Ben checked his watch. Ten-fifteen.
What’s taking so long? The trembling in his knees became more pronounced. He looked back at Derek. Derek seemed to be in a perfectly wretched mood, even by Derek’s standards. Rumor had it that he had separated from Louise, was living by himself in an apartment on the south side, and spending entire nights in high-class watering holes. Great. Derek never struck Ben as being all that stable even in the best of circumstances, which these evidently weren’t.
Mercifully, Emily would be spared the full proceeding, although she had to be available if either side wished to call her as a witness. Not very likely. The DHS would assume she wanted to stay where she was, and Ben knew she couldn’t help Bertha’s case. She would not be called.
Ben tried to review his notes while he waited for the judge, but it was impossible. His mind was racing. A snippet of Gilbert and Sullivan kept running through his head: “The law is the true embodiment/Of everything that’s excellent/It has no kind of fault or flaw …”
“All rise.”
Everyone in the small courtroom rose. Judge Mayberry walked into the courtroom and settled himself in the thronelike, elevated black chair. Ben marveled at the amount of ceremony even the most low-level domestic disputes judge could insist upon. Mayberry enjoyed the pomp and circumstance, the black robe, the latinate phrases, the whole legal works. Ben made a mental note to be advocative, but with the most deferential attitude toward the judge possible.
The court’s bailiff read the style of the case. “In the matter of the minor Emily X, case number FS-672-92-M. Two motions are presently before the court. The Department of Human Services has brought a motion to remove the child from her present place of residence to the custody and supervision of the DHS. In response, the court has ordered Bertha Adams to show cause why the child should not be so removed. Also, Bertha Adams has brought a motion to legally adopt the minor child Emily X.”
“Are all the parties present?” Mayberry asked. He spoke slowly, with a hint of a drawl. Ben wasn’t sure if it was the judge’s background showing through or his desire to affect a folksy, good-ol’-boy persona.
The man sitting at plaintiff’s table rose and began speaking.
“The Department of Human Services is present, your honor. My name is Albert Sokolosky.”
Sokolosky was in his mid-thirties and wore round, rimless eyeglasses, probably to affect a lawyerly look and make him appear older than he really was. He was extremely tall and thin, as if he had been held at both ends and stretched.
In a sudden rush, Ben realized he didn’t really know the protocol of the courtroom. Should I stand now? Should I wait for the judge to look at me? Why the hell isn’t Derek up here to tell me these things?
He stood. “My name is Benjamin Kincaid, your honor. I represent—”
“Just a minute, son. Give the clerk a chance to get the first name down.”
Ben waited as the woman sitting beside the bailiff painstakingly scrawled out her best guess at the spelling of Sokolosky. In domestic proceedings, true court reporters, able to silently transcribe testimony at the speed of light, were not used. Instead, a tape recording was made, and for a fee, the court would make a copy of the tape available to any party who wanted to pay a court reporter to transcribe the tape, at an exorbitant rate often exceeding the monetary value of the domestic dispute. Which explains why lawyers rarely had a transcript made of proceedings in domestic matters. Which the judges knew. Which had the unfortunate result of giving the judges carte blanche to indulge themselves in any eccentricity or petty bullying their hearts desired.
The judge at last looked up; he offered Ben a patronizing, frightening grin.
“All right, son, give us your name now.”
“Benjamin Kincaid, your honor.” He swallowed hard. “I represent Bertha Adams in regard to both motions.” His voice shook a bit, but he managed to control it. He hoped.
“Gentlemen,” Mayberry said, scanning the courtroom without making eye contact with anyone, “I don’t see any reason to drag this thing out and complicate what should be a simple, unified matter. If you will give me your basic positions in your opening statements, we’ll hear from Mrs. Adams, and then we should be able to resolve the motions in short order.”
Ben listened carefully. The subtext, he thought, is the judge has something else he wants to do today. Pressing golf game or an attractive piece on the side. Ben made a mental note to cut his presentation to the bare essentials.
“Opening statements, gentlemen.”
Ben rose to his feet, then realized that Sokolowsky was also standing. Sokolosky’s motion was first on the docket. That meant he spoke first.
“I think it would be better if we spoke one at a time, son.” The judge chuckled, then looked to his clerk for a response. The woman grinned.
Mortified, Ben sat down.
Sokolosky walked to the podium. “Your honor, as you say, this is an extremely simple case. It is also a textbook litany of wanton misbehavior, of disobedience to the laws and policies of this state, and a testament to the prudence of the judicial tenets announced by courts such as this one.” He gestured deferentially to the judge.
“Your honor, Emily X is a foundling Bertha Adams found the child. She did not report her discovery to the Department of Human Services, although she was advised to do so. She did not report the finding to any of several missing child agencies active in this state. She did not attempt to find suitable foster parents or to locate the child’s biological parents. She simply took the little girl home, to lead a cloistered, secluded life. She lied to her neighbors and kept the little girl to herself.
“In this day and age, we hear many rumors about elderly people snatching children from shopping centers and forcing them to become domestic servants or … to adopt even more revolting roles. While we are not suggesting that anything like that has occurred—”
The hell you aren’t, Ben thought.
“—there is something … unusual about Mrs. Adams’s handling of this matter.”
Sokolosky shuffled through a file. “The Department has prepared a report, your honor, based upon what little information is known about the woman who calls herself Bertha Adams. Although I do not wish to appear indelicate, the Department earnestly believes that she is not a suitable foster or adoptive parent for several reasons. She fails to meet many, indeed most, of the objective criteria established by the Department.”
Sokolosky gave a copy of the report to the bailiff, who then handed it to Judge Mayberry. He gave another copy to Ben.
Ben quickly glanced over the report. It was a graph-style report titled “Parent Evaluation.” Long graph lines indicated the areas of inadequacy. Age was the longest. The report also noted her lack of experience at child raising, the absence of any regular income of her own, and, without explanation, the fact that she was a single parent.
Ben closed the report folder, furious. The report was intentionally misleading.
“Your honor, we do not doubt that Mrs. Adams has formed some sort of attachment or”—he paused meaningfully—“dependence on the child she has kept for so long. But we have been charged by the state of Oklahoma to try to find the best home possible for each such ward of the state. We have an extensive list of ideal parents who would simply love to adopt a little girl, even one as old as Emily. We respectfully request that this court deliver custody of the child to the DHS so that we can assign her to a permanent home.” Sokolosky collected his papers and sat down.
The judge evidently felt the need for some levity. “Now it’s your turn to talk, son,” he chuckled. He looked again to his clerk for a response, which she freely gave. How nice to have your own standing audience, Ben thought.