Georgie
Guess not, Ali thought and posted that one, too. The next one gave her pause.
Dear Babe,
Twenty years ago, when my husband beat me up, I filed charges against him. He was tried, convicted, and sent to jail. As they were taking him out of the courtroom, he screamed that he’d get me when he got out. My friends told me to get a restraining order. I got a.45 instead.
When he got out, he broke into our apartment while I was asleep. He woke me up and said he was going to take our baby, my son, and throw him out the window. I got the gun out of my nightstand, followed him into the hallway, and shot him. He died and I went to prison. The cops said that yes, he broke into the house, but he didn’t hurt me, and he wasn’t armed at the time. They said it was my fault, that I should have called the cops instead of following him into the hallway and shooting him in the back. They weren’t there, but they all said that showed premeditation.
And my public defender told me I’d better cop a plea to second degree or I’d go to prison for first, so I spent the next seventeen years in prison. DSHS took my son and the courts terminated my parental rights. I don’t know where he is. He’d be twenty-two by now.
I hope this doesn’t happen to you, and I don’t think it will. You’re white. I’m not.
Lucille
Ali didn’t post Lucille’s comment. Instead she wrote back.
Dear Lucille,
Thank you for your good wishes. Your letter is all too true. There’s more than one level of justice in this country, one for those who can pay for quality representation and one for those who can’t. I’m appalled by what happened to you. With your permission, I’d like to post your comment on cutlooseblog.com to see what kind of discussion it engenders.
Also, have you made any effort to locate your son? If I can be of any help in that regard, let me know.
Ali Reynolds, aka Babe
The phone rang. “Ali,” Paul said. I’m glad you’re there. I need to talk to you.”
It would have been nice if he’d asked how she was feeling or if she was okay, but he didn’t.
“If this is about the station sending over that film crew tomorrow,” Ali began, “I’ve already decided I’m not-”
“No, no,” Paul interrupted impatiently. “It’s nothing like that. It’s April. I just found out she’s pregnant.”
So? Ali wondered. What does this joyous news have to do with me?
“The baby’s yours I assume,” she said.
“Of course it’s mine,” Paul snapped back at her. “Whose do you think it is?”
No point in going into that, Ali thought. “Why are you calling me, then?”
“She wants us to be married,” Paul said. “Right away. Before the baby gets here. That’s what I want, too. This child is my future, Ali. This is the baby who will carry my genetic material forward. So what can I do to get this process started?”
Ali’s first instinct was to simply burst out laughing. Wasn’t this the same man, who, in the course of their last conversation, had declared that he wouldn’t be manipulated? The ever-dependable pregnancy gambit had to be the oldest ploy in the book.
She also understood exactly why he was calling her directly. By going around Helga, he was sure he could negotiate himself a better deal. And he had reason to think so. After all, Ali Reynolds had gone along with his wishes for years. But with the death of Ben Witherspoon, the playing field had changed. Paul Grayson still hadn’t figured that out.
“Well…?” he pressed, pushing her to give him an answer in the same bullying voice he always used to get his way.
“When it comes to divorces,” she said finally, “you have three choices-quick, cheap, and good. Pick any two. When you figure out which two you want, give Helga a call and we’ll talk.”
She hung up. The phone rang again almost immediately, but when caller ID showed it was Paul calling back, Ali didn’t pick up. She’d already said her piece and had nothing more to add. Instead, she jotted off an e-mail to Helga.
Dear Helga,
Paul’s girlfriend is pregnant and wants to get married-fast. I think he’s ready to wheel and deal. Call him up tomorrow morning and see what you can do. I trust your judgment on this. The more we can stick it to him, the better.
Ali
She returned to cutloose.
Dear Babe,
As you suggested, I’ve been in touch with Mr. Tompkins. Based on what happened with his mother, I’ve made a determination not to pursue treatment with the Rodriguez Medical Center folks in Mazatlan.
According to Tompkins, the treatments consist mostly of stuffing the people full of overpriced but essentially over-the-counter supplements and then filling them full of a pain med cocktail that keeps them in enough of a pink haze that they don’t know what’s hit them. They keep them feeling better-right up until their money is gone. Then the patient is shipped back home to die, unless they conk out while they’re still in Mexico. Bad idea.
The money we’re not spending on them is almost enough to pay off our mortgage. I think I’ll do that-stay home, take my lumps, and spend whatever time I have with my family.
Thank you again for your help.
Don Trilby
PS You’re welcome to go ahead and post this. RMC has already filed suit against Mr. Tompkins for breaching his mother’s confidentiality agreement, but I didn’t sign any such thing, and I think other ALS patients and their families need to know how these creeps work. I’m glad I figured it out in time.
Ali was in the process of posting it when her phone rang. She was surprised when the caller ID readout said Howard Bernard. Why’s Howie calling me? she wondered.
“Ali?” Matt asked. He spoke in almost a whisper.
“Matt!” Ali exclaimed. “Is something wrong?”
“Mom’s stuff is gone,” he said with a sob. “Her clothes and her jewelry and her coats and shoes and everything. It’s all gone. They took it away. To Goodwill. While we were in Cottonwood.”
Ali remembered what Andrea had said about the moving boxes stacked on the front porch. “They did what?” she exclaimed.
“Dad,” Matt blubbered. “And I’m sure Jasmine helped. They packed up everything. It’s like she was never even here. How could they do that? Didn’t they know Julie and me would want some of her stuff? That we’d like to keep it?”
Sparks of anger lit up Ali’s line of vision, but she didn’t explode with the series of four-letter words that were on the tip of her tongue. She didn’t want to add fuel to Matt’s flame or any more hurt, either.
“Maybe they thought it would be less painful for you if you didn’t have to deal with those things,” she suggested.
“No,” Matt said. “Dad wants to forget Mom, and he wants us to forget her, too. So he can marry Jasmine. Can I come live with you, Ali? Please? I wouldn’t be any trouble, I promise. And Julie, too. We’d be good, the same way we are with Grandpa and Grandma down in Cottonwood. They always say we’re not any trouble at all.”
“I know you’re not,” Ali said quickly. “But it’s not that simple. Parents can’t just hand their kids off for someone else to look after.”
“You mean like we did Samantha,” Matt said.
“Well, yes,” Ali agreed. “Kids are a little more complicated than cats. And parents get to have the final say.”
“Shouldn’t kids get to have some say, too? I mean, Jasmine pretends like she likes us. She’s always saying nice things, but I know she doesn’t mean them. She’s just saying them to get in good with Dad. And with us. I don’t like her, Ali. I don’t want him to marry her.”
Three days after his mother’s funeral, Matt shouldn’t have had to be worrying about his father remarrying. But then, Howie Bernard was a clod. A highly educated clod. He had always been one in the past and would continue to be one in the future.
Ali thought then about the note from Lucille telling her appalling story. The courts had terminated the poor woman’s parental rights over a shooting that, with decent legal representation and any kind of justice, would most likely have been declared self-defense.