Like No Other Boy

by Larry Center

  “No comment.”

  Another microphone came forward, held by a black-haired female reporter from Channel Six. She asked, “Your ex-wife alleges that you’re harming your son. How do you feel about that?”

  “No comment.”

  I elbowed past the reporters and made my way into the courthouse. I found the courtroom and saw Mark sitting at the defendant’s table, going over his notes. He stood when he saw me, his face drawn tight with concern. Dressed in a dark-blue suit, looking sharp and camera-ready himself, Mark pressed his lips together and frowned.

  “You ready for this?” he asked.

  “You bet,” I said, heart fluttering.

  There was a nervous edge to Mark’s voice that worried me. Was there something I didn’t know? Some new angle he wasn’t telling me about? Was Cheryl also suing Weller? I wondered if Rachel knew anything at all about that. The possibility had entered my mind.

  Tommy was staying with Cheryl’s parents, who had enlisted the help of an aide from “Care Now,” an agency that specialized in disabled children. I swallowed. Right about now, I was sure her mother and father were talking in front of him about how I was the worst thing that could have happened to their darling daughter. Who knew? Maybe I was. I’d gotten along with her parents fairly well, and felt comfortable around them, though there was always a certain amount of mildly expressed reservation toward me. I’d felt it mostly from Cheryl’s father.

  The reporters were finding their seats, each and every one as attractive as a model in a Ralph Lauren ad. A few witnesses sat on Cheryl’s side of the courtroom, well-dressed and professional looking, most likely Acorn representatives. On my side sat grim-faced Dr. Osikawa from Weller. I was grateful to see him. But where was my expert witness, Dr. Dunn? Rekulak and Rachel weren’t there, either. Then I spotted her coming in along with Dunn and I breathed with relief. I caught Rachel’s attention and she gave me an encouraging smile. Then, before finding her seat, she came up to me and put a hand on my shoulder. I felt comforted by it. I turned to her and our eyes met. God, I needed her there.

  “Good luck,” she said.

  “Thank you. I’m going to need luck and anything else I can get my hands on.”

  “You’re going to do fine.”

  She gave me another encouraging smile, and as she walked back to her seat, in came Gloria Beaman marching alongside Cheryl. What a pair. Tall and lean, built like a professional tennis player, Beaman was truly hell on heels. She was wearing a purple sheath dress with ruffled sleeves, a white blazer on top, a gold necklace. Hardly any makeup. Her black heels clattered on the floor. Think Cruella Deville as an attorney. My throat constricted at just the sight of her. Basically, she gave me the willies and my hands grew slick with dread.

  Cheryl wore a beige dress and pearls, her baby bump grown now to near-hill status. Our eyes met for an eternal second and everything else faded away. It crushed me, seeing her all lawyered up and pregnant by another man.

  Cheryl and Beaman took their seats in the front at their desk, along with Beaman’s assistant, a short, squat woman dressed in a dark suit. I wiped my slick hands on my pants. Where was Mark’s assistant? Oh, yeah. He didn’t have one.

  I was hoping my father might show up. I ran my eyes around the room. Nope. A minute later, there he was, sliding quietly into the back of the room and taking a seat, cane in hand. He’d been getting up and around more and more lately. I smiled. Unshaven, wearing a ball cap, he didn’t even look at me. I tried to make eye contact, but he only stared straight ahead—not even a nod. At least he’d come. I was hoping that Belinda, his caretaker, had driven him. Finally, she entered the courtroom and sat down next to him. She’d probably had to park the car.

  The square-faced bailiff announced, “All rise.” Judge Joseph Korbovitch entered the room. An exceedingly tall man in his sixties. Korbovitch strutted with his chest out toward his high seat beneath the State of California seal. A court stenographer was set up near the witness stand with an American flag to her side. Since this was a hearing, there would be no jury.

  “Ms. Beaman,” Korbovitch said, adjusted the sleeves of his robe. The judge’s voice was smooth, silky, as if he worked as a piano bar singer during the weekends. “Are you ready to proceed?”

