Unbreakable (18 page)

I took up a legal pad and pen, coming up with—and rejecting—several ideas on how to solve the residency issue, until realizing the pen had leaked ink all over my fingers. I washed my hands in the guest bathroom, still thinking.

The guest bathroom. A full four-piece: sink, toilet, shower, and a bathtub.
Kids take baths,
I thought absently.

I wandered to my office and leaned against the door. A desk against the wall took up the most space but I’d kept it relatively open in order to give myself room for yoga. Bookshelves lined one wall, and the closet was full of clothes I hadn’t worn in ages. Nothing in the room that couldn’t easily be relocated to the attic.

What, exactly, are you thinking?

I didn’t let myself think. I took up my cell phone again and punched a number.

“Abed? It’s Alex. I need you look something up for me.”

Cory

I glanced across the small courtroom in Superior Court, in downtown L.A. Georgia didn’t look at me, but remained safely barricaded behind her lawyer, Mr. Jeffries. A chubby, balding man with a smug look on his face. He’d shaken my hand upon first entering the room with a condescending smile, like he felt sorry for what he was about to do me…but only a little.

I sat alone on my half of the room, tugging irritably at the collar of my dress shirt. I’d worn an old tweed suit jacket as well, a tie, and khaki pants, in a futile attempt to look upstanding. I wished I’d thought to cut my hair but it was too late now. Like it mattered. This hearing was going to wreck me, and no haircut or semi-decent outfit was going to change that.

Judge James Walker entered, and the bailiff told everyone to rise.

The judge, a tired-looking man in his late sixties intoned in a bored voice, “With regards to docket number A4599, Owens vs. Bishop, concerning the residence of Calliope Bishop, a minor child. I will now hear arguments.”

Mr. Jeffries got to his feet. “Good morning, Your Honor. I’m Reginald Jeffries. My client…”

“I know who you are, Mr. Jeffries, and I’ve read the request for order. Ms. Owens wants to move. Mr. Bishop does not.” The judge folded his hands and peered over his nose at the attorney. “This Court is not in the business of removing children from their parents willy-nilly, Mr. Jeffries. Unless you can prove that Mr. Bishop is unable or inadequate or in some other way
unfit
to maintain shared custody of his daughter, I am inclined to deny the order.”

I felt hope swell and clasped my hands tightly together under the desk.

“I understand, Your Honor.” Mr. Jeffries cleared his throat. “As of two weeks ago, Mr. Bishop no longer has a permanent residence. Not one for himself, let alone one that is suitable for Callie during his every other weekend visitation.”

“Is this true, Mr. Bishop?”

I stood up. “Yes, Your Honor. I was recently hospitalized. I got out two days ago.”

“I have heard,” Judge Walker remarked, “and I have to warn you, I will not be swayed by past heroic deeds of derring-do. I am only concerned with the facts as they stand right at this moment.”

“Of course, Your Honor,” I said. “I only ask that I be given a little bit of time—”

Judge Walker held up his hand. “We’re not at the asking part of this hearing, we’re at the telling part. You may sit.” He turned to Jeffries. “What else? I want to hear your whole case and then I’ll let Mr. Bishop tell me his. Go.”

“Uh, yes,” Jeffries said, clearly rattled by the judge’s rather abrupt demeanor. “Mr. Bishop doesn’t have suitable housing for the minor child—”

“You already said that.”

“Nor does he have employment—”

I surged to my feet. “That’s not true. I have a job, Your Honor.”

“Mr. Bishop has been advised to recover from the injuries for another two weeks. My client, Ms. Owens, is eager to settle down in Sitka, Alaska prior to the start of the fall school term for her daughter. And should Mr. Bishop ignore the medical advice given him and sustain further injury…”

“And lightning might strike Mr. Bishop, rendering him a drooling vegetable right at this very moment,” the judge said. “But since we are only concerned about what has actually occurred and not hypothetical calamities, I’m going to give Mr. Bishop the benefit of the doubt on this one.” He peered at me. “Are you employed?”

“Yes. With the same company as at our last custody hearing, Your Honor.”

“Are you going against the medical advice of your doctor and returning to work sooner rather than later?”

“I feel fine, Your Honor.”

“Oh goody.” The judge turned to Jeffries. “What else?”

