve been attracted to, he’s consistent, mild-mannered, and kind . . . not at all overbearing or arrogant. Instead of what so many former partners and people from my childhood promised—You can trust me—Todd shows me he deserves my trust. He looks out for me, and coming from the same field, he doesn’t give me a hard time about how busy my work keeps me. By late spring, we’ve entered potentially-serious-romance territory when Todd begins traveling with the Bush-Cheney presidential campaign. At the same time, I’m transitioning from my position on Wall Street back to working with the public sector and, as a hobby, I begin to appear on Fox News, supporting the Democratic presidential ticket. By August, our courtship, pleasant and passionate as it is, ends . . . not due to our differing views on politics, but because of how committed we both are to our careers.

  It’s another intense undertaking that distracts me from my split from Todd: It’s now two and a half years since I first visited Julia in February 1998, and the more I see pictures of Paul and his brothers, the more convinced I am that he is my biological father. For years I’ve been emotionally prepared to learn the truth, but now I’m also in a financial position to pursue paternity litigation if he chooses not to amicably resolve my request for DNA.

  I SPEND EARLY August researching Paul’s address online to find that he now lives in the U.S. border town of Blaine in Washington State. In addition to determining where he lives, I also study Washington’s paternity statutes and map out what my next steps will be if he rejects my request for a paternity test. I advise Julia that I plan to contact Paul.

  “Given what I’ve done by forming a relationship with you,” Julia says, “please let me make the connection.”

  When a couple weeks go by, I estimate he’s ignoring me . . . or researching potential legal steps. In late August I receive a phone call. “You should know that you are causing my wife and me deep anxiety,” he says. “I’m experiencing heart problems, and your so-called curiosity could be making it worse.” This familiar response from him confirms to me: yes, he’s got a lawyer. The first argument the defense would make in a case like this is to advise the opposition at the outset that they’re inflicting emotional distress. “What is it you want?”

  I respond that my intentions are pure, that I only want to know if he’s my father. “I don’t want any support,” I assure him.

  Then he reveals what he’s really worried about. “If I admit that I’m your father, it will be a long and painful process for us all if the State of New York tries to sue me for back child support.”

  “Paul, you won’t have to pay New York State back the money it cost them to keep me in foster care,” I explain flatly. “Even if New York does that now, they certainly didn’t have such a law in place when I was in foster care as a child. Also, just to appease any concern you have about why I’m contacting you: I do fine on my own. I don’t need any money. I just want to know if you’re my father.” I also want him to know that I know that he’s my father—to face the fact that he left me to be brutalized as a child simply because I’d come from him. Of course, as a teenager, I’d hoped to track down my father so that I could actually have a relationship with him, and in my twenties, I wanted to show him how well I’d turned out . . . but now, I just want him to acknowledge his failure to take responsibility.

  “I have to go, Regina,” he says. “Now’s not a good time.”

  The next day he calls me twice at work, but I’m with clients both times. Then he calls a third time, and again I’m unavailable. He leaves me his fax but not his phone number, so I have no way to call him back and actually carry on a conversation. When I want to speak to him I have to fax him or wait for him to call me, so my correspondence is in writing but his is all verbal . . . another strategic move by him and his lawyer to keep the upper hand.

  Then I finally get a fax back, not from him, but from a Wayne Teller, Paul’s lawyer. I fight to steady the paper in my shaking hands as I read that Paul no longer wants me to contact him and his decision is final. Then to ensure that I never contact him again, his attorney ended the letter by stating if I fail to comply with his request and contact Paul again that I will be admonished for violating Rule 4.2 of the Rules of Professional Conduct.

  Camille is angrier than I am. “What on earth does Rule 4.2 even mean?”

  “Rule 4.2 restricts an attorney from ever contacting someone who is represented by counsel. Even though I could be his daughter, I’m also an attorney. He’s threatening to bring charges of professional misconduct against me if I ever directly contact him again.”

  “So he’s used your achievement against you,” she says. “How unfair, Gi. No good would have come from meeting him anyway.” We both know she’s just trying to comfort me. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I have to try to find a qualified paternity lawyer in the State of Washington who’s willing to take my case . . . and it won’t be easy. An adult has never successfully sued another adult for paternity before, only minor children have been permitted to sue for DNA. So whoever takes my case must not only be qualified to fight this battle, but also has to really believe in my case.”

  “I believe in your case,” Camille says.

  The simplicity of her statement arrests me. In this moment, it’s clear: My sister is the only person who has always stood by me, no matter how extreme the scenario. “You do?”

  “Yes. You, me, Cherie . . . all we’ve ever wanted is to know who we are. Who we came from. At least Vito and Norman stuck around long enough to see their kids born, but we three have never even seen pictures of our fathers. I know you and I came from two different men, but I want to know the truth for you as much as you do. If Cookie couldn’t help us figure out where we fit in this world, then we have to find out for ourselves.”

