Gone Again

by James Grippando

  “Did DCFS talk to you?”

  “My interview is scheduled for tomorrow. Administration asked me to send you down to Mr. McDermott’s office when you came by to pick up Alexander. So that’s where you should go.”

  Debra just looked at the coach a moment longer, still not quite comprehending. “All right,” she said finally. “Then that’s where I’ll go.”

  The walk downstairs from the STEM lab was decidedly without any of the calm and enchantment she’d felt on the way up. Alexander was a good boy. A very good boy. She knew better than to think for one second that the DCFS investigation had anything to do with his conduct. Unless the GA campus had become like the Potapova Ballet Academy, where bitchy mothers seemed to find sport in openly disparaging her. Perhaps one of the older GA students had picked up the dirt on Debra at home and had said something to Alexander. Maybe her son had come to her defense. Maybe he’d gone too far. It broke Debra’s heart to think it; in a way, however, it also made her a tiny bit proud of him.

  Debra entered the administration suite and announced herself to the receptionist, who asked her to wait. A minute later she returned and led Debra back to the headmaster’s office. The assistant head of school was also there. It was déjà vu, shades of Sashi’s expulsion, except that this time she was on her own, without Gavin.

  “Where’s my son?” asked Debra.

  “He’s with the school nurse,” said McDermott.

  “Why? Is he hurt?”

  “No,” said McDermott. “Sit down, Ms. Burgette. Please.”

  She moved warily toward the chair and took a seat, though her posture sent a message that she was anything but relaxed. “What is going on?” she asked.

  “I’ll be happy to tell you what we know,” said McDermott.

  He had his “game face” on, Debra noted, the pleasant but plastic half smile that people of power and position wore whenever an attorney advised them to be “firm but polite.”

  “A social worker from DCFS came here today to interview Alexander’s teachers.”

  “That much I know,” said Debra. “What are they investigating?”

  “The allegation, we were told, is negligent endangerment of a child.”

  “What? By whom?”

  “You.”

  It was as if he’d run his sword between her ribs. “Mr. McDermott, I have never put Alexander in any kind of danger.”

  “That may well be. But here’s the school’s posture on this. DCFS has the right to interview Alexander’s teachers. The social worker also asked to interview Alexander—alone.”

  “No, absolutely not,” said Debra. “I’m sorry if I sound defensive, but I know from my experience with Sashi that when you’ve done nothing wrong, the stupidest thing you can do is put your child alone in a room with a social worker who thinks he’s seen it all and heard it all before.”

  “Well, now you understand the school’s problem. Honestly, we don’t know if we are legally obligated to comply with the DCFS request, or if we must follow your wishes. We have a call in to our attorney for his guidance. Until then, we have placed Alexander with the school nurse.”

  Debra heard what he was saying, but her mind was racing, and she was at least three steps ahead of him. “They’re here to take him, aren’t they?” she asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The social worker came here to take my son away.”

  “Nobody has told us that.”

  “This is about the crazy stuff my ex-husband said in court. He accused me of rehoming Sashi. Now DCFS wants to step in and take her brother away before I can rehome him.”

  “Ms. Burgette, I’ll be honest. Of course we heard about the rehoming allegations, but we don’t know anything more than what has been reported in the media. At this point, Grove Academy is simply trying to comply with its legal obligations—not just to DCFS, but also to Alexander, and to you as a parent.”

  Debra rose quickly. “I want my son.”

  “Ms. Burgette, please sit down.”

  “Give me my son!”

  “There’s no reason to raise your voice. It’s best if we all calm down and wait until the school’s attorney calls back with his guidance.”

  She checked her anger and adopted a more even tone. “I’m here to pick up Alexander. You have no right to keep him here. If you don’t hand him over right now, you and your lawyer will have kidnapping charges to add to your list of concerns.”

  The administrators exchanged glances, but neither the head nor the assistant seemed to have an answer to Debra’s threat. “I’d much prefer to wait until we hear back from our attorney,” said McDermott.

  “No,” she said firmly, and she wasn’t quite sure what inner source she’d tapped into to find such resolve. But it felt right. “I’m not waiting for you to hear back from anyone. I want my son. Now.”

  McDermott rose, seemingly resigned to the fact that he needed to make a decision. “Fine. Take him,” he said. “Be sure to sign out at the nurse’s office.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Please,” he said, almost scoffing. “Don’t thank me.”

  She was eager to leave, but not on that note. “This will be sorted out soon. You’ll see. I’ve done nothing wrong, and my son is not in any danger.”

  “Let’s hope so,” said McDermott. “For Alexander’s sake.”

  She would have liked to say more—even drop an extra copy of the results of her polygraph examination on McDermott’s desk. But turning the headmaster’s opinion was not a priority at that moment. Not even the six o’clock court hearing was a priority.

  She left McDermott’s office and hurried down the hall to get Alexander—before DCFS beat her to it.

  CHAPTER 43

  It was six p.m. in Judge Frederick’s courtroom, and Jack was on deck. Barbara Carmichael would have first crack at the star witness for the prosecution.

