Witness for the Defense Read online

  Trimble paused, ostensibly for a drink of water, but more likely for effect. “You can imagine,” Trimble continued, “how devastated my client was to learn that Melissa Burke had given the child away.”

  There we were with the casting of facts again. Trimble made it sound like Melissa was tossing the baby out with the recycles. I bit my tongue.

  “Mr. Weaver immediately voiced his displeasure. He agreed to take on full financial and custodial responsibility, and to raise the child himself. But Melissa Burke has refused to cooperate. He now seeks to establish his parental rights through the court of law.”

  Nye's features squeezed more tightly. “Ms. O'Brien, did you make any effort to notify Mr. Weaver of the impending birth and to obtain his consent to the adoption?”

  I'd known this moment was coming, but that didn't make it any easier. I hated pointing a finger at Melissa, especially because it ended up making me look foolish. But there weren't a lot of options.

  “I was operating under the belief that a different young man was the baby's father,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “And that may yet prove to be the case. Mr. Weaver hasn't established paternity.”

  Trimble was on his feet immediately. “He's more than happy to undergo a paternity test. The sooner, the better.”

  Nye pressed his knuckles into the furrows of his forehead. “Ms. Burke, perhaps you could help us out here.”

  All eyes turned in her direction. “I... I...” She swallowed. Her eyes held a look of panic. I'd warned her not to give away the store. If Bram wanted to establish paternity, let him take the lead and prove it. Melissa lifted her chin. “I'm sorry, sir, I can't.”

  “Are you saying you don't know who is the father of your baby?” Nye came across like a stern and reproachful parent. I suspected it was a role that came naturally to him.

  Melissa didn't look at him. “Right.”

  “Liar.” Weaver's face turned red. “You know that baby is mine. I was your first, remember?” His tone was nasty, like a slap in the face.

  But Melissa didn't falter. While she'd avoided looking directly at the judge, she faced Weaver squarely. She stood straighter and managed a haughty shrug. “You might have been first, but it's rather presumptuous to assume you were the only one.”

  Weaver's fist clenched into a ball. His eyes darkened and he muttered under his breath. Judge Nye banged his gavel. “Enough. Both of you.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Ms. Burke, why didn't you tell Mr. Weaver about your pregnancy?”

  “I didn't want him involved.” Melissa's composure surprised me.

  “Is there something that makes you think he might be a danger to the baby?” Judge Nye asked.

  “No, not exactly.”

  Nye leaned back and crossed his arms. “You don't want this child of yours, but you don't want Mr. Weaver to have her either?”

  “I don't want him near her at all.” Melissa's voice was filled with loathing.

  “Yet you can give me no reason.”

  Melissa said nothing.

  “You're coming from a position of revenge maybe?”

  I'd had enough. “Your Honor. Ms. Burke is perfectly within her rights to place the child for adoption in a loving, two-parent home.”

  “Unless the natural father objects,” Trimble added.

  Nye sighed. “What's clear,” he said, “is that we can't proceed in any direction until paternity is established. Let's get the testing done and then we'll reconvene. Until then, the baby will remain with Mr. and Mrs. Harper.” He reached for the gavel.

  Trimble was on his feet again. “If I may, Your Honor.”

  Nye raised an eyebrow.

  “Mr. Weaver would like to visit his daughter. He hasn't even seen her except briefly through the glass at the hospital nursery.”

  Terri whimpered.

  “Your Honor,” I said, rising also. “We have nothing but Mr. Weaver's unsubstantiated contention that he is the baby's father. There may well be no blood relationship at all, in which case Mr. Weaver has no rights with respect to the child. We can't allow wide-open visiting privileges to every person who wants them.”

  Judge Nye made an elaborate show of looking around the room. “I don't see anyone else waiting in line to visit the baby, Ms. O'Brien. We're talking about one man, a man who willingly stepped forward to take on the lifelong and serious responsibility of parenthood.”

