Ava sinks further into the chair. Her fingers tremble as she reaches for a tissue. One or two translucent squares float to the floor.
“Tell me more about Mitchell. Does he have a girlfriend?
“I don't know.” Ava says slowly. “I don't think so.”
“Any physical violence?”
She shifts in her seat uncomfortably. She can't meet my eyes, which makes me suspicious. Ava clears her throat. “He has a reputation, an image to maintain. Employs half the county at the college.” She lifts another tissue, balls it up. “Like I told you, he's not been himself. More jealous. Angry, sometimes, since Sam was born.”
I nod and make a note to revisit the anger issue. “Babies can change people,” I say. Not that I have any personal experience in that arena.
“When can I see them?” Ava's voice falters. “The baby. Jack.”
“We'll find out soon.”
Ava takes a long, deep breath. “All right.” She leans over, gathers her purse, and slides her sunglasses on her head.
I stand up and walk around to Ava's chair and offer my hand. She slides a small, smooth palm into mine. Her skin is ice cold. And she's shaking.
I can't help myself. I draw her close and fold her against my chest. It's a gesture of comfort, but immediately I find myself wanting to protect her. Eager to fight the bastard who's hurting her and her kids. But she has to find it in herself to be strong. There's a flicker inside her, I can see it. She'll need every bit of that fire and more. In battle, I can be her captain, but she's on the front lines. And it's going to get bloody.
After a moment Ava steps back, smoothing her shirt. She takes a breath and looks down at her hand. After a beat, she slides off her enormous engagement ring and places it in the middle of my desk. “Would you take this as a down payment? Until I can get back on my feet?”
I start to protest.
“Please,” Ava whispers. “It's all I can give you.”
My eyes fall on the ring. Everything it is supposed to symbolize. Love. Trust. Unity. Not a legal retainer. I lock eyes with Ava. “Sure. I'll hang on to it.”
She smiles. “Thank you.” Her voice is steady. Her eyes are dry now. “And Grahamâ”
I nod.
She takes a breath and lifts her chin. “Get my children back. Please.”
SATURDAY, APRIL 3
Sam's looking for Ava. He trots on thick baby legs in my dad's new apartment. Quickstep, quickstep, round the corner, cocks his head, and listens.
Nothing.
“Ma-ma,” he calls to the stairs. “Ma-ma?” he pleads to the empty hallway. His feet pound the floor in frustration. The deepest, dark green eyes look to me for answers, then cut toward the doorway. Where is she? Where did she go?
I watch him play hide-and-seek with an invisible parent. I know he expects her to pop out from behind a box and scoop him up, cover him with kisses.
It reminds me of
Sonic Underground
. It's this old-school cartoon Ava found for me about a blue hedgehog with superspeed. You find out fast that Sonic's mother, Queen Aleena, is in big trouble. Dr. Robotnik overthrows her kingdom, so she goes “underground” and puts her three babies in different hiding places to save their lives.
A prophecy reveals that they'll all be together again. But not before the children grow, learn the truth, and become part of the Freedom Fighters.
Like Sonic, Sam knows our Ava's missing. Something's not right.
And he's not going to quit or give up until he finds her. Since Dad looks more and more like Robotnik every day, joining the Freedom Fighters sounds like a good plan to me.
I think this especially when Isabel, our new babysitter, appears in the doorway with Dad. Wrinkled and dark, round like a bowling ball, she pauses before coming inside. She doesn't seem to speak much English. Dad introduces her to Sam and me, then he takes off.
“All right,” he tells Isabel. “Thank you. I have to go back to work.”
On a Saturday
, I think to myself. I don't say anything, though.
“Yes, sir.”
Dad smiles, mostly for Isabel's benefit, I guess. “Have a great day. See you soon.” He closes the door behind him. Isabel relaxes a little once he's gone. She looks around. I show her the kitchen. She frowns when she sees how empty it is.
“Isabel fix,” she tells me. “We cook next time.”
“What kind of cooking?” I ask. I'm thinking of the big Sunday dinners Ava used to fix. Corn bread so sweet it would melt on your tongue, buttery black-eyed peas, juicy pork chops thicker than my wrist. My mouth begins to water.