  “The state of Florida calls Carlos Mendoza,” said the prosecutor.

  A side door opened, and a pair of deputies escorted the prisoner to the witness stand. Carlos Mendoza had traded in his FSP uniform for the orange prison jumpsuit of Federal Corrections. He’d paid a visit to the prison barber as well, his clean-shaven credibility undoubtedly part of his deal with the prosecution.

  Jack’s gaze quickly swept the courtroom as the witness swore his oath. Media attention had grown slightly, though no cameras were allowed in federal court. A sketch artist was at work in the front row, reaching for her prison-orange shade of chalk. Mendoza’s attorney sat directly behind the prosecutor, on the public side of the rail. Both Debra and Gavin Burgette were in attendance. Debra was alone, seated on the petitioner’s side of the courtroom. Gavin was with his lawyer on the opposite side, probably more to separate them from Debra than to show support for the prosecution. Aquinnah, Jack presumed, was home watching Alexander.

  “Mr. Mendoza,” the prosecutor began, “the state has reached an agreement with you regarding your testimony today, correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Yes, ma’am. Jack almost rolled his eyes. One lawyer was as guilty as the next when it came to cleaning up scumbags for a courtroom appearance, but a “Yes, ma’am” from Carlos Mendoza was along the lines of “Pip-pip, cheerio” from Theo.

  “In brief, could you please tell the judge your understanding of the agreement?”

  Mendoza recited the essential terms, but the purpose of Carmichael’s question was to emphasize that the government wasn’t cutting a deal with a convicted felon in exchange for testimony; it was in exchange for his truthful testimony.

  “Mr. Mendoza, do you understand that by testifying here today you are waiving any rights against self-incrimination that you may have under the United States Constitution?”

  “Yup.”

  The prosecutor shot him a subtle but reproving look, which got him back in line.

  “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

  “Have you conferred with an attorney about the waiver of your rights?”


  “I have.”

  The prosecutor stepped back from the podium, signaling a transition. “Mr. Mendoza, prior to the disappearance of Sashi Burgette, did you have any communication with her mother, Debra Burgette?”

  “Uh-huh. I mean, yes, I did.”

  “Did you have any communications with her father, Gavin Burgette?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “In general, what was the purpose of the communications you had with Mr. and Mrs. Burgette?”

  The witness leaned closer to the microphone and said, “The rehoming of their adopted daughter, Sashi.”

  Jack glanced again at Debra. He wasn’t sure, but she seemed a whiter shade of pale.

  “Mr. Mendoza, we know that Sashi Burgette went missing on a Friday, the fourteenth of September. When did you have your first communication with anyone from the Burgette family about Sashi?”

  “About five weeks before that. Early August.”

  “Was that communication with Gavin or with Debra Burgette?”

  “Debra Burgette.”

  Jack wasn’t alone in his reaction, and he noticed that even the judge’s gaze had suddenly shifted to the first row of public seating—specifically, to Debra Burgette. Had there been an escape hatch beneath her seat, Jack guessed that she would have used it.

  “What was the nature of that communication?” asked the prosecutor.

  “Debra was a member of one of those online support groups. It was for Americans who did an international adoption and ended up with . . . uh, damaged goods, I guess you’d call it.”

  The prosecutor winced, clearly unhappy with his choice of words. She moved on quickly. “What was the name of that online group?”

  “Way Stations of Love.”

  “Were you also a member?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Were you the parent of an adopted child?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Why did you join the Way Stations of Love support group?”

  “Business reasons.”

  “Could you explain that answer, please?”

  The witness drew a breath, but Jack detected no signs of nervousness. Mendoza simply appeared to be tired of talking.

  “I was getting into the broker business for rehoming.”

  “The judge has heard plenty of testimony about rehoming. But can you explain what you mean by ‘broker business’?”

  “I would be a middleman. The guy who matches up parents who want to get rid of—I mean, give up—the child, and the parents who want to adopt. A support group like Way Stations of Love is filled with parents who adopted and then got buyer’s remorse, you might call it. It seemed like a good place to troll for business.”

  “Just to be clear: your first communication about rehoming Sashi Burgette was with Debra Burgette, through the online support group. Is that accurate?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that exactly. Debra and me never talked about rehoming online.”

  The prosecutor did a double take, as if the witness had veered off course from their agreed-upon script. “Are you sure about that?” she asked pointedly.

  Way off course, thought Jack.

  “Yeah, I’m sure. The reason I went on the Internet was just to meet people—to make connections with burnt-out parents like Debra Burgette. But I never brought up rehoming online.”

  “Did you bring it up later?”

  “Yeah. Around Labor Day weekend, I called Debra Burgette on her cell.”

  “Did she give you her cell-phone number?”

  “No.”

  “How did you get it?”

  “Easy. People are stupid, all right? They join these online support forums and think that because they make up a screen name it’s all anonymous. They post things about themselves, their family. I click ‘like’ on everything. They like being liked. It makes them feel good. So they keep posting. I ask them for advice, and suddenly they think they’re the next Dr. Phil. Before you know it, we’re best virtual buddies. When I put all these bits and scraps together, I know who they are, where they live, what their husband does for a living, what color underwear they like, and on and on. One piece of personal information leads to another. That’s how I got Debra Burgette’s number.”

