The Child Comes First (2 page)

“You keep saying that, about meeting her. And yet she's not here because the public defender couldn't even make a case for bail. What are you not telling me?” His gaze seemed to bore into her, and she had to resist the urge to race for the door leading out of this chilly, glass-enclosed space. That was no surprise, given her own history. Lawyers routinely brought on a desire to flee, even though she knew from many sessions with therapists that this was not entirely rational. Not all lawyers were like her uncle, she reminded herself.

This one waited now for an explanation. She had to admit the truth—he'd find out soon enough from Tiffany's file. “No bail was set because we couldn't find a place for Tiffany to go. No one will foster her, and she has no family. Not a single relative.”

Jayda could see sympathy softening the hard edges of his gaze. She hadn't expected that. Social Services, inability to find any foster parent willing to take Tiffany in would tend to confirm her status as a problem child. Yet, it appeared Montgomery hadn't leaped to that conclusion.

“I'd take her myself,” Jayda added, “but my supervisor won't allow me to get that involved with any of the kids assigned to me.” Marla Wrightman had been firm on that point. The woman understood Jayda's desperation to get Tiffany out of the detention center, but she couldn't support a social worker becoming so deeply involved on a personal level.

“Tiffany is alone in the world,” Jayda said, hoping to build upon the unexpected sympathy she'd glimpsed in this man. “And that's not her fault.”

He remained silent a moment, then seemed to collect himself. He glanced down at the folder on his desk. “She has a history of acting out. And she's accused of murder. Not negligent homicide or involuntary manslaughter, but second-degree murder. What sane people would feel they could take such a child into their home?”

Jayda leaned forward, holding his gaze. “We have to get her out of the detention center. Surely you can guess how bad such places can be. And she didn't kill Derek Baldridge.”

“What about the other incidents of fighting and such?”

“She was barely walking and talking when the first one was recorded, and the others were self-defense. Sometimes she has a temper, but she's had a tough life. Come with me to the juvenile facility and talk to her right now—ask her to explain. I hope you'll see that she's worth saving. Please.”

A few frozen moments passed before she knew he'd do as she'd asked. With a rueful half smile, he eased back against his chair. “I'll need a few minutes with my secretary to rearrange my schedule,” he said. “And I'll drive us there. On the way, we can talk more about Tiffany and this crime she's accused of. I can bring you back to your own car when we're finished.”

“Okay,” she said. But she didn't like the idea of being alone in a car with this man she didn't know. Trapped. She'd likely have nightmares about it later. They'd merge with the ones she'd had since childhood, ever since her uncle had come into her life and made it a living hell with his groping hands and lurid games. And yet she'd agreed to ride in the car with Montgomery, anyway—for Tiffany's sake.

 

S
IMON DIDN'T KNOW WHY
he'd wanted Jayda to ride with him. He'd always been so careful to be seen only with women who dressed and carried themselves in just the right way, women who could enhance his prestige in his chosen profession. He wouldn't let anything tear down all he'd achieved so far. Certainly not a prim social worker with an overabundance of concern for a child accused of murder. Yet, he'd asked her to ride with him in the car he'd refurbished with such loving care….

He loved his restored Mustang almost as much as he loved winning in the courtroom, and he wondered what Ms. Kavanagh would think of it. Most of the women he knew couldn't understand the deeper beauty of this hot little vehicle, but they almost always appreciated the vintage Mustang for its ever-increasing monetary value. He figured he'd be treated to outright disdain from the social worker because he drove something so impractical.

“Here we are,” he said as he approached the low, sleek car with its gleaming hunter-green finish. Resisting the urge to polish an isolated smudge with the microfiber swatch he always kept in the pocket of his Armani suit, he led her to the passenger side and eased the key into the lock—no remote entry for a car such as this. When he opened the door for her to slide into the seat, he had the inexplicable feeling that he was inviting her to slide into his life. Why that would flit through his mind when she was so utterly wrong for him, he couldn't imagine.

She didn't immediately get into the car, but stood back a few paces. Her eyes glowed as she took in the lines of the vehicle, focusing on one detail after another. She nodded to herself, seeming to be lost in her observations, then she smiled.

“Is this a Shelby GT?” she asked. “A 500, right?”

His jaw dropped. He'd never met a woman who could identify the car. Most could tell it was a Mustang, but that was about it. “Yeah,” he said. “Fully restored.”