  Beaman said something to her assistant, put a hand on Cheryl’s shoulder, then rose to her full height. “Yes, Your Honor, I am ready.” Beaman’s voice, confident and sharp, rang throughout the courtroom. Since Cheryl was the one initiating the petition and we were the respondents, Beaman was allowed to go first.

  She started out simply enough, summarizing her client’s objectives: to gain full or sole custody in order to leave the state and take Tommy to a private school in Houston. Then she said, “I’d like to call Ms. Cheryl Bridgewater to the stand.”

  Cheryl took the stand, sitting on a chair to the right of the judge. Beaman quickly established Tommy’s age and his psychological history, then asked, “Ms. Bridgewater, can you explain your present position to the court and how it relates to the child in question?”

  Cheryl crossed her legs, took a long breath, then began. “As Tommy’s mother and shared custodian . . .” Cheryl looked toward Korbovitch, who ran a hand through his unkempt grey hair. She paused before continuing, her voice breathy and soft. “I am trying to do the best I can for my son, a child with autism. I want to enroll him in the Acorn School in Houston, Texas. Its programs have been the subject of various studies published in professional journals and have been proven to offer. . . ”

  “I object, Your Honor,” Mark said. “Ms. Bridgewater is not an authority.”

  “Sustained.”

  “So, basically, you believe this school shows potential for your son?” Beaman asked.

  “Definitely.” She nodded. “And Dr. Norman Kaplan, a child psychologist at UCLA that you’ll hear from later, agrees.”

  “And what’s keeping you from taking your son there?” Beaman asked.

  “Even though all the science and the therapists . . .

  Mark said, interrupting, “All the science and therapists, Your Honor? Really?”

  “Please restate, Ms. Bridgewater,” Korbovitch said. He wiped his bent nose with a handkerchief.

  “Even though several therapists who have seen Tommy agree that this would be an excellent school for my son’s educational development, my ex-husband,” she pointed at me, “has refused to agree to this move. He has his own ideas.”

  This was going to be nasty business. Tommy’s opening up with the chimps, that look on his face when he was with them. I had to keep that in the forefront—always.

  “Would you explain what your ex-husband’s ideas are?” Beaman asked.

  I closed my eyes for a moment. My stomach exploded with anxiety and I started shallow breathing, shoulders moving up and down with each breath. I drank some bottled water. I was on the verge of a panic attack. Things had just started and I was already unraveling, a spool of emotional yarn coming undone.

  “He wants Tommy to have what I guess could be called . . .” She nearly choked on the words, “some kind of crazy, I don’t know, chimpanzee therapy. He thinks it’s good for Tommy. I think it’s a disaster.” Her face flushed red.

  “Could you tell us why?” Beaman asked.

  “A chimp and a child simply have no reason on earth to be together.” Cheryl scanned the courtroom, then looked directly at the judge. “Number one, it’s dangerous, and number two, my son received absolutely no benefit. In fact, it made him regress.”

  “Both of these issues are conjecture, Your Honor,” Mark said. “Ms. Bridgewater is not an expert.”

  “Please refrain from speculation, Ms. Bridgewater,” Korbovitch said.

  Beaman addressed Cheryl. “Would you say your ex-husband is obsessed with your son interacting with these chimpanzees then, Ms. Bridgewater?”

  “Absolutely. That’s all he cares about, getting Tommy and those chimps together. He’s brainwashed my son. I really think he has.”

&nb
sp; I clenched my teeth.

  “Your Honor, please,” Mark said, his voice stern.

  “Ms. Bridgewater,” the judge said, rubbing his brow, “the court is only here to learn the facts. Allegations about brainwashing cannot be substantiated, or can they?”

  “No, Your Honor,” Cheryl said.

  “Then please stick to the facts.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Can you tell us what you know about the Acorn School in Houston?” Beaman asked, moving closer to where Cheryl was sitting.

  “Of course. They have small class sizes, documented cases of real progress, one-on-one therapy, and even groundbreaking techniques that truly seem to have validity. If I can’t get him in that school, if my ex keeps blocking me every step of the way . . .” Cheryl sniffled, and then out came her prop—the tissue. She dabbed at her eyes theatrically, but still, it was effective. “I just don’t know what I’d do. I’m obviously doing everything I can to ensure that my son is afforded the best therapies and education possible. He needs this school. There’s nothing like Acorn anywhere else. Believe me.” Cheryl turned to the judge. “I’ve checked everywhere.”

