Randy Verlin told me he worked as a rough carpenter at Mulholland Design Studio here in High Point, just a few blocks from where I was holding court for a week, substituting for a colleague who had flown out to Detroit to welcome the arrival of her first granddaughter.
“What is it you actually do?” I asked.
“It’s like building part of a new house inside a warehouse every week,” he said, “like if they’re shooting a bedroom, we have to put up two walls, do the sheetrocking, maybe set new windows, hang some doors, then tear it all down again after the photographer finishes and turn it into a den or a dining room. I’m learning how to sheetrock and do a little wallpapering, too.”
“Does the studio have a family leave plan?” I asked, trying to ignore the headache that was building in my left temple from too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
“You mean like if Travis gets sick, could I get off?”
I nodded.
“He’s on my medical plan and they’re pretty good about letting you off if you really need to do something. Like today. ’Course they do, like, dock your pay.”
He showed me pay stubs to prove that he’d been employed there for over a year and he had a letter from his supervisor that said he’d been steady and dependable and had already received two merit raises.
April Ann Jenner had been a data entry clerk for a large insurance company over in Greensboro for the past eight months, and she, too, had a glowing letter of commendation. Her salary was less than his, but her company did have a family leave plan.
Neither employer provided day care, though.
Randy had recently moved back to his parents’ house so he could save money and have help with Travis on the weekends. If granted full custody, his mother, a youthful fifty, was prepared to keep Travis during the day since she was already tending a neighbor’s child and often cared for Travis as well whenever April Ann got in a bind.
At present, April Ann and Travis shared an apartment with another woman and the woman’s three-year-old daughter. The roommate kept both children as a rule, but occasionally she took part-time jobs. When that happened, her daughter went to preschool and Randy’s mother would come and get Travis.
The housemate was another reason Randy was asking for full custody. According to him, she had a different man there every week, sometimes he could smell alcohol on her breath when he went to pick Travis up after work, and her daughter bullied Travis.
April Ann admitted that her friend had boyfriends, liked her beer, and didn’t always control her daughter, “But don’t no men sleep over in our apartment, which is more than Randy can say about his women. And I know for a fact that he has a beer or two when he’s got Travis.”
Living alone was not an option, she said. “My salary just won’t do it.”
I leaned my head on my hand so that I could unobtrusively massage my throbbing temple and asked, “What about family?”
“My mom, you mean? She’s got a new boyfriend and lives in Memphis now. I got a sister in Wilmington, but she’s sharing with two other girls herself. I could ask her if she wants to come to High Point or maybe I could get work down there if that’s what it takes to keep my baby.”
The trouble was, I didn’t know what it would take to give either of them full custody. I had read the Social Services report. It said that Travis was healthy and well nurtured and seemed to be happy and sociable. It also said that April Ann appeared to be a warm and loving mother doing the best she could with her limited resources.
Randy also got high marks for being a loving and responsible father who was almost never late when it was his turn to pick up Travis. Too, he had never missed a child support payment, although that was because his parents helped him out before he got taken on at Mulholland. His father was a career lathe operator at one of the furniture factories outside town, the house was large enough for Travis to have his own room and there was a fenced-in backyard where he could safely play.
I looked at Randy’s mother, who was seated in the row behind him.
“Mrs. Verlin, do you think that Ms. Jenner is an unfit mother who deserves to lose custody of your grandson?”
I could see on her face the struggle between loyalty to her son and what appeared to be an innate sense of fairness.
“I don’t know how to answer that, Your Honor.”
“Try,” I said gently.
She shook her head. “They were both of ’em too young to be having a baby. April Ann’s done what she’s had to do, I reckon, and Randy hasn’t always been ready to settle down. I just wish they could’ve worked this out without having to come to court.”
“Me, too,” I said, leaning back in my chair to think about the situation. I had all the objective facts Randy and April Ann could give me and, honestly, there didn’t seem to be a nickel’s worth of difference between them so far as character and dependability went.
If April Ann were a drunk or did drugs, if Randy had been violent with her or the child, my decision would be clear.
As it was—
My concentration broke as the door to the right of me opened and a middle-aged man came in. He was medium height, of slightly more than medium weight and had medium brown hair that had receded almost to the top of his head. A thick brown mustache made up for the loss above.
He took a seat on the side bench where attorneys and law officials usually wait for their cases to be called, and the bailiff who was sitting there nodded and smiled. They had a whispered conference, then the bailiff, a Mr. Tomlinson, caught my eye.
I motioned for him to come up and leaned forward to hear what he wanted to say.
“Ma’am, Detective Underwood wants to know if he could speak to you at recess?”
“Detective?”
“Yes, ma’am. High Point Police.”
“Certainly,” I said, assuming he wanted me to sign a search warrant or something.
“Ma’am,” said Mr. Tomlinson, “could I tell him how much longer that’d be?”
It was only eleven-thirty, but having skipped breakfast, I was more than ready for lunch. I motioned him back to his seat and sat up straight to speak to the courtroom at large.
“At this time, we will take a lunch break and I will render my decision when we return.” I gave an authoritative rap of my gavel and said, “This court will be in recess until twelve-thirty.”
“All rise,” said the bailiff.
Detective David Underwood followed me down the hall to the small office that had been assigned to me for the duration.
“So what would you like me to sign?” I asked.
He looked at me blankly. “Sign?”
“Isn’t this about a search warrant or—?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. We need for you to come over to Leonard Street, if you will.”
“You’ve found my purse?”
“You lost one?” he asked, holding the door for me. “Somebody steal it?”
“Well, no, not exactly. Not deliberately anyhow.”
“Actually, we did find it,” he said hesitantly.
“So why didn’t you bring it with you?” I was definitely getting cranky. “And are my keys still there? I need to move my car if y’all haven’t already towed it.”
He looked a little uncomfortable. “I’m afraid it’s part of the evidence, ma’am.”
“Evidence?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re treating last night like a homicide and your bag was found near the victim. So what I was wondering was if you could come on over to the Leonard Street building and let us get your fingerprints?”
And to think that when I got up this morning, I had absolutely convinced myself that my second day in High Point couldn’t possibly be as bad as the first.
2
« ^ » “Falstaff’s question, ‘Shall I not take mine ease in mine inn?’ is an expression of that complete comfort and entire independence which travellers in all ages and in all nations have at least expected to find in a public house.”The Great Industries of the United States, 1872