Jeffries squared his shoulders and I knew what was coming next. His ace in the hole.

“Due to Mr. Bishop’s recent hospital stay—a stay of two weeks that included surgery, respiratory therapy, and round-the-clock care—he has accrued a medical bill to the tune of $237,000. And…” he rocked on his heels, “he has no health insurance.”

Judge Walker’s eyebrows furrowed and he looked at me, as if disappointed. “Is that so?”

I didn’t bother to argue. I had nothing to argue
with.
“Yes, Your Honor. It’s true.”

Judge Walker sighed. “Sum it up, Mr. Jeffries.”

“Yes, Your Honor. Mr. Bishop has no current residence and a job that pays $44,000 per year, which is not enough to cover adequate housing expenses, child-support, never mind handle that enormous hospital bill in any meaningful way. Whereas Ms. Owens has secured housing, a job, and childcare in the form of a family relation in the town of Sitka. There is nothing to prevent Mr. Bishop from moving to said town as well, but there is very little keeping Ms. Owens or Callie here.”

“Very little,” scoffed a voice from the back of the courtroom, “but for the chance for Callie to see her father.”

I turned and watched Alex Gardener march up the divide between the benches. She looked stunning in a smart tailored suit of light blue that made her eyes stand out like chips of glass—hard glass that bored into Mr. Jeffries like little daggers. My heart tripped at the sight of her and then hurried to catch up.

Alex marched up to my table, laid her briefcase down, opened it, and pulled out a sheaf of documents, talking all the while.

“I apologize for my tardiness, Your Honor, but I vastly underestimated how crowded the Family Law Department can be.”

Judge Walker peered down his nose at her. “And you are?”

“Alexandra Gardener. I am Mr. Bishop’s attorney.”

“Since when?” Jeffries blurted.

“Give me a dollar,” Alex muttered under her breath to me.

“What?”

“A dollar. Give it to me.”

I fished out my wallet and handed her the money. Nothing had happened yet, nothing had changed, and yet I knew right then, as she took that dollar and smiled at me, that I wasn’t going to lose my little girl.

“Since right now,” Alex said, holding up the bill before stuffing it into her jacket pocked. “But because I’m a Type-A organizer, I filed the substitution prior to being officially hired. For the record my bar number is 34222, if the Court requires it, though I’d hazard a guess Your Honor would like to cease with the theatrics and get right to it.”

“He would,” said the judge.

“Excellent. But might I have a moment to confer with my client?”

“You may.”

I stared as Alex sat beside me and pulled a small collection of papers together. “Sign this,” she whispered, thrusting a pen at me.

“What are you doing here?”

A small smile played over her lips. “Doing what you hate: helping you. Sign.”

I glanced at the papers—a lease agreement. “What is this?”

“This is how Callie stays in L.A.,” she whispered. “
Sign
.”

Without waiting for my answer, she rose to her feet and addressed the judge, while I put my signature or initials on the documents where little yellow arrow-shaped tabs told me to.

“Your Honor, I don’t know what sort of allegations Mr…?”

“Jeffries.”

“Thank you, I’m still getting up to speed,” she laughed airily, and in the next instant her voice turned deadly serious. “I don’t know what sort of allegations Mr. Jeffries has leveled at my client but these are the facts as of nine forty-five this morning: Mr. Bishop has adequate housing, more than suitable, safe, and comfortable for his daughter during his visitation.”

“Where?” Jeffries demanded. “What sort of housing?”

“A two-bedroom, two-bathroom house at 225 California Avenue in Santa Monica. Callie has her own room in a safe neighborhood, and a fenced yard to play in.”

Georgia hissed a string of words at Jeffries, clutching his arm.

“Your Honor, this is the first we’ve heard of this arrangement,” he said. “Surely, the rent at such a locale is beyond Mr. Bishop’s capability…”

“Quite the contrary,” Alex said. “The rent at this location is quite affordable, a real steal, actually, at one U.S. dollar per month.” She glanced down at me with that same smile. “Utilities inclusive.”

I stared.
Oh Christ, what has she done?
But there was nothing to do but sit back and watch the show that was Alex Gardener tearing apart Georgia’s plans to take Callie from me.

“The residence is subject to inspection by an appointed representative from Child Services,” Judge Walker told Alex. “I’m not going to
take your word for it
, Ms. Gardener, in case you were harboring the delusion.”