“I can see that,” she said as she moved to the back end to examine the taillights. “A '67, if my guess is right.” Then she bent down to check out the exhaust system. “Original?”

“I wish,” he said. “Unfortunately, it's a replacement.” Simon had to remind himself to breathe. Not only did she recognize the car, but she'd checked out the undercarriage. And when she'd leaned forward to see beneath the car she'd unintentionally given him a great view of her shapely backside as her demure skirt tightened around her. The unexpected spark of physical interest shocked him nearly as much as her appreciation of his car.

He had to look away before she caught him gaping. “Yup. It's a 1967 Shelby Mustang GT500,” he recited inanely. “Not many women know much about cars.”

She straightened and nodded knowingly. He took a surreptitious half step backward at the sight of perfect white teeth and a barely noticeable dimple on one cheek. Not my type, he reminded himself firmly. No matter how much she appreciated his Mustang.

“My cousin's husband is a big car buff. He collects model cars and he has this very vehicle in one-eighteenth scale. He'll be thrilled when I tell him I saw a real one, up close and personal.”

“You can tell him you got to ride in one, too,” he said, returning to the passenger door and sweeping his hand toward the interior. He stood there while she got in—an interesting process to observe, given the low bucket seats and that skirt of hers. Women didn't wear skirts much these days, he realized. Jayda did her best to keep the whole thing modest, but Simon found himself watching her do it, anyway. He closed her door, then took his time rounding the car to the driver's side, hoping to calm his pulse. He'd known her for less than an hour, and she'd already managed to challenge his beliefs about what he wanted.

T
HE RIDE TO
B
ALTIMORE'S
G
AY
Street—ironically enough, the road on which the juvenile detention center sat—didn't take long. Jayda kept her mind on Tiffany's case and on giving Simon Montgomery the girl's history. Otherwise, she might have found herself dwelling on how close their shoulders were in the constricted interior of the restored vehicle. They weren't touching, but only inches separated them. She could smell the faintest hint of after-shave, a pleasant-enough scent. To her satisfaction, she managed to control the urge to lean as far away from him as possible. Her therapy must be working. When the sun came through the car window, she found herself noticing his hair wasn't quite black, after all. It was actually a deep brown, to match his eyes. A pleasant surprise, to be able to consider him as a person rather than as a threat.

Too often in the past, she'd judged powerful professional men through the caustic memories she had of the uncle who had groped and fondled her during her teens. Her mother's brother had been an ambitious, successful attorney, too, and as a result Jayda had always been attracted to men with the opposite characteristics—easygoing guys with little interest in dominating a relationship. The last one had been Brian—a happy-go-lucky waiter at a nice chain restaurant. He, like her other boyfriends, had worked out at first, but none of them had lasted more than a year. Either she'd become bored or they'd become insecure. Her most recent therapist told her she probably needed to find someone more her equal intellectually. But strong, smart men still overwhelmed her. She decided to take her reaction to Simon Montgomery as a good sign. Maybe she was beginning to escape the iron hold her earlier memories had over her. She could hope.

“We both know that as guardian ad litem, you need to look out for Tiffany's interests during the legal proceedings,” Montgomery said as he downshifted and pulled into a parking space. “And I'll need you to tell me whatever you think I should know that she might not want to talk about. What you hear and add to my interviews with her will still be protected as attorney-client communication, so don't hesitate to talk as we go along.”

Jayda nodded. “Tiffany's smart. Sometimes a smart aleck,” she added with a rueful smile. “But she often understands the proceedings better than I do—mostly, I hope to be an emotional support to her.”

As they got out of the car, he said, “I've never been here before, so it would be great if you'd lead the way.”

Jayda had been to the Gay Street facility far too many times. “The people who run it probably mean well, but it's still not a good place for any kid to end up. I hate that Tiffany's spent so much time within these walls. Every day she's here there's a chance she'll be beaten or abused by a fellow inmate.”

He didn't say anything to this, but Jayda saw his mouth tighten with tension. Did he appreciate the importance of winning his client's release? She couldn't tell. Without speaking, he opened the entrance door for her and she walked in first.

“I called ahead while you were rearranging your schedule with your secretary, so we shouldn't have to wait long to see her,” she said. “I've never found anything specifically wrong on her previous visits, but things can change quickly, and for the worse, in a place like this. I hope to get her out while she still has some little girl left in her.”

