Twilight Child (31 page)

 Before she
left the apartment, she went to Peggy's door again, feeling vaguely guilty.

 “Peggy,” she
called softly. She tapped lightly on the door. There was no answer. “Please,
darling. Don't be so hard on yourself.”

 When no
response came, she shook her head and went out the door. Anxiety had turned to
anger. Soon, she knew, the anger would become frustration, then guilt again,
and her mind would flood with flashbacks that would plumb her psyche to
determine the question of how and why her relationship with her younger
daughter had gone sour. Then would come the inevitable answers. Inevitably, she
would wind up blaming Harold, which was the worst part, since it offered no
solutions. And what good was a judge who could offer no solutions?

 The traffic
on the way to the courthouse was very heavy and she arrived at her office less
than a half hour from the time set for the trial. Carter Foley, her law clerk,
came in from the outer office. He was a very intense, gangling young man with a
prominent Adam's apple and a wisp of moustache over his thin lips.

 “Did you go
over it?” he asked. “
Waters
versus
Graham
.”

 “Not with the
care I should have,” she admitted, without giving a reason. Although he shared
much of her courthouse world, she kept her personal life to herself. She looked
at her watch. “Brief me.”

 She knew it
was a sloppy way to begin, but she did rely on her ability to grasp things
quickly. It angered her to think that Peggy's morning tantrum had interfered
with her duties. Being not fully prepared also meant that she would really have
to clear her mind and listen intently to the proceedings. Sometimes, when she
sat on the bench trying criminal cases, her mind wandered. When this occurred,
it filled her with a gnawing sense of inadequacy, as if she was somehow being
unfair, fraudulent. It was something she must guard against, she told herself,
making a mental note to discuss the condition with some of the other judges.

 “This is a
grandparents' visitation case,” Carter began. There was a touch of pedantry
about him, which she liked, although his intellectual arrogance sometimes irritated
her. She tolerated that because she was a great believer in smart backup. A
judge needed all the competent help she could get. He was extraordinarily
energetic and ambitious as well. For old-hand advice, she relied on the wily
Sam Compton.

 Carter had
opened her briefcase and was poking around in the files. “Paternal grandparents
have petitioned. Their son, the husband, was killed in an accident. She meets
and marries another man who adopts her five-year-old boy. Now seven. The new
couple decide to pursue their new life without the burdens or benefits of the
old in-laws, the natural grandparents. After two years the grandparents take
this action.”

 “And the case
law?”

 “Adoption
laws are tough in this state. The new father has all the rights of a natural
father and, therefore, absolute power over the minor child—with the wife, of
course. There are numerous cases attesting this. The grandparents have
absolutely no rights in this matter.”

 “Then why the
petition?”

 “Grey power,”
Carter said with a smile, pointing to his hair, his Adam's apple bobbing. He
fished in the file for a paper.

 “I don't
understand.”

 “We're one of
forty-nine states that now have a law granting the right of grandparents to
petition for visitation rights. It's a phenomenon of the aging population. The
old common law rarely allowed that. So the old folks are feeling their oats,
petitioning all over the lot. In this case, they come smack up against the
adoption laws. Actually, the first ploy of the defense was to get the case
thrown out on a technical plea. Peck, the Grahams' lawyer, cited a number of
decisions which explicitly rule out the grandparents' rights after adoption.
But Judge Compton didn't allow it.”

 “Why not? If
the adoption statutes were so explicit.”

 “Maybe he
wanted you to have an easy one first time out.”

 “Easy?
Nothing's easy in this business.”

 “Wrong word,”
he said. “Should have said safe.” He looked at his watch. “I'm really sorry you
didn't get to read this,” he said, holding up a sheaf of papers.

 “We still
have a few minutes.” Her mind was beginning to hum now. She felt her earlier
emotions departing. Like a boxer going into the ring, she thought, welcoming
the feeling.

