Mummy Where Are You? (Revised Edition, new) (11 page)

              John, the new advocate arrived at 3pm.  I sized him up as he checked in.  He was a reasonably good looking man of about thirty-five.  He was tall, dark and well presented in a suit and carried himself with an air of arrogance.  I took an instant dislike to him.  He was the kind of man that women are best to avoid.  He was the type who attracted women easily but treated them with contempt.  I made a quick assessment and it may not have been a fair one with little knowledge of who he really was, but he was a far cry from the gentle giant, Dan who had represented me in Florida.  He looked ambitious, over-polished and too confident. 

              He approached me – each of us, having worked out who the other one was.  He was faintly annoyed that I had not confirmed my arrival, but I explained that I feared giving out this information.  He accepted this reluctantly.  I later found out that my earlier assessment of him was fairly accurate.  This man was after my father’s money - pure and simple.  He did not have any genuine sympathy for our situation and he was determined to get what he could out of the case, with the minimum of input and a great deal of criticism and disparagement towards me - another bully out for the main chance.

              John went to change and we met for dinner.  He ordered an expensive bottle of wine at my father’s expense.  He poured me a glass and then proceeded to take the rest of it back to his room, to supposedly work on our case.  I gave him a brief outline of our story over dinner and as wine loosened his tongue, he told me something about himself.  It seemed he had children by two previous relationships and had limited access to them.  Already I heard alarm bells.  This was a man who had issues with women and I could tell from the way he patronised me that we were not going to get along.

              John and I parted company early and I went to my room to get some sleep.  We had made an appointment to see a London QC the following day to get some advice as John's background was not in Family Law.  I hoped that the QC would make up for any shortcomings in John, but I wondered about his ability to find the appropriate person for the job.   He did not seem to understand our situation and was extremely judgmental and critical of my actions, but I had to try to work with him for the time being and at least give him a chance. 

              I headed to bed and slept very little.  One thing John had advised was that I did not go back to the Island immediately and that he would get into dialogue with the police and tell them I would come back but was taking advice in the UK first.  This did seem to make some sense and was something we both agreed on.  The other problem that needed be addressed was my archaic medical notes.  It seemed the Department were still trying to allege I was mentally ill and John thought I should tackle this before I came back.  Deep down I think he thought I was crazy and probably thought that of most women.  However, I knew that I was not.  I was certainly jet lagged and grieving for my son, but I wasn’t broken yet and was still determined to fight this.  I had, at least managed to arrange a weekly phone call with M.  It was not much, but it was better than nothing and I would speak to him in a couple of days time and could tell him I was back in the UK at least.

              The following morning we left straight after breakfast to go to London to meet with the lady QC at her chambers.  As we climbed the long flight of stairs to her office in the vast buildings of
Bedford Row
, I had a feeling of being brought to see the Headmistress of my old public school.  This premonition of our meeting was fairly accurate as the QC had a definite air of an old school Maam.  She spoke to me as if I was a naughty schoolgirl who had been caught smoking in the toilets and was about to be put on detention.   She told me I  should go back to the Island forthwith, beg the Court's forgiveness and plead for leniency.  I could not see this as the best possible solution.  I had done nothing but try to protect my innocent child from abuse, as any mother would have done and yet I was being asked to go back and apologise for wanting to keep my son safe.  Rightly or wrongly, I didn't believe it would benefit us to place me on the back foot.  I decided that she was not the right QC to represent me.  I needed someone who would see the injustice and fight for us and I was sure I must get medical evaluations done before I returned, for self protection.  I politely thanked her for her time and we left. 

              On the way back in the cab, I told John that I didn't wish to instruct her and he seemed vaguely annoyed.  He had to concede though that I was the Client so agreed to find another QC when he returned to the Island and come back again.  This meant I was delayed in the hotel in Gatwick for longer and still away from M which was becoming harder by the day, but I knew it was imperative that whoever took the case was sympathetic to us.  We had had poor representation in the past and now we needed a big gun and someone with some steel.   I felt heavy-hearted as we headed back.  There was so much time being wasted and it was costing a hundred pounds a day to stay in the hotel, which was fairly basic.  It was adequate and clean and the food was reasonable, but it was soul-less because of the floating clientele that were in and out of the airport and I was desperately lonely.  

              I tried to kill time between talking to John and having my five minute agonising call with M once a week where he pleaded with me to come back and when every day I found it harder to stay away.  I knew I had to keep my head as going back too soon would either land me in jail or possibly get me sectioned if they insisted on saying I was crazy. Neither of these would help my case or my son's chances of being reunited with me.  I knew I had to hold on and get the reports before I went back.  I may still go to jail, but hopefully I could avoid being sectioned.  

              John was continually pushing me to go into the
Priory,
a private clinic in London for a week.  He would then say I had been temporarily insane, but was better now.  This was outrageous, misogynistic and a stupid plan as anyone knows that if you put yourself through intense therapy, they will always label you with something.  Let’s face it, there is no such thing as a perfect human being and we all have our foibles and character traits that keep us unique.  I was becoming more and more sure that John was not only a chauvinist, purely money- driven and arrogant, but was not a very good lawyer.  For the time being though, I needed someone to liaise with the Department and other lawyers, so whilst I didn’t like or trust him, I kept him on temporarily.