 

S
IMON HAD BEEN INSIDE
many prisons. He'd visited clients in mental institutions. But the juvenile justice center into which he walked with Ms. Kavanagh really gave him the creeps. He supposed his reaction could be attributed partly to his own experiences in similar places, even though he'd been too young and his time in those facilities had been too brief to have left him with any lasting memories. Unlike the places he'd been kept in right after his parents' deaths, this was a fairly new building, opened in 2003. It should have been the best of the best. It wasn't.

He did his utmost to shrug off his sense of discomfort as he waited for the red tape to be sorted out so that he could meet Tiffany. As he waited, he began to identify sounds that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. “Can you hear that?” he asked the social worker.

“Yeah, I can hear it. It's always like this.”

Faraway shouts, the dull clang of heavy metal doors, the unmistakable sense that children were weeping. That was how he heard it, though none of the noises was actually identifiable. “How long has she been here?”

Her gaze swung around to collide with his. Anger flared behind her gray eyes. “Too long, wouldn't you agree? Haven't all the kids been here too long?” She looked away and seemed to collect herself. Her tone was softer when she said, “A little over a month.”

They waited together in silence for Tiffany to be brought to an interview room. At last, a matron in a dark uniform asked them to follow her. They were led to a gray door with a meshed window inset at an adult's eye level. Through it, Simon got his first look at Tiffany Thompson.

He'd expected to find a big-for-her-age, tough-as-nails, hard-looking preteen—someone who actually appeared capable of committing the heinous murder of a three-year-old boy. But instead, he saw a small girl with pigtails and doe eyes sitting at a gray metal table in a chair far too large for her. She had on a tan T-shirt and ill-fitting elastic-waist pants; her feet, in a pair of slip-on sneakers, didn't touch the floor, but her ankles were crossed and she swung her legs back and forth idly as she waited. She nibbled anxiously on her fingers.

The social worker opened the door and walked in first, and a huge smile lit the girl's face.

“Jayda!” She launched herself from the seat and flew into the woman's wide-open arms. Hearing the name spoken aloud in the child's voice made it real for Simon, and he ceased thinking of her as Ms. Kavanagh and began to think of her as Jayda.

“I missed you,” Jayda said after she'd set the girl back on her feet. “How are you? Have you been okay?”

“Yes, I'm fine,” Tiffany said, but her eyes shifted away. “I can take care of myself. I'm small, but I bite.” She gave a mock smile, showing her teeth and flashing a defiant glare.

Jayda winced. “No biting,” she warned. “We're going to do everything we can to get you out of here.” She turned toward Simon, drawing the girl's attention to him. “This is the new attorney I found for you.”

Simon put on his best lawyer face. Not quite certain how to approach an introduction to a child client, he resorted to habit and offered his hand to shake. “I'm Simon Montgomery,” he said.

Solemnly, Tiffany put her small hand in his. “Tiffany Thompson,” she returned. Tiffany studied him carefully with a penetrating gaze. For the first time in years, Simon felt his expensive suit was an ineffective disguise that did little to hide the in-over-his-head guy he sometimes felt himself to be. “Are you going to do any actual lawyering, or will you be another slacker who lets me be victimized by the system?”

“Tiffany,” Jayda warned. “Best behavior, please.”

Simon found such forthrightness refreshing. So many of his clients bowed and scraped with him, but not this kid. “I am not a slacker,” he assured her. “Let's sit down and talk about everything, okay?”

“Okay.” Tiffany climbed back into her chair and clasped her hands on top of the table.

He saw that her nails were bitten down, and he couldn't blame her. She was definitely in a nail-biting situation. But she held herself still and gave him the impression of a poker player attempting to keep tells to a minimum. Tiffany was apparently savvy enough to know that body language could give away information she might not want people to know.

Jayda slid her chair closer to the table and turned to the girl. “Mr. Montgomery is a much better attorney than the last one, and he's promised to help you.”

“Why?” Tiffany asked pointedly.

Simon wasn't sure how to respond. No one had ever asked him that before, not even his other pro bono clients. Once again, falling back on the familiar, he gave her one of his practiced smiles, the one intended to instill confidence in worried clients. “Because everyone has the right to a fair trial,” he said.