  Ted and Terri had clasped hands, holding on tightly to each other for support.

  “She's only three weeks old,”' I said.

  “If Weaver is the baby's father,” Nye said, “he will be the one raising her. I think it would be beneficial for both of them, father and daughter, to spend time together early on.”

  “And if he's not the father,” I pointed out, “visitation will have been granted to a complete stranger.”

  Trimble cleared his throat. “We're only asking for a short visit. Say, an hour or so.”

  “In the unfortunate event that this matter should become a legal battle . . .” Nye looked toward the Harpers, making it clear the ball would be in their court. “If it comes to that, you, Ms. O'Brien, will be the first to argue that the child has bonded with her adoptive parents and that it will be detrimental to remove her from their home. I am only trying to anticipate your concerns.”

  Bullshit. But I kept the thought to myself. Instead, I said, “The welfare of a young baby is at stake, Your Honor.”

  “Precisely.” Nye cleared his throat. “The court sanctions a supervised visit of one hour, to be arranged within the next week. This hearing is continued until such time as the paternity testing has been completed.”

  The whole thing took less than thirty minutes. Terri was shaking by the time the judge's gavel sounded. I could practically hear the outrage boiling inside her.

  “Can he do that?” she sputtered. “Can he make us let that man take Hannah, even for an hour?”

  “Yes,” I said, “he can. But Weaver won't be alone with her. A third person will be present as well.”

  Terri was hyperventilating. “She's our baby. I'm her mother. I can't just leave her with strangers.”

  When we reached the hallway, I cupped Terri's elbow, pulling her and Ted off to the side. “This probably isn't the time for a discussion, but I'd like the two of you to think again about the wisdom of fighting Weaver.”

  Terri leaned back against the wall, moaning. Ted shoved his hands into his pockets. “I understand what you're saying, but we just can't do—”

  Terri let out a sharp wail. Suddenly she flew across the floor in a rage and began clawing at Bram Weaver, who'd stopped to get a drink of water from the fountain.

  “No way in hell you'll get your hands on my daughter,” she shrieked.

  Weaver held up an arm to defend himself and Terri kicked him in the shins. “You're nobody in that child's life.”

  Ted pulled at Terri's arm. She fought him as well, broke free and pummeled Weaver with her fists.

  “Fucking doesn't make you a parent,” she screamed.

  Trimble joined Ted in restraining Terri. Weaver stepped back and brushed himself off.

  “In this case,” he said with a smirk, “it did. You'd better get used to the idea.”

  “And you'd better watch your back.” She spit at him. “I'd kill you before I let you have Hannah.”

  Weaver offered a resigned smile to the sea of faces watching the spectacle. “And to think some people say women are the weaker sex.”

  “You okay?” Trimble asked his client.

  “I'm fine. And I've got great material for my show tonight.” He started for the elevator.

  Ted turned to Terri. “Jesus, what were you doing?”

  “He can't have Hannah,” she wailed. “I won't let him.”

  “Honey, I don't like the idea any better than you do. But beating up on the guy isn't going to accomplish anything.”

  “What are we going to do?” Terri was sobbing now, her anger overshadowed by grief.

 
“We'll figure out something. Come on, let's go home.” Ted turned to me. “But keep on this, Kali. We're not giving up.”

  I watched them depart, leaning on one another for support, then looked around for Melissa. She appeared to have slipped quietly away when I wasn't looking.

  I was headed for my car when I saw Weaver approaching. Instinctively, I braced myself for an attack. I wasn't sure if it would be verbal or physical.

  Weaver surprised me with his even tone and cordial manner. “Your clients don't have a leg to stand on, you know.”

  “At the moment, they're Hannah's parents.”

  “They have temporary custody. That doesn't make them parents.” Again the soft drawl, the nonthreatening stance.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked.

  Weaver looked at me, eyes a cool gray like the ocean on an overcast day. “She's my daughter.”

  “Even if she is, the Harpers are a couple who desperately want a child. You're single.”

