Fresh Kills (11 page)

The flippancy in my tone reminded me forcibly of Marla; I took a long swallow of the cold coffee to cover my sudden embarrassment.

Dorinda's gray eyes narrowed. “Oh, so you're doing the Greenspans a favor?”

I addressed my next remarks to the Formica counter. “The law's the law. All I'm doing is my job.”

Why did I feel like a used car dealer?

“Cass, I can't believe you.” Dorinda's normally soft voice was raised, and she shook her head. “It's not that easy. Here's a woman who wants a child so badly it hurts. She finally holds this baby in her arms, feeds it, smells it—and you think she can just give him up because the law says she should?”

“Hey, adoption is about taking chances,” I countered. “Everybody who adopts has to face the possibility of the birth parents changing their minds. Thirty days isn't a long time in the law. Once that's over—”

My old friend came back with a one-liner I couldn't argue with, couldn't explain away, couldn't top.

“Thirty days is a long time if you're only a month old.”

in Just-

spring      when the world is mud-

luscious

I said the words to myself as I stepped back from the curb to let a passing car splash the area where I'd been walking a second earlier. The rain had stopped, but there was water everywhere, dirty, muddy, ugly New York snow-melt on top of April showers.

Mud-luscious, my——! The man was a fool, I decided, as I surveyed the huge puddle separating sidewalk from street in the crosswalk at Court and Atlantic. How was I going to get around this without damaging my Italian leather shoes?

Puddle-wonderful. What was so wonderful about puddles?

Of course the man who wrote those words wasn't trying to propel himself over great brown puddles of probably toxic mud without dirtying his new pumps. The man was talking about childhood, when mud really was fun and puddles were wonderful and you ran out to play in new red galoshes and floated paper boats on the high-flooded streets of your small town.

He wasn't talking about making your way to court to take a baby away from parents who'd already had a
bris
for their son, who'd held him and rocked him and sung to him and taken thousands upon thousands of pictures.

I walked into the courthouse at 360 Adams Street the back way, through the County Clerk's office and into the corridor leading to the single courtroom used by the Surrogate. Marla was already there, her possessions strewn on the front bench as though she'd spread out a picnic lunch. Her lavender briefcase was open; her butter-soft teal-colored leather bag sat next to her, its open top a gaping mouth, inviting pickpockets; papers sat in piles on the empty bench around her.

She looked up as I entered, staring at me with her game face. Hard, closed, prepared for battle.

I had expected as much. Whatever friendship we had shared was over now; we each had a client to represent, a job to do. And Marla couldn't be blamed for resenting my role in Amber's change of heart. Just as I couldn't blame her for Josh's claiming paternity.

Unless, of course, Marla had known all along that Josh—

Which would explain Marla's jumpiness, her desire to get an unenforceable consent out of Amber, her wariness about my meeting alone with my client.

“Let's talk outside,” she said. Her hammered silver bracelets clanked as she rose; she wore the same silver outfit she'd had on the day we first agreed to work together.

She walked me to the end of the corridor, away from our courtroom. Oblivious to the No Smoking sign, she lit up, took a long drag, and let her words float out on a carpet of smoke.

“How much does she want?”

My response was less than brilliant. “What?”

“How much, Cass?” Marla persisted. “I know that's what this is about. The little bitch thinks she can hold Josh up for more money. I hate to admit it, but she's right. Josh and Ellie will pay another three thousand, but that's it. You tell her that, Cass. That's it. Three thousand and not a penny more.”

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

I stood there stunned, silent, stupid while a hundred thoughts whizzed around my head like mosquitoes.

A nice simple adoption. A piece of cake
.

Money. Amber wants money. That's what all this is about
.

Marla could be disbarred for saying this
.

I could be disbarred for listening to it
.

“Amber doesn't want money,” I said, my voice rising. Hoping against hope that my indignant denials were the truth. “She wants the baby back. She and Scott—”

“Spare me, Cass,” Marla interrupted. “Let's cut through the bullshit and get down to business. The only reason Amber married that bozo was to get herself a husband at exactly the right time. It was a brilliant move; I take my hat off to both of you, and I'm willing to pay for my mistake in letting it happen. Just give me the bottom line.”