She nodded, staring at him with unblinking saucer-size eyes that declared innocence, just as Jayda had promised. But Simon knew from experience that even the sweetest face could mask a black heart. Glancing at Jayda, he saw the caring in her eyes and hoped the child wouldn't disappoint her.

“So, Tiffany,” he said, holding her gaze once more, “I need to ask what happened between you and Derek that day. Can you tell me about it?”

She nodded again and began to speak. “Miss Hester had to go out and I had to look after Derek. I didn't like it—I'm not supposed to be a babysitter,” Tiffany said. “But I didn't have a choice. So we just watched TV for a while.”

There was sincerity in her voice. Guilty or not, Simon knew she'd make a great witness if he decided to put her on the stand. “Then what happened?” he asked.

“Derek started banging a toy truck around, making noise and poking me with it.” She looked down at her hands, the first sign of discomfort. “I yelled at him to stop. But he kept doing it and hitting me with the truck. I don't remember touching him or anything. I might have pushed him away, though. He just started whining—like this.” She made a keening sound, high and loud. As she imitated the boy she rocked back and forth, and Simon assumed this was what Derek had done.

“Then he sat down hard on his butt. His eyes looked funny. He just sat there. After a minute, he fell over and he didn't get up. His eyes were open but he wouldn't say anything, even when I tugged on his arm and leg. I was freaked out.”

She'd had good reason to be, Simon thought. Tiffany was now charged with Derek's murder. If she was telling the truth, she hadn't done it. If she was lying…It didn't really matter one way or the other, because guilty or not Simon always made certain his clients got every last ounce of fairness.

“Had you done anything else to him? Touched Derek in any way so that he fell over?” he asked.

She looked up into his eyes. Hers were glistening, her expression hurt, frightened. Or she gave a very good imitation of those emotions. “No, I didn't make him fall over.”

Simon could detect no hint of a lie, but Tiffany also hadn't answered his question about whether she'd done anything to him.

Jayda shot him a reproachful glare, then turned her focus back to Tiffany. “What did you do when Derek wouldn't respond?” she prodded.

“I could tell he wasn't breathing right. So I got on the floor next to him and tried to sit him up. Miss Hester came home when I was holding him from behind.” She bowed her arms outward, as if she still held the other child by his armpits. “I might have been crying because I knew something bad was happening. And I figured I'd get the blame. Miss Hester yelled at me to leave him alone, so I dropped him and jumped away.” She winced and ducked her head, as she added, “He fell back onto the floor, all limp—I could hear his head hit. I was crying,” she repeated. And she was crying now, Simon realized. Huge tears welled in her brown eyes and then rolled down her cheeks.

Sitting with Tiffany Thompson in this dingy room, Simon found himself wishing he could trade in a bunch of his past acquittals won on obscure legal technicalities for the verdict this young girl seemed to deserve. But then he reminded himself that Tiffany could just be an accomplished actress. He'd seen it before, though not in anyone quite so young. Holding back his judgment about her would be best. He didn't want to be surprised to find out she'd been lying all along.

Jayda offered a tissue from her purse, but Tiffany slapped away her hand, preferring to swipe at the dampness with a sleeve. Jayda's eyes closed momentarily, as if searching inside for patience. “I know you're upset, Tiffany, but you shouldn't take it out on people who want to help you.” The social worker's expression was a study in compassion.

“No one's helped me so far,” the girl whispered bitterly.

Uncomfortable, Simon looked down at his client's folder. Tiffany's reaction to kindness reminded him pointedly of his first weeks in his foster parents' home. It had been so hard to accept the fact that he was safe and that his security was more than fleeting. Tiffany's rudeness to her guardian reminded Simon of those difficult times, triggering recollections he hadn't thought about in many years and would have preferred to leave buried.

“Let's go over some basic things,” he suggested, hoping to quell Tiffany's anger, Jayda's frustration and his own memories. “The man who works for the government—he's called the prosecutor. He's going to try to convince a group of people called the jury that you killed Derek on purpose.”

Jayda spoke up. “Tiffany's young, but she's extremely smart. You don't have to talk to her as if she's a toddler. She's a big fan of
L.A. Law
reruns on TV. Just try not to speak in that legalese her previous lawyer used and we'll both be able to understand you.”

“I know all about the people in the courtroom,” Tiffany said, sitting up a little straighter. “Besides the people you mentioned, and the judge, there's also defense counsel, a bailiff and a stenographer and…”