  The judge rubbed the side of his face. He made a few notes.

  Beaman had Cheryl explain how she had taken Tommy to doctors and therapists throughout his life. She painted a picture of a mother totally involved in raising a developmentally challenged son. I couldn’t disagree with that. She was a great mom. Involved, committed.

  “Would you say Chris was a cooperative parent when it came to raising Tommy?” Beaman asked.

  “Hardly. When I wanted to try the Lovaas method with Tommy, for example?” Cheryl said, “my ex was completely against it. We argued for days.” She frowned.

  “Do you think it’s because he just doesn’t care?” Beaman raised an eyebrow.

  “Objection!” Mark said. “Completely subjective.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Have you ever refused to bring Tommy to your ex-husband’s house for his weekend stays?” Beaman continued.

  “Only if we both agreed that he shouldn’t come for some reason.” Cheryl twisted in her seat and glanced my way.

  Beaman handed a document to Korbovitch, who took it from her, slipped on his bifocals, and perused it.

  “Your Honor,” Beaman said, “I’d like to enter into the record this psychologist’s report on Cheryl Bridgewater’s interview as Exhibit B-14. I believe you’ll find the evaluation from the psychologist very positive,” Beaman went on. “Ms. Bridgewater doesn’t smoke, has no history of mental illness, no problems with drugs or alcohol, and plans to marry a man of means and good standing in the local community.”

  Beaman strode from the bench to the witness box, turning her thin lips upward in a smile, flashing her white teeth. She looked benignly at Cheryl as though she were about to address Mother Teresa. I clasped my hands together, pulse racing.

  “Raising an autistic child is difficult, is it not, Ms. Bridgewater?” Beaman asked sympathetically.

  Cheryl hesitated a minute before answering, dabbing her eyes with the tissue. “Extremely.” Her voice quivered. “No one knows what it’s really like until they experience it. It’s a twenty-four seven obligation. Completely unpredictable. One day he does fairly well, the next, he can be a total terror. The simple fact is that Tommy needs me completely in his life, and I need to be there for him.”

  My muscles tensed. I leaned closer to Mark, whose head was down, writing. “I need to be there for him too,” I whispered. Mark nodded.

  “I love my son,” she went on. Her voice quivered. “I’m desperate for him to have the very best. Any mother would feel the same way. The truth is, mothers know best. It’s just a shame I have to fight….” Cheryl dabbed back another tear. She heaved a sigh. “That I have to fight my ex-husband every step of the way so that I can do . . .” another sigh, “what’s right for my son.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Bridgewater,” Beaman said. “No further questions.”

  Mark stood and approached Cheryl, standing about two feet away from her. He folded his arms across his chest and began his cross-examination.

  “Have you ever withheld Tommy’s visitation with his father?” he asked.

  Cheryl jerked her head back as if she was offended by the question. “Of course not.”

  “Were there any times in your relationship when you’ve been angry at Mr. Crutcher?” Mark inched closer to Cheryl, who shrugged.

  “Answer the question, please,” the judge said. His smooth mellow voice made me think he was about to break out in a song. “We can’t transcribe body language.”

  “Can you give us an occasion?” Mark asked. He glanced at the judge, then stared at Cheryl.

  “Your Honor, I object!” Beaman said with a snarl on her lips. “Irrelevant and immaterial.”

  “Goes to the whole motive for this hearing, Your Honor,” Mark said. He waved a hand in the air.

  “Overruled,” Korbovitch said. “Please answer the question, Ms. Bridgewater.”

  “An occasion?” Mark prompted her.

  “Well, then . . .”

  “If you’re having a hard time thinking of one, may I help?” Mark produced a document and handed it to the judge and another copy to Beaman.