  “Single women raise children all the time. The number of fatherless households is astounding.”

  One of his pet harps. I wasn't about to get into a philosophical argument.

  “You think a single man can't be a decent father?” he asked.

  “I didn't say that. But I'm a little perplexed that you're so eager to take on the responsibility.”

  “Feminists have been trying for years to emasculate men. To do away with fathers.” The words had a preachy, almost belligerent tone. Like on his radio shows. Then he smiled again. “Sorry, I sound like I'm on the air, don't I? But the truth is, that's the way I feel. My child belongs with me. Your clients can find another baby. I have only one daughter.”

  There were days I thought brain surgery might be a simpler profession than law.

  CHAPTER 7

  The media had a field day with the story. A contested adoption involving two public figures—it was the stuff headlines were made of. Reluctantly, Ted and Terri agreed to a few brief interviews. Weaver, on the other hand, sought them out. He also used his radio program to expound on the plight of fathers, who were, he said, too often ignored, overlooked, and relegated to second-class status.

  Weaver was on a roll. The Harpers were terrified.

  Ted called me at work first thing Tuesday morning. “I found out he's already got a kid,” Ted announced. “A son who's fifteen.”

  “Are you talking about Weaver?” I slipped my left foot out of my shoe and scratched the sole with my oilier foot.

  “Weaver completely ignored the boy until recently. If he's so interested in family, why didn't he take on some parental responsibility the first time?”

  Interesting question, though I doubted it made a difference in terms of the law. “Where's the boy live?” I asked.

  “With his mother. Bram's ex-wife. They were divorced when the kid was a baby. She remarried and Bram apparently washed his hands of them.”

  “No involvement at all?”

  “Not from what I found. There were some articles on him. I can bring them by. Maybe if the judge sees what kind of guy Weaver really is—”

  “I wouldn't count on that making any difference.”

  Ted was quiet a moment. “We're not going to give up.”

  “I'll fight for you, if that's what you want. But I don't want you to have false hopes.”

  “Sounds like that's the only kind there are.” Ted's laugh was bitter. “There's no way around Friday's visitation, is there?”

  “I'm afraid not.”

  “You'll stay there to keep an eye on things?”

  “Right.” Since there were independent agencies that routinely supervised such visits, I'd been surprised the Harpers had requested, and Judge Nye had agreed to, a visit in my office.

  “Unfortunately, I have to be out of town then,” Ted said. “TelAm's had this commercial shoot scheduled for weeks. I wish I could cancel, but there's no way. Lenore will stay with Terri so she won't be alone.”

  “I can't imagine there will be problems with the visit. It's what comes after that we have to worry about.”

  <><><>

  Friday afternoon, twenty minutes before Weaver's scheduled visit with Hannah, the door to my outer office flew open and a jowly man scurried inside. His arms were laden with a stuffed bear, a bottle warmer, an infant seat, and a large camera bag.

  “What's this?” I asked as he stormed past me to the loveseat in the reception area.

  “Stuff Bram Weaver wanted.” The man's protruding belly, showcased in a too-tight turtleneck jersey, jiggled as he moved.

  “Weaver wanted it here?”

  “This is where the meeting is, isn't it?” The man set his load on the seat cushions.

  “What meeting?”

  “The visit with his kid.”

  Bram had been cooperative about the logistics—he didn't much care whether the person supervising the visit was me or someone from an independent agency, but he hadn't mentioned that he'd be bringing reinforcements. Or paraphernalia.

  “Who are you?” I asked the man. “Weaver's assistant or something?”

  “The photographer.” He patted his bag.

  “Photographer?”

  “Bram wanted some photos. You know, of him and the baby.”

  Photos that would no doubt find the shortest path to the press. Bram seemed determined not to pass up any opportunity for publicity.

  “No way,” I said. “The court order is for a visit. Period.”

  “You going to deny a father pictures with his kid?” Spittle sprayed when the man talked.

