Kiss Me Hello (Sweetest Kisses) (32 page)

“He’ll finish out the school year here at least, Sid. Judge Stevens is big on education and good grades.”

How much comfort would that be? That for the next two weeks, Sid and Luis could anticipate leaving each other?

She gave the swing a desultory push with her toe. “If not knowing what will happen the day after tomorrow drives me half-batty, how can Luis possibly cope?”

“He’s a survivor, Sid. He’s moved on any number of times, and if he has to weather this, he’ll make the best of it.” Mac had given Luis the same speech about Sid not fifteen minutes ago.

She cuddled closer. “I hate you. You’re right, you’re spouting common sense, but I have to hate you for it.”

“Weese asked me to look after you.” Had made Mac promise to look after her. “He said this would be harder on you than it was on him.”

“Oh, God. That boy…”

Mac fished for his hankie and passed it to her. Sid was quiet and relaxed against him, her scent teasing him even while she blotted her eyes. He could feel her thinking, feel the gears turning in her mind, though physically she seemed wrung out.

“I owe you my thanks, MacKenzie. Your family has been wonderful. They wouldn’t be doing this if you asked them not to.”

“Trent does a good job for all his clients. We all do.”

As did the great majority of lawyers. In the interests of remaining on the swing with Sid, Mac let that sleeping dog snore a while longer.

“That’s not what I meant. To pick Hannah’s brains, to offer Luis your homes was not lawyering. I think what hurts Luis the most is the separation from his sisters. He sees letting me adopt him as a betrayal of them.”

They were talking, not about their relationship, but they were talking, and that—despite the circumstances—was wonderful.

“I have my own theory about Luis’s motivations, Sid.”

She lifted her head to peer at him. “Will you share this theory?”

“Will you stomp off into the night if you don’t like it?”

Sid blew out a breath while Mac held his.

“That was fair,” she said. “Given the way I’ve treated you, given some of my reactions, that question was fair. I will not stomp off into the night.”

Progress. Significant progress. “Luis doesn’t feel worthy of your love, and he punishes himself by denying himself adoption. He’s trying to protect you somehow.”

“Protect
me
?”

Must she sound so incredulous about a guy’s honorable efforts to keep her safe and happy?

“Just a theory.”

“I want to say you’re full of baloney,” Sid muttered. “I like my theory better.”

“But?”

“But I will think about what you’ve said. It’s late, and I’ve kept you here long enough. Tomorrow is a workday for you, and I have yet to thank you.”

“I don’t need thanks.”

She was silent for long minutes, while Mac savored the feel of her next to him, her head on his shoulder. Maybe this was a weak moment on her part; maybe he was a port in a storm. He’d enjoy the time spent with Sid, nonetheless, and build on them as best he could.

“I castigated you for not telling me you’re a lawyer, MacKenzie. Now lawyers are all that stand between my foster son and disaster.”

He’d trusted her to come to this realization; he loved her for owning up to it.

“You castigated me for not being truthful. I understand that, Sid.” He also understood she was tired and fretful, and now was not the time to rehash his transgressions. “Let me make you a cup of tea.”

“Oh, MacKenzie.”

Oh, MacKenzie, what?

Mac led Sid into the kitchen, brewed her a cup of chamomile tea, sweetened it with agave nectar, and took his leave before he was offering to tuck her in—and before she was telling him what he could do with that offer, and any others like it.

“All rise! The Circuit Court for Damson County is now in session, the Honorable Paul Stevens presiding. You may be seated.”

Sid’s stomach jumped at the bailiff’s call to order. She’d made a few calls to DSS yesterday, posed as somebody curious about becoming licensed as a foster parent. She’d been told the worker responsible for handling those calls was out on medical leave, but somebody would get back to her.

Another dead end, and a perfectly reasonable explanation for why Hannah’s “support chain” hadn’t materialized.