It took a moment for the full import of my old friend's words to sink in, and when they did, the color rose to my face. “What do you mean you take your hat off to both of us? You
really
think I advised Amber to get married when she did, don't you?”

“I don't think she did it on her own,” Marla answered with a grim smile. “She's a clever little bitch, but that took real legal genius.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said with all the sarcasm I could muster. “That means a lot coming from you.”

“Just tell your client she can take the three thousand or face the fight of her life,” Marla pronounced. She dropped her cigarette to the floor and crushed it with her silver pump.

“If you think I'm going to convey a completely illegal offer to buy this baby, you're—”

“Oh, you'll convey it, all right,” Marla said with rock-hard certainty. “It's what your client's been waiting for and you know it.”

“I wonder how Judge Feinberg would react to this little conversation,” I said to Marla's retreating back. “I can't see her approving of lawyers selling babies outside her courtroom.”

Marla's eyes held a malicious glint as she shot back, “What conversation, Cass? It's your word against mine.” Her heels clicked on the pavement, and she swung the courthouse door open with a wide flourish.

And the hell of it was that I didn't really know how Amber would react. I couldn't convey the offer the same way I'd tell a criminal client about a plea bargain proposed by a district attorney, or the way I'd discuss a settlement in a civil case. What Marla had proposed was illegal, pure and simple.

But I wanted to hear Amber turn it down. I wanted to wave the money under her nose and watch her lip curl in disdain. I wanted to know she hadn't set this whole thing up just to squeeze a few more bucks out of Josh Greenspan.

So I went to the courtroom where she and Scott sat in the second row and motioned them into the hall.

Amber was dressed in schoolgirl mode, circa 1954: white blouse, plaid skirt, flat shoes. Her lush, thick hair was pulled back and tied with a big plaid bow. She looked about seventeen, and she carried a diaper bag with a big plaid Scotty dog appliquéd on the front. Scott, too, was dressed for court, wearing a suit and tie—a conservative tie—and black comfort-soled shoes that could pass at a distance for business wing tips. I noted with approval that the skeleton earring was gone from his right ear.

“I want to be very clear about this,” I said, letting my voice drop to a register I hoped conveyed extreme seriousness. “Marla just made me an offer I ought to take straight to the District Attorney. And the only reason I'm not is the slim chance that you two would really consider taking it. Because if you would, then I'm off this case. And I need to know exactly what kind of people I'm representing here.”

I laid out the offer. Three thousand dollars in return for Amber and Scott walking into the courtroom and withdrawing the revocation of consent. Three thousand dollars for letting Jimmy remain Adam Greenspan.

Before I'd finished talking, Scott was bouncing like a rapper, punctuating his movements with grunts of “No way. No fuckin' way. Sick fuck thinks he can buy our baby?”

Amber shook her head, a pitying smile playing around her lips. “That sounds like Josh,” she said. “Money solves everything, according to him. But the answer is no, Ms. Jameson. Absolutely not. I won't take money for my baby.”

“That's all I wanted to hear,” I said, relief weakening my knees. As I walked back to the courtroom, I reflected that I had an ethical obligation to report the conversation I'd had with Marla to somebody. To Judge Feinberg, to the Kings County District Attorney. To somebody.

The door opened behind me; I turned. Ellie came in first, Josh holding the door behind her. Her face was devoid of makeup; she looked like a woman recovering from chemotherapy. At the court's insistence, she had brought the baby.

He was tinier than I remembered, and he was almost a month older than he'd been when I'd seen him last. He lay in her arms, sleeping. The still center of a storm that would sweep him forever into one family, cut him off from another.

The temperature around my body dropped twenty degrees; the sweat that had formed on my skin froze into a cold shroud.