  She’s put it perfectly. From where I get my strength to where I get my eyes, all I want is to know. But searching for the right attorney and convincing him or her to take my case will take some time. In the meantime, Paul will think that this letter has ended our connection forever . . . but I’m not finished.

  I start by contacting members of the American Academy of Matrimonial Lawyers in Washington. I leave messages for dozens of them, but only receive a call back from the secretary of one. Her message is clear: Never before in Washington State has an adult sued someone they thought to be their father for paternity. “However, there is one lawyer that may consider a case like this. His name is Ralph Moldauer. He used to represent kids suing their fathers for paternity, but he now represents a professional sports team on the defense side.”

  I laugh. “A professional sports team?”

  “Well, sure,” she says. “Every professional sports team usually has at least one paternity lawyer on speed dial.” I chuckle at the perfect sense this makes. “Let me get you Ralph’s number.”

  By early January 2001, Ralph agrees to take my case, not beca
use he needs another client, but because he feels the proof I have regarding the probability of Paul being my father is so strong and my story so unique that I have a shot at success . . . although over and over he cautions me that this has never been done before in any of the fifty states. “I’m willing to represent you,” Ralph says, “but for your sake, let’s not get our hopes up.” I understand Ralph’s need to manage my expectations, but it’s increasingly clear he’s as invested in this case as I am. I also sense that there are two possible reasons he’s so intent to bring it to the court: He thinks my case would be an opportunity to create precedent for other adult children, or out of humanity he wants to go after Paul for what he failed to do when I was a child.

  In late January 2001, Ralph writes Paul’s lawyer, requesting that we avoid litigation and that Paul merely takes a DNA test. In response, Paul’s lawyer says that both Mr. and Mrs. Accerbi find my attempts to contact Paul quite upsetting physically and emotionally and that I have no legal grounds to bring suit; and if I do, that I can expect an “aggressive counterclaim for abuse of action, invasion of privacy, and intentional infliction of emotional distress.” As I’ve presumed all along, from that first phone call back in August, Paul’s been planning to countersue me if I bring a claim for paternity—this is why he keeps playing the “physical and emotional stress” card.

  “It’s a measly swab test!” I tell Ralph. “Just a second.” I rise from my desk to close my office door so as not to disturb my coworkers. Taking the phone again I tell him: “There’s nothing invasive or physically stressful about this!”

  “Regina, I spoke to his counsel,” Ralph advises me. “Paul is ready to fight hard if you proceed with a paternity claim. Our problem is that this is a case of first impression. You have absolutely no other case in the U.S. to rely upon, so if you sue him for DNA, he will argue that you are using the courts to harass him. Trust me, this is exactly how it will go. Do you follow?”

  “Yes. Keep going.”

  “The good news is, it’s likely his counterargument will be dismissed since you have proof that you tried to resolve this outside of the courts. I can’t promise that he won’t be successful and demand that you pay his attorney fees and additional damages for intentional infliction of emotional distress. And consider, on top of this you only have affidavits of your sisters and foster mother that reiterate what your deceased mother has told you. If Cookie were still alive, at least she could provide an affidavit claiming that he was the father . . . but she’s dead.”

  Dammit. I never thought I’d have any reason to wish that my mother were still here.

  “So your failure to obtain an affidavit from someone who can confidently state that your parents had a sexual relationship around the time you were conceived is problematic.”

  He goes on to explain what I already know: Paternity tests are DNA tests. The taking of someone’s DNA, regardless if it’s by a blood test or a simple mouth swab, is protected by the Fourth Amendment’s protections against unreasonable search and seizure and the right to privacy . . . However, an exception to the U.S. Constitution’s Fourth Amendment is made if there is a compelling government interest for the courts to rule otherwise. The courts will make exceptions if a crime has been committed or a child is in need of support, so that if there is a father, he’s to be held responsible for the costs of raising that child.

  “Regina, you’re an adult in your thirties and it’s going to be hard for us to demonstrate that getting Paul’s DNA is necessary to your well-being,” Ralph says. “But the one argument we have going for us is that the Washington State paternity law does not define what a child is.”

  “Ralph—that’s brilliant.”

  “Well, we’ll see. But it seems to me that whether you’re five or thirty-five, you are still someone’s child. It appears that the legislature left the door open for an adult child to bring a paternity suit.” He pauses, then says, “The only piece that’s missing is an affidavit from someone alleging that there was a relationship between your mother and Paul Accerbi at the time of your conception. Regina, if there’s any way you can secure that, we’ll be on better footing.”

  For the past six months, since Paul and I first spoke in August, Julia finally let everyone know who I actually am. Since I’ve met with various members of the family over the past three years, I sense that they view me as a self-sufficient, independent, decent young woman who simply wants to know the truth about who she is. When they invited me to their most recent family holiday dinner, the Accerbis seemed to completely understand that I’m not seeking financial support of any kind. And as I told them about my past contact with Paul, they understood that I tried to avoid litigation and making my plea part of the public record.