  I crossed my arms and stepped back, distancing myself from the spray. “Yes, that's exactly what I'm going to do.”

  “Bram's gonna be pissed.”

  “Let him be.”

  The man shrugged and plopped heavily onto the seat cushion next to his stash. “All the same, I'll wait.”

  Terri arrived on the hour exactly, accompanied by her mother. Hannah was asleep in a plastic infant seat nestled under a yellow baby blanket. Both women appeared wan and edgy.

  “An hour max,” Terri said. “That's all the judge ordered.”

  I nodded.

  “He shouldn't feed her anything,” Lenore added. “Or change her. He shouldn't even wake her up, but he probably will. The poor child won't know who he is.”

  It seemed to me that Lenore was only adding to Terri's anxiety, but I realized this couldn't be easy for her, either.

  Terri's eyes darted around the room, lighting briefly on the photographer. She tensed. Before she could say anything, I led her and Lenore into my inner office.

  “Who's he?” Terri asked, clutching Hannah's infant seat to her chest.

  “A friend of Weaver's. Don't worry, I already told him it was just Bram and Hannah. That's it.”

  “And you.”

  “And me.” I'd moved the furniture in the conference room to accommodate the visit. When Weaver arrived, I'd put him there and then bring in Hannah myself. “There's a coffee house down the street,” I told them. “You might find it easier to pass the time there than here in my office.”

  Terri shook her head. “I don't think so.”

  “This way,” Lenore said, “we'll be nearby in case there's a problem.”

  Like a hostess awaiting the guest of honor, I flitted from room to room, all the while keeping my eye on the door and my ear tuned for the telephone. The photographer stepped outside once to smoke, then returned to the couch. Terri and her mother sat in silence while Hannah slept. At quarter past the hour I called the number on Weaver's card and got an answering machine. I tried his attorney next.

  “What do you mean he's not there?” Trimble barked.

  “He hasn't shown up.”

  “Must be a major traffic jam. I can assure you he hasn't changed his mind.”

  It would have been nice if we could use the incident to argue that Weaver was unreliable and shouldn't be trusted with a child. Unfortunately, the issue before the court wasn't one of parental fitness but of bi
ology. And on that point, there was little we could do.

  At two twenty-five Bram strutted into the office without an apology or explanation for the lateness of his arrival. “Are we ready?” he asked.

  “Hannah is here with her mother, but—”

  “Melissa's here?”

  “I was referring to Terri Harper.” Something I imagined he already knew. “I've arranged the conference room for your visit. I'll bring Hannah in just as soon as you're settled. You've only got about half an hour of the scheduled visit left.”

  I expected an argument about the timing, but Weaver merely nodded.

  “And no photographer.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me, no photographer. That wasn't part of the agreement.”

  “What's the matter with taking a few pictures? Everybody takes baby pictures.”

  “Not you. Not today. We can argue about it but you'll be wasting your breath—as well as your visiting time with Hannah.”

  Begrudgingly, Weaver waved his photographer friend away.

  I showed him to the conference room and closed the blinds on the interior window. Then I went to my office to retrieve Hannah. Terri had tears in her eyes as she kissed the baby's head and handed her to me.

  “Watch him closely,” she said. “Make sure he treats her right.”

  Hannah was still asleep when I set her infant seat on the conference table in front of Bram. I hoped she stayed that way. I had the feeling neither of us would know what to do with a crying baby. Bram peeled the blanket back from around her face. “So tiny,” he said. It sounded more like a clinical observation than an expression of sentiment.

  I sat in a chair in the corner and tried to make myself invisible. Bram continued to gaze at Hannah, murmuring to her now and then as he touched a foot or hand, but mostly regarding her in silence. When she woke and started fussing, he tried rocking the seat, then finally, when the whimpers grew louder, he took her out and cradled her awkwardly in his arm.

  It was clear from watching him that he hadn't had a lot of experience dealing with infants.