Luis sat beside Trent at a table in the front of the room. Beside Sid in the first row of the gallery was Mac, on her other side Hannah, then James. A show of support, for her and Luis, though by rights they probably weren’t supposed to be in the courtroom, even though they were lawyers.

“Call your case, Mr. Patlack.” Judge Stevens’s voice was crisp with a hint of irritation. The docketed time for the case had passed forty-five minutes ago, an earlier case having run over.

“Your Honor, the Department calls the case of Luis M., A Child in Need of Assistance.” Patlack, a fast talker in a blue seersucker suit, rattled off the case number and explained the case had been transferred from Baltimore to allow the child to remain with the same foster parent.

“Though as Your Honor will see, the Department’s recommendations are for the child to return to his prior jurisdiction at the close of the school year.”

The judge glanced over the documents Patlack had passed to the clerk, and the clerk had passed to the judge.

“The boy just got here, Mr. Patlack. Did the Department scare up some long-lost relatives at the last minute?”

“No, Your Honor, we did not, but neither did Baltimore do a very thorough investigation of the foster parent’s circumstances. Then too, the child’s siblings are stably placed in the prior jurisdiction, and the least restrictive placement would be closer to them.”

Bullshit, lies, and weasel words. Sid knew better than to utter a peep.

Stevens peered over his glasses at Trent. “Mr. Knightley, what’s your client’s position?”

Trent rose. “We’re of the opinion, Your Honor, that two Departments dropping the ball doesn’t make for good case management. We believe Luis’s best interests are served by remaining exactly where he is, which is also what he emphatically wants.”

Stevens scowled as he flipped through the social worker’s recommendations. “Mr. Patlack, call your first witness.”

“The Department calls Ms. Amy Snyder.”

Amy had worn one of her damned jumpers to court. A navy-blue sailor suit this time, complete with white stockings and red patent leather flats. She also carried her SmartPad right up to the witness stand.

Sid wanted to bean her with the damned thing.

When the swearing of the witness was concluded, Patlack sat back in his chair and started the litany Sid had heard many times before.

“Ma’am, are you the worker assigned to the case of Luis Martineau?”

“I am.”

“How long have you been so assigned?”

“Not long.” She simpered at the judge. “Baltimore sprung him on us just a few months ago.”

Bad Baltimore, in other words.
Bitch
. And to refer to Luis in the third person when he sat twelve feet away qualified as
demon-bitch
behavior.

“During your tenure on the case, did you formulate recommendations regarding what’s in the child’s best interest?” Patlack asked.

“I did.” Another smirking preen for the judge’s benefit.

“Are those the recommendations you’ve put forth today?”

“Of course.”

“Can you explain to His Honor how you came to the conclusion that Luis’s best interests are served by sending him back to Baltimore? The boy has only recently arrived here, if I’m not mistaken?”

Oh, the condescension in Patlack’s voice. The sweet reason and civility. Sid wanted to kick him in the balls.

“Our thought was that Baltimore had been hasty with Luis’s situation. Because we’ll have to move him anyway, we thought placing him closer to his two younger sisters would be less restrictive, more consistent with his needs and with his permanency plan.”

“What is that plan?”

“Return home, though relative placement hasn’t been ruled out.”

“Are any relatives willing to take him in?” The worthless sack of manure managed to sound hopeful as he posed the question.

“Baltimore would know more about that, because they had the case for nearly three years. From what I’ve seen of the file, no. No relatives.”

She shot an apologetic glance at Luis—whom she hadn’t bothered to ask about relatives—and whose countenance made the Easter Island statues look sentimental. Beside Luis, Trent made notes on a yellow legal pad, his expression also unreadable.

This
is
what
it
looks
like; this is what it feels like to lose my son.
All the procedural window-dressing in the world was only so much anesthetic for the people taking Luis from her. Sid would know very well that the surgeon in the black robe at the front of the room had cut her heart out, regardless of the sterile procedure or the legal protections intended to ensure she survived the proceedings.