 “Here are the
parameters,” Carter said scanning his notes. “The
Succession of Reiss
,
1894, the beginning of case history on this matter. The courts ruled that
parental control is fundamental and accountable to no one, that the obligation
of a parent to permit grandparents visitation is not a legal one, that
visitation by a grandparent over the protest of a fit parent is unenforceable.
Remember we're talking visitation. Not custody. Ironically, if the grandparents
were to prove the unfitness of the parents, they would blow their case for
visitation. It would become a custody case. Catch-22.”

 Annie nodded,
prodding him to continue.

 “There's a
lot in between, of course. Our law passed a couple of years ago under pressure
of the grey lobby allows the court to determine who shall have visitation
rights to a child following the termination of a marriage.” He held up what she
assumed was the text of the statute. “The kicker is termination of the
marriage. Like divorce. Or death of a parent. In this case, the surviving
parent has remarried. Hence, no termination. Round one for Graham. But the real
heart of it all is this.” He read from the paper in his hand. “ ‘And may
grant such visitation if the court believes it to be in the best interests of
the child.' In other words, despite the reams of cases, citations, and common
law practice, the fundamental measure in every situation involving a minor
child is,” he read again, “ ‘the best interests of the child.' ”

 “So there is
latitude.”

 “Some. In
this case, narrow. Too much case law on the rights of adoptive parents. If you
rule for the grandparents, you could get it thrown back at you on appeal. Key
word, ‘could.' Just file it in the back of your mind.” He paused. “Then, of
course, there are certain political considerations. After all, none of this is
done in a vacuum.”

 “Political?”

 “It's
something to consider, Judge. You are, after all, political.”

 “Certainly
you're not suggesting that I be political in my decisions?” She deliberately
expressed just enough indignation for him to get the point.

 “Once again,
back to grey power, the clout of our aging population. Did you know that there
is a resolution before the Senate of the United States, already passed by the
House of Representatives, urging a Model Act on Grandparents' Visitation? They
want all states to have a uniform law. It's now before the Senate.”

 It was
already past ten o'clock, but she did not make a move to leave, giving him
permission to continue.

 “Let me give
you the gist.” He scanned the paper in his hand. “Here. I quote. ‘The
relationship between grandparents and grandchildren can provide continuity in a
child's life after the stress of divorce, and it is a relationship that can be
good for grandparents and grandchildren alike.' Get that. ‘Good for
grandparents and grandchildren alike.' That's the first time such a thought has
been injected into the mix. The courts have never ever considered the welfare
of the grandparents in such situations. You know why? Politics. Pure and
simple. And it comes in the whereases to this very same resolution. Shall I
continue?”

 She nodded.

 “ ‘Whereas
approximately 75 per centum of all older Americans.' ” He paused and
looked at her. “Read ‘voters.' ” He smiled and continued. “ ‘Whereas
grandparents play a vital role in millions of American families.' ” He paused
again, obviously skipping. “ ‘And whereas such procedural rights to petition
State courts often do not provide grandparents with adequate opportunities to
be fully heard with respect to the granting of such visitation privileges.' ”
Again he paused and looked at his watch. “Then the resolution asks for the
states to adopt a uniform law. Get my drift?”

 “I do,
indeed. But I'm a judge when I hear cases.”

 “And a
politician when you go for the job on a permanent basis.”

 “I hereby
wipe such a thought from my mind.” She said it lightly, but she meant it
sincerely. She could deal only with existing law. Don't blaze trails, she
cautioned herself, remembering the word Carter had used. “Safe.”

 She felt
better now. The aggravation of the morning had been locked in a separate compartment
of her mind. She stood up and Carter helped her on with her robe. She looked
into the mirror. “Heah come da judge,” she told her image. Turning, she swept
through the door into the courtroom.

 She enjoyed
the ritual and etiquette of the courtroom, but it was the deference and respect
for her presence that she loved the most. Even though she knew it was accorded
to the office and not to her as such, she soaked up the obeisance and was
thrilled by the symbols of her rank, the black robe, the vantage of the high
bench, the exhibition of power and its ultimate exercise. When she walked into
the courtroom, she became totally aware that what she thought, how she saw and
heard, and, despite the caveats and admonitions, how she felt, created destiny.

