Authors: Regina Calcaterra
“Yes. You, me, Cherie . . . all we’ve ever wanted is to know who we are. Who we came from. At least Vito and Norman stuck around long enough to see their kids born, but we three have never even seen pictures of our fathers. I know you and I came from two different men, but I want to know the truth for you as much as you do. If Cookie couldn’t help us figure out where we fit in this world, then we have to find out for ourselves.”
She’s put it perfectly. From where I get my strength to where I get my eyes, all I want is to know. But searching for the right attorney and convincing him or her to take my case will take some time. In the meantime, Paul will think that this letter has ended our connection forever . . . but I’m not finished.
I start by contacting members of the American Academy of Matrimonial Lawyers in Washington. I leave messages for dozens of them, but only receive a call back from the secretary of one. Her message is clear: Never before in Washington State has an adult sued someone they thought to be their father for paternity. “However, there is one lawyer that may consider a case like this. His name is Ralph Moldauer. He used to represent kids suing their fathers for paternity, but he now represents a professional sports team on the defense side.”
I laugh. “A professional sports team?”
“Well, sure,” she says. “Every professional sports team usually has at least one paternity lawyer on speed dial.” I chuckle at the perfect sense this makes. “Let me get you Ralph’s number.”
By early January 2001, Ralph agrees to take my case, not because he needs another client, but because he feels the proof I have regarding the probability of Paul being my father is so strong and my story so unique that I have a shot at success . . . although over and over he cautions me that this has never been done before in any of the fifty states. “I’m willing to represent you,” Ralph says, “but for your sake, let’s not get our hopes up.” I understand Ralph’s need to manage my expectations, but it’s increasingly clear he’s as invested in this case as I am. I also sense that there are two possible reasons he’s so intent to bring it to the court: He thinks my case would be an opportunity to create precedent for other adult children, or out of humanity he wants to go after Paul for what he failed to do when I was a child.
In late January 2001, Ralph writes Paul’s lawyer, requesting that we avoid litigation and that Paul merely takes a DNA test. In response, Paul’s lawyer says that both Mr. and Mrs. Accerbi find my attempts to contact Paul quite upsetting physically and emotionally and that I have no legal grounds to bring suit; and if I do, that I can expect an “aggressive counterclaim for abuse of action, invasion of privacy, and intentional infliction of emotional distress.” As I’ve presumed all along, from that first phone call back in August, Paul’s been planning to countersue me if I bring a claim for paternity—this is why he keeps playing the “physical and emotional stress” card.
“It’s a measly swab test!” I tell Ralph. “Just a second.” I rise from my desk to close my office door so as not to disturb my coworkers. Taking the phone again I tell him: “There’s nothing invasive or physically stressful about this!”
“Regina, I spoke to his counsel,” Ralph advises me. “Paul is ready to fight hard if you proceed with a paternity claim. Our problem is that this is a case of first impression. You have absolutely no other case in the U.S. to rely upon, so if you sue him for DNA, he will argue that you are using the courts to harass him. Trust me, this is exactly how it will go. Do you follow?”
“Yes. Keep going.”
“The good news is, it’s likely his counterargument will be dismissed since you have proof that you tried to resolve this outside of the courts. I can’t promise that he won’t be successful and demand that you pay his attorney fees and additional damages for intentional infliction of emotional distress. And consider, on top of this you only have affidavits of your sisters and foster mother that reiterate what your deceased mother has told you. If Cookie were still alive, at least she could provide an affidavit claiming that he was the father . . . but she’s dead.”
Dammit. I never thought I’d have any reason to wish that my mother were still here.
“So your failure to obtain an affidavit from someone who can confidently state that your parents had a sexual relationship around the time you were conceived is problematic.”
He goes on to explain what I already know: Paternity tests are DNA tests. The taking of someone’s DNA, regardless if it’s by a blood test or a simple mouth swab, is protected by the Fourth Amendment’s protections against unreasonable search and seizure and the right to privacy . . . However, an exception to the U.S. Constitution’s Fourth Amendment is made if there is a compelling government interest for the courts to rule otherwise. The courts will make exceptions if a crime has been committed or a child is in need of support, so that if there is a father, he’s to be held responsible for the costs of raising that child.
“Regina, you’re an adult in your thirties and it’s going to be hard for us to demonstrate that getting Paul’s DNA is necessary to your well-being,” Ralph says. “But the one argument we have going for us is that the Washington State paternity law does not define what a child is.”
“Ralph—that’s brilliant.”
“Well, we’ll see. But it seems to me that whether you’re five or thirty-five, you are still someone’s child. It appears that the legislature left the door open for an adult child to bring a paternity suit.” He pauses, then says, “The only piece that’s missing is an affidavit from someone alleging that there was a relationship between your mother and Paul Accerbi at the time of your conception. Regina, if there’s any way you can secure that, we’ll be on better footing.”
For the past six months, since Paul and I first spoke in August, Julia finally let everyone know who I actually am. Since I’ve met with various members of the family over the past three years, I sense that they view me as a self-sufficient, independent, decent young woman who simply wants to know the truth about who she is. When they invited me to their most recent family holiday dinner, the Accerbis seemed to completely understand that I’m not seeking financial support of any kind. And as I told them about my past contact with Paul, they understood that I tried to avoid litigation and making my plea part of the public record.