Patlack was far from finished, apparently. “Is Luis having contact with his siblings now that he’s moved out here to western Maryland, Ms. Snyder?”

“None at all.” Alas, poor Luis. Ms. Snyder conveyed such sympathy for the boy, obliterating the fact that arranging the visits was exclusively her job.

“Just a few more questions, ma’am. You said Luis would be moved anyway. Why is that?”

Ms. Snyder cradled her SmartPad to her chest, as if what came next pained her. Just watching her performance curdled the caramel mocha breakfast latte Sid had snatched from a drive-through on the way to court.

“Baltimore didn’t do a very thorough job of investigating what Luis’s situation would be with his current foster parent when he moved out here. They knew the family’s arrangements in Baltimore, of course, and I’m sure those complied with the regulations, but out here, it’s a different story.”

“You’re saying the foster home isn’t compliant with the state’s requirements?”

“I’m afraid not.” A glance at the judge conveying regret. The stage had lost a real talent when Amy Snyder went after her social worker’s license.

“Then I have no further questions.”

Which made no sense. Sid’s home was in compliance. They’d literally had to move earth to do it, but she’d gotten rid of the infernal two-seater, though Ms. Snyder had yet to come to the property to verify that. Sid gripped Mac’s hand more tightly, then wondered when she’d taken it in hers.

Or had he been the one to join their hands?

The judge tapped a pencil against his lips. “Your witness, Mr. Knightley, though we don’t have all morning.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. Ms. Snyder, how long has Luis been in care?” His voice was casual, merely curious.

“I’d have to consult my notes. The case didn’t originate in Damson County.”

Yeah, you made sure we knew that, at least three times over.

“Take all the time you need,” Trent said.

This time when Ms. Snyder visually flirted with the judge, her glance was timid.

“It’s, um…” She scrolled through her smarty-pants notes. “Three years this month.”

“When was the last permanency plan hearing?”

“Objection.” Patlack was on his feet. “This is beyond the scope of direct examination of the witness and not relevant. Today’s hearing is a routine review of the case only, and quite frankly, I do not think the Court has the time—given the rest of today’s docket—for Mr. Knightley’s detours and fishing expeditions.”

The foul excrescence sounded convinced of his own rhetoric, and Sid’s latte threatened to make a reappearance.

“Mr. Knightley?” the judge asked mildly.

“The worker is responsible for managing the case, Your Honor. If we’re not reviewing that case management, what is the point of the proceeding? Luis is long overdue for a permanency planning hearing, he has been denied the permanence any foster child in the system for three years is entitled to, and his case—with eight moves in the three years—is exactly the situation where the Court should prohibit further shuffling around of the child unless it’s absolutely necessary. Rather than toss this child over the transom
yet
again
, Ms. Snyder ought to be exploring adoptive resources for the child in county.”

Eight
moves.
Trent’s spiel put information in front of the judge that the worker wouldn’t give up willingly—though Patlack looked unimpressed.

Sid’s belly settled marginally.

“Objection overruled,” the judge said. “The witness may answer the question.”

Ms. Snyder smoothed a hand down her hair. “I forget the question.”

’Cause you’re a lot dumber—and meaner—than you look.

“When was the last permanency planning hearing in this case?” Trent said.

“I’d have to consult my notes.”

Trent said nothing, and the bitch idiot lying witch Kewpie doll conniving excuse for a low-down scheming she-snake put a worried look on her face.

“Um, I think it has been quite some time.”

“The witness’s answer is nonresponsive to the question,” Trent said, looking directly at the judge.

“Find us a date, if you can, Ms. Snyder.” And praise be to heaven, the judge sounded more pissed than avuncular.

She fussed and scrolled and fussed some more, then recited a date nearly two years in the past.

“You don’t think Luis deserves any permanency planning?” Trent asked, his tone still mild.