“Of course not, Your Honor,” Alex replied, unruffled. “And as for my client’s employment, he has completed the necessary hours and apprenticeship to acquire his general contractor’s license, and while I’m sure Sitka is a lovely town in its own right, the opportunities for Mr. Bishop in his chosen field of expertise are far broader in Los Angeles County. In any event, child support payments to Ms. Owens will not cease.”

“Is that so?” Jeffries whined. “Residence aside, how does Mr. Bishop plan to continue child support
and
pay down $237,000 in hospital bills?”

Alex frowned, as if confused. “Hospital bills?”

Jeffries eased a smile, and my heart sank.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Gardener,” he said in a voice that oozed condescension. “Given that you are so new to the case, I regret to inform you that Mr. Bishop has medical expenses nearing a quarter of a million dollars…”

“No, no, I’m quite up to speed,” Alex said, shuffling through some papers until she found the one that she wanted. “And I regret to inform
you
that Mr. Bishop has no medical bills of any kind.”

Jeffries crossed his arms. “How is that possible?”

“Yes, Ms. Gardener,” the judge said. “Enlighten us.”

“Delighted to,” Alex said. “The good people of this fair city have taken it upon themselves to relieve Mr. Bishop of any financial burden, as thanks for his service and heroics during the recent hostage crisis at United One Bank. The nurses at Cedars-Sinai—working in conjunction with several hostages intimately associated with Mr. Bishop during said hostage crisis—have set up a donation website.” She consulted her paper, smiling brightly, not a care in the world. “As of this morning, donations have exceeded $244,000. More than sufficient to cover any medical bills, which is why I was rather confused by your assertion, Mr. Jeffries, that Mr. Bishop would be unable to continue the child support payments. The same payments he’s been making for the last seven years. Never missing a single one.
Not a single one
. ”

I swallowed hard and endeavored not to shake my head. Donations? Enough to cover the entire bill? Gratitude and humiliation warred in me, but Alex wasn’t done yet.

“Given these facts, Your Honor, we ask that you deny Ms. Owen’s request for order and continue Mr. Bishop’s visitation with his daughter as previously set down by this court, as there are no circumstances set forth today that would preclude him from his rights as a father. Thank you.”

I stared, dumbfounded, as Alex sat, her back straight, her hands folded in a perfect picture of professionalism. “How…?”

“Sssh,” she whispered. “Or you’ll miss the sound of Jeffries’s ego imploding. Ah…there it is.”

Judge Walker glanced at Jeffries as if he were a bug under his shoe. “You got something better than that?”

“Your Honor…I…”

Georgia shot to her feet. “This is a joke, Your Honor. One dollar to hire her. One dollar to rent a beach house.” She sneered and jabbed a finger at Alex. “That woman’s not Cory’s lawyer. She’s one of the hostages in the bank. And that house he’s supposedly going to live in? That’s
hers
.”

I swiveled my head at Alex. “Is that true? Your house? I thought you lived with your fiancé.”

Jeffries started to quiet his client but then stopped as the judge leveled an irritated glance at Alex. She hardly blinked an eye—at either him or me.

“I hardly see how that’s relevant, Your Honor,” she said.

“I’m pretty sure that’s up to me to decide.” The judge narrowed his eyes. “Is it true, Ms. Gardener?”

I saw her hands clench for the shortest of moments and then she rose calmly to her feet.

“Yes, Your Honor. It’s true. I was a hostage in that bank along with Mr. Bishop. And the truth of the matter is, I would not be standing here today if it weren’t for him. I had a gun to my head and was one second away from certain death, when his quick-thinking and astonishing bravery saved my life.

“The house on California Avenue is mine, that’s also true. But it is a rental property only, as I now live with my fiancé at another residence. And as the owner of said rental property, it is up to me how much rent I feel is appropriate to charge any prospective tenants. Given Mr. Bishop’s selfless act, I think charging him even one
penny
is exorbitant. When I learned he was in danger of losing his daughter, I felt the very
least
I could do was
everything
in my power to make sure that didn’t happen, up to and including opening my doors to him. There is nothing happening here that is not above-board, Your Honor, if a bit hasty. But given Ms. Owen’s apparent rush to rip the rug out from under the father of her child, expediency and unorthodoxy were necessary.”