              I filled my days shopping for special cards, small gifts, trading cards and games to send M to show him I was thinking of him constantly. I caught the bus into Crawley and went to the cinema a couple of times.  I have always loved cinema.   It also allowed for anonymity.  I was not so noticeable in a crowd in the dark and could hide the fact that I was desperately sad, grieving and alone.                There is some shared experience in the collective of a movie theatre audience, without having to share any kind of intimacy.  I found myself drawn to watching films that M and I may have gone to together.  I went to see the remake of
Fame
, it was sentimental, showy and total escapism, but it was upbeat.  I tried to hold onto the thought that this situation couldn’t possibly last forever.  It was just a case of finding the right lawyer – someone who was prepared to stand up to the system.

              Andrew and Shaun, ever loyal, tried to come and see me as often as they could, despite them living a good three hour’s drive from the hotel.  The rest of the time I ate solitary meals, read the paper, watched television and wrote copious notes and suggestions for John.  It was necessary for me to become even more organized, knowledgeable and prolific in note keeping, than the lawyers.  After all, when your child’s life is on the line, nothing escapes your memory.  Every critical and tiny element of the case was etched and filed in my brain but the lawyers needed it in writing and it was tedious, took a great deal of time and one wondered whether even a fraction of it would even be used. 

              One could have populated several small forests with the paperwork that had so far been generated by our case.  The only people who really benefitted in cases such as ours were the lawyers and Court officials - there was so much waste. 

              There is no greater money-making machine than the law Courts.  Some of the lengthiest and most complex of cases greasing the palms of so-called professionals and court experts. In our case, foster care was also an element and that too was a lucrative business with over 3.2 million going into care in Britain alone that year, according to statistics.  Foster carers were earning anything from £250 to £500 per week, per child - this, of course meant that many people were in it for completely the wrong reasons and you could only pray that your child had gone to someone with integrity and with a genuine love of children.  Whatever the case, unless there really is a very serious risk to the child, it is universally accepted that a child is best off with its natural parents.  At least this is what the principles of the 1989 Children's Act suggests in theory - the reality of what was increasingly happening in Britain was something entirely different.

              My emotions swung daily from anger and frustration, to absolute despair.  M’s little voice begging me to come back was impossible to resist and played in my mind constantly.  I had to force myself not to board a plane immediately every second of the day.  I came so close, so often, but Shaun and Andrew warned me that I would most likely go straight to jail or an institution and then I wouldn’t see M.  They urged me to stay strong until I had found someone to do the reports and I began searching myself on the legal hub for possible psychiatrists whilst John seemed to be doing very little back on the Island. 

              He had found another QC.  This one had been a involved in a case on the Island where two children had both been abused and died in Care -  a horrendous and tragic story which highlighted the failures of the Island’s Social Services.  Key workers in that case had actually been promoted following their failures and the Judge now on our case had represented the Department in the inquiry that followed.  Needless to say whilst they had not been able to avoid publicity at the time, they had managed to bury it fairly well since.  John believed that someone who had  knowledge of the local Courts would be an advantage.  I was not so sure.  He had been on the Island for a year and was probably well in with some of the court officials and not necessarily the right ones.  I had my doubts but agreed to at least meet with him.  John arranged to fly over once again, but this time did not stay in the hotel as was planning a night out in London following our meeting, a night, I suspected that would likely end up being one of our expenses.

              The second QC we went to see was a tall, very thin man who had an air of the Dickensian character, Uriah Heap.  We took a mutual instant dislike to each other and similarly to the previous QC, his approach was to blame me for everything.  He told me my best tack would be to go back and beg forgiveness, although he conceded I should first get a psychiatric report.  He said I could fly back to the UK to get this once I had gone back to face any possible consequences of my actions.  This made no sense to me and he shouted at me so much and was so aggressive and accusatory that having been brought almost to tears, my anger overcame my distress and I found the strength to stand up for myself.  “I don’t care who you are”, I said firmly.  “No-one speaks to me that way and certainly not someone whose time I am paying for.”  At that, I walked out of the room, followed by a very angry and red faced John. 

              Over a drink in a nearby pub, John told me I should heed this man’s advice and take him on.  I voiced my doubts but said I would think about it.  His rationale was that whilst the QC was harsh towards me, no doubt he would also be aggressive in Court.  However, I had not felt this man was really listening or had understood our plight and John insulted me further by suggesting that I was acting in an unstable manner by not agreeing with him.  We parted company at King’s Cross and I boarded the
Gatwick Express
feeling dismal, further battered and at the end of my tether. 

              More money had been wasted on seeing yet another person who did not seem to care about my son or myself and I strongly suspected that having failed to get the first QC to persuade me to take a conciliatory stance, he was trying the good cop, bad cop scenario in the hope it would break me.  My suspicion was that John was liaising with the local police and carrying out their wishes to persuade me to return so they could take me into custody.  It was not the first time that my female intuition later proved to be right.

              John had bought us first class train tickets on the train and I found myself in a compartment on my own with an older, smart gentleman in a suit who was sitting opposite.  I must have looked pretty wretched as he asked me if I was okay.  I told him I had had a bad day and he asked what I had been doing in London.  Safe in the knowledge that I was anonymous, I told him I was involved in a very nasty court case and that I had been to see a QC in London for advice who had done nothing more than bully me.  The man half smiled as he told me he himself was a QC and during the hour’s journey back to Gatwick, I unburdened myself to him of our plight.  He was not a family Court QC or I may well have been tempted to employ him there and then.  He was, however, sympathetic and seemed kind and he suggested he buy me a drink when we got to Gatwick.  I thought, what the hell, the thought of going back to my solitary hotel room was not an attractive one.  Company seemed like a good idea.