  The prosecutor stepped away from the podium, retrieved an exhibit, and approached the witness. “Mr. Mendoza, I’m handing you a call report from a cell phone issued to Debra Burgette. Do you recognize the phone number for the incoming call at line eleven of this report?”

  He checked it, then answered. “Yeah. That was the number for a prepaid cell I was using.”

  “You spoke to Debra on that day—September fifth?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell us what you said in that conversation, please.”

  “I told her that I was a former social worker with the Department of Children and Family Services. I said I was a volunteer who helped families like hers—good people who had gone through an international adoption and ended up with more than they could handle.”

  “Excuse me for interrupting, but were any of those credentials true?”

  He smiled thinly, as if proud of himself. “No. It was all a lie. But it broke the ice.”

  “Go on. What else did you say?”

  “I told her that someone from Sashi’s school—a teacher with a good heart who preferred to remain anonymous—had passed along Debra’s name and number to me.”

  “Was that true?”

  “No. But at this point the ice was more than broken. It was pretty much melted.”

  “What else did you say to Ms. Burgette?”

  “I kept it light,” he said. “No pressure. I described the services I could offer to her and asked if I could help her in any way.”

  “Did you mention rehoming, specifically?”

  “Yeah. That was the whole point of the call.”

  “What was Ms. Burgette’s response?”

  “Objection,” said Jack, rising. He didn’t have to tell the judge that it was hearsay for Carlos Mendoza to repeat what Debra Burgette had said in their phone conversation.

  “Sustained.”

  The prosecutor paused to rethink her question. “Did you reach an agreement with Debra Burgette about rehoming Sashi?”

  “No. Not with Debra.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “A few days later, I called her husband.”

  The prosecutor presented the next exhibit, the cell-phone record for Gavin Burgette, and focused his attention on the call from Mendoza’s prepaid cell. “Please look at the incoming call on September eighth. Was that from you?”

  He checked the exhibit quickly. “Yeah. That’s my prepaid cell again.”

  “What did you and Mr. Burgette talk about?”

  “Rehoming Sashi.”

  “Specifically, what did you tell him?”

  “I told him that me and his wife spoke and that I knew all about their problems with Sashi. I told him that it’s normal for parents to feel guilty about rehoming, and his wife was definitely feeling some of that. But I said my read of Debra was that she would, you know, go along with it—if he took the lead.”

  Jack glanced at Debra. It was almost imperceptible, but she was shaking her head, silently denying it.

  “What did you do next?” asked the prosecutor.

  “I used my lawyer to draw up a power of attorney for Debra and Gavin Burgette.”

  That got Judge Frederick’s attention. “Excuse me, Mr. Mendoza. When you say ‘my lawyer,’ do you mean Ms. Vargas?”

  He smiled a little, as if the question were almost funny. “No, Judge. It’s a software called ‘My Lawyer.’ It comes with, like, five thousand forms.”

  The judge seemed satisfied. The prosecutor continued. “Why did you create a power of attorney?”

  “I needed the Burgettes to sign it to rehome their daughter.”

  “That’s all it takes—a power of attorney?”

  “You can make it more complicated, if you want. But I keep things simple
. All the new parents really need is something that says they now have the authority to make all the decisions the old parents would make.”

  “So, did this power of attorney identify the new parents?”

  “No. Normally it would. But the Sashi deal was being done a little different. The Burgettes were supposed to give the power of attorney to me, and then I would take care of whatever legal stuff was needed to get Sashi with the new family.”

  “Did the Burgettes sign the power of attorney?”

  “I had some follow-up conversations with Gavin, and he kept telling me the documents were signed, but I never got them. So I don’t know if they signed or not.”

  “What happened next?”

  “I called off the deal.”

  “Why?”

  “I had a married couple in Tampa who were interested. But after I sent all the information to them about Sashi, they backed out.”

  “What was the name of the couple in Tampa?”

  “Honestly, I don’t remember. This was more than three years ago. I only met them online. After they backed out, I pretty much flushed it.”

  “When was your last conversation with Debra Burgette?”

  He checked her call report again. “I see here it was September eleventh.”

  “Three days before Sashi disappeared,” said the prosecutor, reminding Judge Frederick of the timeline. “What did you talk about?”

  “Honestly, I don’t remember anything about that call. It says here on the report that it lasted one minute, but I doubt it was even that long.”

  “Okay. What about Gavin Burgette? When was your last conversation with him?”

  Mendoza checked the call report. “We spoke on Thursday, September thirteenth. The day before Sashi disappeared.”

  “That’s the six-minute call referenced in Mr. Burgette’s report, correct?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you remember anything about that conversation?”

  “Yeah, I remember it. I said my clients backed out and the deal for Sashi was off.”

  “Was that the end of the matter?”

  “No. We kept on talking a couple minutes. Then, we, uh . . . we started negotiating a price.”

  “A price for what?”

  “Sashi.”