 Although the
high-ceilinged old courtroom, with its baroque intention barely disguised by
repeated attempts at remodeling, was the one she had used to try criminal
cases, the atmosphere was decidedly different, the air of tension and anxiety
surprisingly more pervasive. At first, it confused her. A potential loss of
freedom seemed, on the surface, far more ominous and anxiety-provoking than a
domestic dispute. But the faces looking up at her were more charged with
desperation than those of most of the robbers and murderers who had come before
her bench.

 As the
younger lawyer rose, she felt the full and intimidating impact of her own
power. He wasn't addressing a jury. The twelve seats behind the rail were
empty.

 “Your honor,”
the younger lawyer began, his voice steady, its timbre deep and resonant,
echoing in the empty chamber. Oddly, there were no spectators, not even the
usual strays who haunted courtrooms in search of entertainment or simply to
pass the time. She listened as he outlined the complaint, letting the words
roll through her as she surveyed the tense faces, each a mirror of his
individual motives.

 Forcing
herself to maintain a rigid expression, she let her eyes roam over the faces of
the antagonists and their lawyers. Show nothing but neutrality, she urged
herself, hoping she could achieve such a pose throughout the trial. But beneath
the mask, her mind reacted. She fixed the names of the participants in her
mind. The Waters couple. She looked at her file: Molly and Charles. They were
gray-faced, tense, uneasy, very much misplaced in this atmosphere, confronted,
obviously, by a confusing conflict of values, caught in the clichés and
stereotypes of old-fashioned sentiment. Tragic figures, she decided.

 On the other
hand, here were the Grahams, carrying the banner of youth and fecundity, hope
and success. The woman was, as they say, heavy with child—wearing a white
maternity blouse with a big red bow, carefully groomed, cheeks flushed, eyes
bright, attentive and calm, soothed by her obviously devoted husband, who held
her hand. He was an intense type, with eyes that burned into the young lawyer.
She looked at the file to confirm her analysis. Computer engineer. She gave
herself a silent pat for insight. Beside them sat their lawyer, whom she knew casually,
a big man with a distinct, carefully studied manner and dress. String tie,
creased beige suit, a jowly face, his lips pursed and eyes down as he made
notes. Shrewd. Cunning.

 With the
names and the players carefully fixed in her mind, she directed her full
attention to the younger lawyer, who was vaguely familiar. Again she looked at
her notes. Robert Forte, who bore the dark good looks of the slender Italian,
elegantly swathed in European designer clothes, a gold bracelet visible under
his rounded, buttoned cuff, which emphasized the vast chasm between him and his
clients.

 She listened
as he cited case after case designed to buttress his arguments. Unfortunately,
most of the cases were from other states, although his words were charged with
emphatic decisiveness. Beneath the surface of his arguments, she read the
subtle messages of sentiment and emotion as he delicately shifted the focus
from the child to the grandparents. Clearly, she saw the design, invisibly
shaking her head as she scanned the notes that Carter had put into the file. In
the best interests of the child. He had highlighted the words with a yellow
marker.

 “. . .
and so, your Honor,” Forte continued as his tone hinted that he was winding
down, “we believe that the bond between grandparent and grandchild is of such
special importance to the emotional growth of the child that its deprivation
can have consequences not unlike growing cells being deprived of nourishment.
Under no circumstances can it be considered in the child's best interests to
deliberately withhold the selfless love and affection that has been dispensed
by grandparents since time immemorial.”

 Eloquent, she
decided, but strangely unmoving. A brief flash of memory intruded. Her own
grandparents had faded from her consciousness. For some reason, her recall was
olfactory, musky body odors as she suffered their display of affection. Her
mother's people were Poles, immersed in the ethnic world of the old ways and
the old language. Her memories of them were laced with good doughy things to
eat and long conversations that excluded her. The booming voice of the other
lawyer recalled her to the present. He was commanding in his manner, as
histrionic as his dress. She forced herself not to smile as he embarked on a
predictable path, citing case after case of adoptive laws and decisions.