When we arrived at the courtroom, I saw that the Shepherds were looking their usual saintly selves. He was wearing a plain-vanilla suit and tie; she was wearing a cotton print maxi. Did they always dress like that, I wondered, or was this a courtroom ploy to show how different they were from me? Particularly in dullness. I would’ve preferred to avoid them altogether, but I didn’t want to be rude. The judge’s bailiff or someone might be watching.
“Nice to see you again,” I lied. “Rachel couldn’t come?”
“The judges prefer not to have the minors present at these hearings,” Mrs. Shepherd explained. “If the judge wants to talk to her, he’ll call her to his chambers. Besides, she has basketball practice.”
“Rachel?”
“Yes. She’s joined the school team.”
“Rachel is playing a team sport?”
The woman was so tiny she seemed to bob when she spoke, like one of those mechanical storks you saw at truck stops poised over the rim of a glass. “She’s enjoying it. Making new friends.”
“Is she any good?”
“Well,” Mr. Shepherd explained, “she’s inexperienced. She hasn’t played as long as most of the other girls. But she has the height, and she’s not without talent. I think she has some natural athletic gifts. I’m surprised you didn’t encourage her to play.”
“Well, I… didn’t… I… thought it best to focus on academics.”
“Her first game is Monday night. You should come. I think she’d like that.”
“I’ll try. I’ve been busy with this investigation.”
“Of course.”
Delacourt shot me a look, and I amended, “But I’m always ready, willing, and able to spend time with Rachel.”
Goddamn those Shepherds, anyway. Did they do it on purpose-always making me feel inferior to their pedestrian middle-class blather? I threw myself into my chair. At least they hadn’t turned her into a cheerleader. Yet.
“You know the judge will be watching you,” Delacourt said to me quietly.
“Is it my hair or this new Wonderbra?”
“He’ll be watching your demeanor. Trying to judge whether you’re capable of raising Rachel. I told you this already, remember?”
“You also said nothing would be decided today.”
“That doesn’t mean he can’t start thinking about it.”
“And he can tell what kind of parent I’d be from looking at me?”
“He can tell a lot. He’s been doing this for thirty years. He can tell if you’re drunk, which thank God you don’t appear to be. He can tell if you’re able to control your temper.”
“So I will.”
“Then we have nothing to worry about.”
The first fifteen minutes of the hearing were boring beyond belief. Lawyers talking lawyerspeak to other lawyers. Occasionally I’d hear my name and my interest level would increase. But after another ten seconds or so of parens patriae and guardian ad litem my head would be in another place.
“Ms. Pulaski?”
I was pretty stunned to realize the judge was talking to me. I rose to my feet. “Yes, Your Honor?”
“Do you agree with what the counsel for NDHS said?”
I hated these memory tests. Especially when I hadn’t been paying attention. But I figured if the lawyer who wanted to give Rachel to the Shepherds had said it, it couldn’t be good. “No, Your Honor, I certainly don’t.”
“Good. Neither do I.” I sat back down. Judge Gaynor was in his late fifties, but his hair was still jet black and his face relatively unlined. He had a clipped tone to his voice but seemed to make a point of avoiding rudeness to anyone. “In fact, I’m rather disappointed to hear the state make the argument.”
“Your Honor,” the other lawyer protested, but the judge waved it away.
“We need public servants. Now more than ever. We are perhaps only beginning to appreciate the enormous benefits provided to us on a daily basis by the law enforcement community. Their job is difficult and the hours are long. We should honor their dedication, not use it as a weapon against them. I’ve never heard of anyone losing custody because police work was inherently demanding. Or dangerous. And we’re not going to set a precedent in my courtroom.”
I only half understood what was happening. But I had the sense to know it was good. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
“I am aware that Ms. Pulaski is a behaviorist and that she is working on the current spate of killings that have plagued our community. I commend her for taking on this challenge.”
My God-was it possible? The judge actually liked me?
“The state’s concerns about her income and employment status seem to me totally without merit. I also note that you have found a new place to live.”
“Yes, sir. Although my job recently forced me to make yet another move. It’s small, but-”
He nodded. “We like our parents to have homes, but we’re certainly not going to evaluate their worthiness based upon square footage. Especially not for a dedicated public servant.”
For the first time, my spirits swelled. Maybe, just maybe, I had a chance to win this thing.
Of course, it couldn’t last. “I am, however, concerned about the state’s allegations regarding the personal problems that arose after the loss of your husband. According to the Human Services’ brief, you’re an alcoholic. Is this true, Ms. Pulaski?”
What to say? I didn’t like being labeled, and I didn’t think it was fair or accurate, but if I quibbled with him, they would say I was in denial. As I peered into the judge’s eyes, I realized that he already had all the factual information he needed. He had asked the question to see how I would respond.
“I have problems with alcohol, Your Honor. That is absolutely true. But I’m dealing with it. I’ve given up drinking. Totally.”
He looked at me intently but didn’t say anything.
“I’ve completed a detoxification clinic. I’m attending Intensive Outpatient classes downtown.”
He shuffled some papers. “I have a report from a… Dr. Coutant, who treated you at the detox center.”
I felt as if my heart had been stabbed with a dull pizza knife.
“According to him, you haven’t been attending the IOP classes. Is that true?”
“I… uh… I have been absent for a while. This case takes up so much of my time.”
“Surely your recovery comes first.”
“I plan to start up again, just as soon as-”
Judge Gaynor cut me off. “Alcoholics always plan to do something in the future. Just as they always say they’re not going to drink anymore. It’s part of the disease.”
“But-”
“I admire your work, Ms. Pulaski. Truly I do. But unless and until you’ve dealt with this problem, no court on earth is going to grant you custody. It would be irresponsible. And certainly not in the best interests of the child. Quentin?”
My lawyer rose. “Yes, Your Honor?”
“At our court date, I’m going to want full and complete medical records on your client.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll want attendance records from the IOP classes. And evidence of enrollment in a certified AA program. And I want periodic blood tests.”
He breathed heavily. “Yes, sir.”
The judge gave me one last look. “If those tests show alcohol in your bloodstream, Ms. Pulaski, you might as well not bother coming to court.”
The rest of the hearing was a blur. I don’t remember what happened. I know Delacourt got me to a car, made some inquiries about my state of mind, and entrusted me to the care of my security detail. Meanwhile, my brain stayed on one topic. What the judge had said. How he’d built my hopes up. Then cut them out from under me with a single swath of his vicious scythe.
The hardest part was not the embarrassment, not being called a drunk in open court. Nor was it the judge’s demands and requirements. Not even the blood test. Damned intrusive, but in my heart I knew it was a perfectly reasonable request under the circumstances. No, my problem was not the fact that the judge was trying to force me to give up drinking.