“You like burrito, quesadilla? Refried beans?” The words, with her accent, sound exciting and different. When she smiles, there's at least one gold tooth. That's kind of cool.
“Uh, I don't know.” I scratch my head. “Is it spicy?”
Isabel laughs, making her whole belly shake. “I make mild for you. And for baby.” She tries to catch Sam's attention, but he isn't interested in meeting Isabel.
He toddles by, arms swinging. “Ma-ma,” he calls to the dining room. The words reverberate through the empty rooms.
He doesn't want me either. I've tried blocks, books, drawing pictures. Nothing works.
“Ma-ma.”
“El bebé necesita a su madre
,” Isabel says, frowning.
Of course I don't speak Spanish, but I agree with her worried expression. Seeing Sam like this upsets Isabel almost as much as it does me.
Across the room, Sam begins to sob. We both run to pick him up. Isabel, despite her size, gets there first. She scoops up his chubby body and clings to him. Behind Sam's soft hair, his head on her shoulder, she peers at me, takes a step or two back.
“Esto no es correcto
,” she murmurs.
When Sam's sobs get quieter, Isabel turns away, carrying my brother, singing softly in Spanish. The crank of a music box lullaby fills the room.
So. Maybe I'm wrong. Isabel's not a spy. She's probably not a minion working for Robotnik. Maybe she's with the Freedom Fighters after all.
MONDAY, APRIL 5
It pours the afternoon of Ava's pendente lite hearing. The weather change makes my knee ache like someone has whacked it with a two-by-four. Puddles soak my socks, and by the time I reach the courthouse my jacket's damp, despite my crappy umbrella. If I see a bearded guy and a big wooden boat, I'm going to worry. It's likely he'd let the lawyers drown.
Judge Crane lumbers toward the courthouse, the slabs of sidewalk protesting under his massive frame. Outfitted in his Sunday best, the judge resembles a cross between Cap'n Crunch and the Pillsbury Doughboy.
According to my sources, I'll be facing off with one of the attorneys who worked behind the scenes to help elect the man. But bias or no bias, there's little point in trying to get another judge. According to local lore, this particular pack might as well be a band of zombies. They eat you alive and they never, ever die.
I duck into the small meeting room. My eyes land on Evan K. Douglas, who is representing Ava's husband. He's a gaunt man, tall, with a long, hooked nose and a thinning hairline. His suit is immaculate and expensive, tailored to fit his slender frame. Smart, Italian
leather shoes grace his feet, and they're dry, despite the monsoon outside.
“Douglas.” I offer a hand to shake, as is customary, and his thin, clammy palm slides against mine. His limp grip brings to mind clutching a dead fish, and I fight the urge to shiver.
Obligatory duty done, I leave the room to find my client. Ava is in the corner of the lobby, one shoulder against the wall, a leather satchel over one shoulder.
“How are you?”
She looks up, her eyes cloudy but determined. “I'm going on about two hours of sleep, but I'm so wired it doesn't matter.” Ava forces a smile. “Ready to get this part over with.”
“Good girl,” I say and grip her upper arm.
“Thanks.” She nods.
I let go of her arm and check the time. “So here's the deal. Mitchell's attorney and I will go into the judge's chambers; we each get a turn to make our case. You may get a chance to say something or get asked a few questions. If that's the case, we'll call you in. Either way, the judge will make a ruling today and, with any luck, you'll be seeing your kids soon. That's how it usually works.”
Usually. I want to cross my fingers behind my back. New town, don't know the judgeâthere's no telling.
“Okay,” she says, training her eyes on my face.
“Be right back.” I squeeze her arm. The judge's secretary is in his doorway giving us “the look.” It's showtime.
Judge Crane seems to have been built for a larger bench. It's uncomfortable to watch as he sits down and arranges his bulk behind the mahogany table in his office. His arms droop over each side of his armrests. He hasn't bothered to don the black robe, and from the look of the buttons straining on his dress shirt and the sweat beading on his brow, it's unlikely he'll bother.
His secretary shuts the door behind us.