  “Your Honor, I’ve just given you a copy of the testimony from the divorce proceedings between Ms. Bridgewater and Mr. Crutcher. I’ll read from my copy,” Mark said. He cleared his throat. “And I quote from Ms. Bridgewater’s words: ‘I want to make sure Chris sees Tommy as little as possible. Is that so hard to understand? Is it? Well, is it? Yes, I want him to suffer. He deserves to suffer. He’s done nothing but block me every step of the way. It’s because of him that our marriage failed’.”

  “Are these your words?” Mark asked.

  “Yes,” Cheryl said. She suddenly looked shaken, her face turning pale, her lips drawing tightly together. “But they were spoken in the heat of a divorce.”

  Mark continued reading from the transcript. “‘What’s wrong with Tommy is Chris’s fault. And I don’t want him to ever live it down.’”

  I remembered those words clearly during our divorce proceeding. She’d spoken with venom too. I rubbed my forehead, then took a drink of water. I felt anger bubbling to the surface and did my best to push it down.

  “Were you angry at Mr. Crutcher then?” Mark asked.

  Cheryl said nothing. She cocked her head back, as if she were about to tell Mark to go fuck himself. Lines of defiance traced the edges of her mouth.

  “Answer the question, please,” the judge said.

  “Yes.” For a moment, she looked down, then gazed full on at Mark, then quickly eyed me. I gave her a mean stare, our eyes locking like horns.

  “Angry because you blamed him for Tommy’s autism?”

  “But that transcript was from a different time,” Cheryl said. “I’m not angry now. I just want to do what’s right.”

  Mark walked a few feet away from Cheryl and paced for a few seconds. Finally, he said, “Is it fair to say that this very same anger is behind your desire to take your son to Houston? Don’t you want to see Mr. Crutcher continue to suffer?”

  “I . . . No! That’s not true.”

  “It’s not?”

  “I want the best for Tommy.”

  “And the worst for Mr. Crutcher?”

  “Yes! I mean no!” She turned red-faced.

  Beaman shot to her feet. “Your Honor, I object! The respondent is leading the witness.”

  “Overruled, Ms. Beaman.”

  Beaman sat down, turned to her assistant, and whispered in her ear.

  Mark approached Cheryl again. “Ms. Bridgewater, don’t you believe that a father’s place in the upbringing of his son is extremely important?”

  Cheryl nodded. “Of course.”

  “You say, ‘of course,’ so why didn’t you allow more visitation during your first custody decision? Why did you fight Mr. Crutcher’s access to his son?”

  “I . . .” />
  “You wanted to restrict his visitation, did you not?”

  “No. Yes. Some, yes.”

  “Why did you want to restrict Mr. Crutcher’s access to his son?”

  “Because . . . Tommy needs me.” Cheryl turned to the judge. “He does need me. He can do without Chris.”

  It hit me hard and deep, right in my emotional solar plexus. How could she even say those words? Did she really believe that? That I was dispensable? I started squeezing the life out of my water bottle without even realizing it. The plastic made a loud crinkling sound. The judge scowled at me. Beaman even looked my way.

  “I guess you don’t think a father’s place in his son’s upbringing is so important after all. Is that right?” Mark asked.

  Cheryl blinked rapidly. “I’ll admit it,” Cheryl said. “I was hard on him, all right? But I’m always thinking of Tommy in everything I do. I may have gone a little overboard, but I had good reasons. I know what’s best for my son.” She glared at me. She spoke emphatically. “Chris doesn’t even have a clue as to what Tommy really needs or what would be best.”

  “So, you admit you went overboard.”

  Cheryl paused before answering. She spoke softly. “Yes.”

  “And what’s going to make us think you’re not going overboard now? What’s going to make us think you’re not mainly out to get your ex right now, and that Tommy’s care is secondary?”

  “Because this is totally different. The Acorn School’s the perfect place for Tommy.”

  Mark switched gears. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the father of your unborn child, the man you intend to marry, just happens to have accepted a position in Houston, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, could we say that the real reason you want to go to Houston is to be with your fiancé?”

  “That’s part of it, yes, but the main reason is so that Tommy can have the best possible schooling.”

  “But isn’t it a bit convenient? The location of the school and your fiancé’s new job being one and the same?”

  “I learned about Acorn before I even started dating Wade.”