Everybody knows the Bible story of Solomon and the baby claimed by two mothers. Everyone thinks they know how the mothers felt, how Solomon felt. Does anybody wonder what the lawyer for the mother felt?

I knew.

“All rise,” the bailiff said. We rose. I gave a hasty, guilty glance back at the Greenspans. Ellie looked nearly transparent; Josh was the enigma. All the energy seemed to have been drained from him. He held Ellie's thin hand in his big paw and stared straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge Amber's existence. He lumbered out of his chair when Judge Feinberg took the bench, then fell back like a rag doll. The masculine force of his personality seemed to have seeped out of him.

It was my motion, which meant I argued first. The advantage: I could set the stage, characterize the facts, define the issues. Disadvantage: I laid out my cards for Marla to trump when it was her turn.

I needed something to grab the court's attention.

“Joshua Greenspan lied to this Court,” I began. “He also lied to his wife. He pretended to be the disinterested adoptive father of this child when the fact was that he raped Amber Lundquist while married to Ellie Greenspan.”

I sensed a stir at the opposing counsel table, but didn't bother to look over at Marla. The judge's eyes opened a little wider, which was all I cared about.

I continued my indictment, letting some of my indignation at Josh's clumsy attempt to buy Amber off fuel my argument. “He used Amber as an unpaid surrogate mother to produce a biological child he intended to manipulate this Court into letting him adopt. He filed perjurious affidavits, he concealed vital information from the social workers preparing the pre-adoption investigation. And, yet, for all this—”

I let my voice go up and paused dramatically. Now for the zinger. “For all this,” I went on, “he is
not
the biological father of this child.”

I had a moment's pure satisfaction as I heard the gasps and murmurs from the rows behind me. Judge Feinberg banged a gavel and the noise subsided.

I had her complete attention. Sylvia Feinberg was a slight woman, thin as a dancer, with jet-black hair—no gray, courtesy of Grecian Formula—pulled back into a bun. Her cheeks were streaked with badly applied blusher, and her eyes had a raccoon ring of eyeliner. The wine-dark lipstick she favored was continually rubbing off onto her large front teeth. She was easy to caricature, easy to imitate with her no-nonsense bluntness. But she had a mind few judges could equal; she'd been number one in her class at Columbia and was mentioned more than once for the New York Court of Appeals.

“My client tells me,” I explained, “that she had a menstrual period between Mr. Greenspan's assault and the pregnancy. She cannot be absolutely certain as to the paternity of the child, which is why I am more than willing to submit to the DNA test already ordered by the Family Court, but—”

“Counselor,” Judge Feinberg interrupted, “what bearing, if any, does paternity have on the issues before this Court?”

If any. That was the clincher. Those were the words that told me Judge Sylvia was way ahead of me, that she knew exactly how I was going to answer that question, that she knew better than I what the legal ramifications of this case were. I felt like a golfer taking a swing she knew would carry the ball straight down the fairway.

“A child born in wedlock is presumed by the State of New York to be the child of the marriage,” I replied, stating what we both knew. “And this child was born at a time when Amber Lundquist was married to Scott Wylie. I offer the marriage certificate in evidence, Your Honor.” I handed the document to a court officer, who ferried it to the clerk for marking.

As I relinquished it, I tried not to picture an extremely pregnant Amber slipping out of Mrs. Bonaventura's benevolent clutches and sneaking away to Staten Island's Borough Hall for a brief marriage ceremony, while the indignant housemother thought she was at the mall. That picture smacked too much of the kind of calculation Marla had accused me of masterminding.

I pressed my advantage.

“It should be noted for the record that Mr. Wylie, whether or not he is the biological father of this child, is presumed to be its father. And his consent to this adoption was never obtained. The adoption is therefore voidable at his will.”

I took a breath. “We are here today, Your Honor,” I went on, “solely on the issue of temporary custody. We ask that this Court return the child to its birth mother pending a full hearing. As this Court knows, New York law provides that the best interests of the child take precedence over any claims, however legitimate, on the part of the adult litigants.” A nod from Feinberg; I was speaking her language.