“So what's going on, gentlemen?” He speaks in an irritated rumble of a southern drawl. “Give me the basics, and be quick about it. Don't got all day.”
I speak first, edging out Douglas by a hair.
“Your honor, my client needs time with her sons. The younger is only a baby, who's just learned to walk,” I begin. “She has a strong bond with the eight-year-old, whom she legally adopted.”
Crane nods for me to continue.
“Ava Carson has lived in Mobile all of her life. She was born and raised here, attended school and college here. She holds a degree in education and master's degree in school counseling, with more than ten years experience at Mobile Prep. Her greatest love is children, and she recently resigned her position at the school so that she could stay home with the two boys.”
“She quit becauseâ” Douglas interrupts but is silenced immediately when the judge lifts a single finger.
I shoot Mitchell's attorney a sharp glare and smooth my tie. “As I was saying, your honor, my client's whole world is her family. Her young children. She attends the eight-year-old's soccer games, comes to school events, and goes on class field trips. The baby is just a year old and requires attention virtually 24/7, an almost impossible task for a working parent.”
Douglas steps forward and cuts in again. “Problem with working mothers?” He raises an eyebrow and glances at the bench. I expect Crane to threaten to hold him in contempt for the outburst, but he does nothing.
“Of course not,” I correct myself hurriedly. “And they are to be admired for balancing careers and family life.” I swallow. “My point, however, is that Ava Carson
can
stay home with the children. Devote her full attention to the care of the boys. It's the best possible
situationâone the two children are content with and know as their routine. Sam, the baby, has known nothing else.”
For the third time, Douglas pipes up. “Are you going old school? Arguing tender years?”
“Your honor?” I plead, ignoring the attorney. “May I finish?”
Crane frowns and glances at Douglas, who shrugs, blinking his eyes wide. “My deepest apologies, your honor. I'm having trouble restraining myself after this . . . testimony.”
“Ava Carson has been the children's primary caregiver for a year. That's all of the baby's life. She knows their routine. Their wants, their needs. She's with them every dayâ”
“The older child, though, is Mitchell Carson's biological child,” Douglas argues. “That's eight years, which certainly outweighs one.”
Incensed by the impropriety, I wait for the judge to stop him.
“Judgeâ”
Crane ignores me and nods his head for Douglas to keep talking. “Go on.”
I balk at the slight and absolute disregard for courtroom ethics but restrain myself from interrupting. The last thing I need to do is piss off a judge during my first hearing in Mobile.
“Your honor, you've already awarded temporary custody to my client, who is an excellent father and dedicated servant of the community, Mitchell Carson. We respectfully request that temporary custody remain with him, in his current home, where the children are happy and comfortable.” Douglas lifts his chin.
This time, I do interject. “Judge Crane, that motion was filed without my client's knowledge.”
The judge murmurs something to himself, then stretches his bear claw hands on the table and stares at the wall.
“She's having an affair.” Douglas chortles. “A childhood sweetheart, I believe.” This time he and Judge Crane exchange a look.
It's then I lose it. “Douglas, you're out of line. My clientâ”
But Douglas speaks louder and begins flipping through his briefcase. “I have letters, testimonials, if you will, from a number of friends of the family.” He cuts in with a wave of his thin hand. “They all state that Mitchell Carson is better suited to raise these children than the mother, who clearly cares only about the next time she sees her
boyfriend
.”
My jaw tightens. Douglas flips open a folder, presents three letters from people who appear to work for Mitchell.
Bastard.
The attorney holds up one piece of paper. “This one says Mr. Carson almost had to call security to have his wife removed from the campus,” he says.
The judge snaps it up hook, line, and sinker. Douglas probably has the pope in the hallway ready to canonize Mitchell, and he's Southern Baptist.
Crane hacks to clear his throat. “Heard enough,” Judge Crane growls. “Temporary custody stays with the father.”
I'm flummoxed.
“Set up mediation,” he growls. “Get one of the approved psychologists to conduct a standard custody evaluation, interviews with the children and parents, home visits. If this person agrees to supervise, the mother can get an hour a week visitation at the location to be determined by the psychologist.”