  Now that my pursuit has taken on a life of its own, I drive to Long Island on a Sunday afternoon to make my request: “Julia, my lawyer says we need to submit an affidavit written by someone who was witness to Paul’s relationship with Cookie. Is that going to stir conflict between you and the Accerbis?”

  She wrings her hands gently in her lap. “No honey, in fact, I think they’ll be supportive. Regina?”

  “Yes?”

  “You know you’re welcome to call me Aunt Julia . . . don’t you?”

  “When we’ve finally gotten the truth, I promise that you will be my aunt Julia. Right now I don’t want to do anything that could jinx this case.”

  “Okay, honey,” she says. “That’s fair enough.” She sends me home with a week’s worth of home-cooked dinners in tightly sealed Tupperware and stacked in a grocery bag.

  The next day, I call Ralph. “I’m planning to fly out to Seattle and meet you,” I tell him. “Now that we’ve got Julia on board, this case is looking more promising. It’s outcome will impact my life forever so I need for you to be able to put a face on the plaintiff you’re representing.”

  It’s February 28, 2001, when I land at the Seattle airport. I take my carry-on luggage and head straight to the front of the airport. On my way to the taxi line I stop to view a map of the city to get a sense of the direction the taxi driver should take . . . and suddenly, as I’m studying the route, I feel unsteady. My body sways, and I try to grasp onto the nearest column—am I so overwhelmed that I’m about to pass out? But as I lunge for support, I see the whole building shaking and people running outside with their luggage. “Bomb! Bomb!” they cry, and I join the crowd that’s running out the door.

  I stand there, watching the airport’s security staff climb up poles to see the damage around the airport. “It was an earthquake,” one announces, and the chaos quiets down to a murmur.

  Two hours later I finally climb in a cab and head to the city of Seattle. We ride in silence past remnants of the earthquake, clocking in at 6.8 on the Richter scale. The driver turns up the radio, where a reporter states this was a victimless quake. “The city built its infrastructure to withstand an earthquake of this magnitude,” we hear, and with a sense of relief, I reflect on the irony: it’s a shaky day all around. There will be aftershocks. And I trust that no matter how it works out, when it’s over I’ll still be standing. I’m just content that I’ve gotten this far.

  The next morning Ralph and his assistants greet me in their boardroom to discuss our legal strategy.

  “Regina, there is more at risk in bringing your case than just how it will turn out for you,” Ralph says. “Since this will be a precedent in Washington State and a case of first impression for other states, if the courts determine that a child is not a child at any age, but a child is anyone under age eighteen, you have closed the door for any other adult children to bring a successful paternity suit.”

  I rest my elbows on the table and take a moment to think. “I understand, Ralph. But this law has not been tested before because the burden of proof is high. But with all of our affidavits—Julia’s, my sisters’, my last foster mother’s, and mine—combined with the fact that Paul never denied having a sexual relationship with my mother, we are well prepared to prove
that I am his child and compel a DNA test.” While we both are comfortable with the facts, I understand that he may actually have an additional concern; his credibility as a highly reputable paternity lawyer will be tested. “I’m confident that you would not be taking my case if you didn’t think that we had a fighting chance to convince the court that I am his child. A child should be a child at any age when it comes to knowing who their father is.”

  Ralph calls me. “Your case was filed with a judge in Whatcom County where Paul resides. The court hearing is scheduled for early summer.” Once I receive the briefing papers that Paul filed with the court in June, I’m eager to read what his defense to the action will be. With his pleadings in hand, I quickly skip through the section titled “Background,” which is usually the defendant’s view of the facts. I go straight to Paul’s defense.

  Through his attorney, Paul argues that since I am an adult, my asking for a DNA test is a violation of his constitutional right to privacy and freedom against unreasonable search and seizure. He goes on to argue that, as a result, I should reimburse him for his court costs and attorney fees for even bringing this case against him. His argument is exactly what I expected.

  Carefully I begin to read the pleading word for word:

  The petitioner is a 34 year old female . . . licensed attorney . . . who resides and practices in New York . . . The respondent is a 66 year old retiree residing in Whatcom County, Washington, is married and resides with his wife of 34 years . . . suffered a heart attack in 1986 . . . and is under the care of a cardiologist . . .

  I chuckle at the inclusion of his heart ailments. He’s prepared to file a counterclaim against me for intentional infliction of emotional distress by bringing this suit. When we first made contact, Ralph explained that Paul’s emphasizing how this case could affect his health would flop because the DNA is taken with a simple swab test—nothing invasive or extraordinarily stress inducing. Then I read the first three lines again, then again, and again . . . I’m thirty-four years old, and he’s been married for thirty-four years.