“Oh, of course he does. That’s why we’re moving him. His sisters are in a pre-adopt household, and we’re hopeful that things will work out for Luis too.”

A commotion at the door stopped the proceedings. A slender, dark-haired woman was led into the courtroom by uniformed guards, her handcuffs and ankle bracelets jangling. She wore jeans and a modest cream blouse, her hair was swept back in a tidy bun, and her gaze, her entire being, was focused on Luis.

The judge glanced at the court reporter. “Let the record reflect we’ve been joined by the boy’s mother. Ma’am, please state your name for the record.”

“Phillippa Martineau, Your Honor.” A beautiful voice, her words spoken as the deputies unlocked her ankle bracelets.

“Have a seat, Ms. Martineau. Was it your intention to appear here without representation?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Then, Mr. Knightley, you may proceed.”

“Ms. Snyder, you were telling us that Luis’s sisters are to be adopted, but you don’t intend to place him in the same foster home, do you?”

“That would be up to Baltimore.”

“Who in Baltimore?”

“His worker.”

“Who will that be?”

“Baltimore will assign the worker when the case is transferred.”

“Do you mean to tell me, Ms. Snyder, you have no idea where Luis will be placed, not the first clue, but somehow you think it’s better for him to be a few miles closer to his sisters, even though it means removing him from the pre-adopt family where he’s thrived for nearly the past year?”

“Mr. Knightley, the home he’s in isn’t properly licensed. I’m sorry, but if his foster parent truly cared about Luis, she would not have allowed her qualifications to lapse.”

No string of expletives was adequate for the rage that comment ignited in Sid. Three varieties of green beans were growing where the damned two-seater had been.

“We’ll get to the licensing issues,” Trent said. “How many times have you called Baltimore to coordinate with them regarding this transfer?”

“Well, I haven’t called them yet. They haven’t assigned a worker.”

“Right. Because you haven’t told them you want to transfer the case.”

“Objection.” Patlack didn’t bother to rise this time. “Counsel may not testify.”

“Sustained,” the judge muttered.

“My apologies.” Trent sounded anything but apologetic. “Now why is the foster parent’s license in jeopardy?”

“She’s out of compliance.”

“Can you be more specific, Ms. Snyder?”

“She lives on a farm, and there were difficulties with the physical home.”

“Such as?”

“Well…” Ms. Snyder gave the judge an awkward smile. “Outdoor plumbing is unacceptable in a licensed foster home.”

Trent jumped in with the next question. “You’re implying Baltimore sent a child out here to a home without indoor plumbing? How many bathrooms does Luis’s foster home have inside the farmhouse?”

“I’d have to check my notes.”

Trent merely crossed his arms.

“It looks like…three and a half.”

“So the outdoor plumbing wasn’t in use, was it?”

“The family said not. I have no way of knowing, really.”

Mac’s fingers closed more snugly around Sid’s, which was all that kept her from bellowing obscenities at the state’s witness.

“The building housing the outdoor plumbing has been razed, hasn’t it?” Trent asked.

“That’s what the foster parent claims.”

“You haven’t verified her claim? Or is the presence or absence of a building difficult to assess?”

Go, Trent.

“Really, I haven’t had the case that long, and the issue of the outdoor plumbing isn’t the greatest problem.”

“Why is that?”

“The household income is the problem. We pay our foster parents a stipend to meet the needs of the foster children in their homes, but the family has to have independent income. Often, if there’s a divorce, or the breadwinner dies unexpectedly, the foster care license has to be given up.”

Sid didn’t hear the rest of the woman’s tripe. Income was the problem?
Income?
She needed an air-sickness bag, and duct tape for Amy Snyder’s mouth.

Mac patted Sid’s knuckles, his expression willing her to remain quiet and seated. Sid had no steady income; that was the damned, ugly truth. Mac’s board money wasn’t employment. Her land would make her money come fall, and she’d tucked away a little from selling the hog house lumber and her topsoil, but that was incidental income.