Now that my pursuit has taken on a life of its own, I drive to Long Island on a Sunday afternoon to make my request: “Julia, my lawyer says we need to submit an affidavit written by someone who was witness to Paul’s relationship with Cookie. Is that going to stir conflict between you and the Accerbis?”
She wrings her hands gently in her lap. “No honey, in fact, I think they’ll be supportive. Regina?”
“Yes?”
“You know you’re welcome to call me Aunt Julia . . . don’t you?”
“When we’ve finally gotten the truth, I promise that you will be my aunt Julia. Right now I don’t want to do anything that could jinx this case.”
“Okay, honey,” she says. “That’s fair enough.” She sends me home with a week’s worth of home-cooked dinners in tightly sealed Tupperware and stacked in a grocery bag.
The next day, I call Ralph. “I’m planning to fly out to Seattle and meet you,” I tell him. “Now that we’ve got Julia on board, this case is looking more promising. It’s outcome will impact my life forever so I need for you to be able to put a face on the plaintiff you’re representing.”
It’s February 28, 2001, when I land at the Seattle airport. I take my carry-on luggage and head straight to the front of the airport. On my way to the taxi line I stop to view a map of the city to get a sense of the direction the taxi driver should take . . . and suddenly, as I’m studying the route, I feel unsteady. My body sways, and I try to grasp onto the nearest column—am I so overwhelmed that I’m about to pass out? But as I lunge for support, I see the whole building shaking and people running outside with their luggage. “Bomb! Bomb!” they cry, and I join the crowd that’s running out the door.
I stand there, watching the airport’s security staff climb up poles to see the damage around the airport. “It was an earthquake,” one announces, and the chaos quiets down to a murmur.
Two hours later I finally climb in a cab and head to the city of Seattle. We ride in silence past remnants of the earthquake, clocking in at 6.8 on the Richter scale. The driver turns up the radio, where a reporter states this was a victimless quake. “The city built its infrastructure to withstand an earthquake of this magnitude,” we hear, and with a sense of relief, I reflect on the irony: it’s a shaky day all around. There will be aftershocks. And I trust that no matter how it works out, when it’s over I’ll still be standing. I’m just content that I’ve gotten this far.
The next morning Ralph and his assistants greet me in their boardroom to discuss our legal strategy.
“Regina, there is more at risk in bringing your case than just how it will turn out for you,” Ralph says. “Since this will be a precedent in Washington State and a case of first impression for other states, if the courts determine that a child is not a child at any age, but a child is anyone under age eighteen, you have closed the door for any other adult children to bring a successful paternity suit.”
I rest my elbows on the table and take a moment to think. “I understand, Ralph. But this law has not been tested before because the burden of proof is high. But with all of our affidavits—Julia’s, my sisters’, my last foster mother’s, and mine—combined with the fact that Paul never denied having a sexual relationship with my mother, we are well prepared to prove that I am his child and compel a DNA test.” While we both are comfortable with the facts, I understand that he may actually have an additional concern; his credibility as a highly reputable paternity lawyer will be tested. “I’m confident that you would not be taking my case if you didn’t think that we had a fighting chance to convince the court that I am his child. A child should be a child at any age when it comes to knowing who their father is.”
Ralph calls me. “Your case was filed with a judge in Whatcom County where Paul resides. The court hearing is scheduled for early summer.” Once I receive the briefing papers that Paul filed with the court in June, I’m eager to read what his defense to the action will be. With his pleadings in hand, I quickly skip through the section titled “Background,” which is usually the defendant’s view of the facts. I go straight to Paul’s defense.
Through his attorney, Paul argues that since I am an adult, my asking for a DNA test is a violation of his constitutional right to privacy and freedom against unreasonable search and seizure. He goes on to argue that, as a result, I should reimburse him for his court costs and attorney fees for even bringing this case against him. His argument is exactly what I expected.
Carefully I begin to read the pleading word for word:
The petitioner is a 34 year old female . . . licensed attorney . . . who resides and practices in New York . . . The respondent is a 66 year old retiree residing in Whatcom County, Washington, is married and resides with his wife of 34 years . . . suffered a heart attack in 1986 . . . and is under the care of a cardiologist . . .
I chuckle at the inclusion of his heart ailments. He’s prepared to file a counterclaim against me for intentional infliction of emotional distress by bringing this suit. When we first made contact, Ralph explained that Paul’s emphasizing how this case could affect his health would flop because the DNA is taken with a simple swab test—nothing invasive or extraordinarily stress inducing. Then I read the first three lines again, then again, and again . . . I’m thirty-four years old, and he’s been married for thirty-four years.
He married his wife while my mother was pregnant with me.
That’s it.
While I was an infant, Cookie left me with Frank and Julia so Paul would be forced to face what he did. That was Cookie’s revenge; her twisted way of informing him that they’d parented a child together.
The brutal episodes I suffered as a child at the hands of an emotionally unstable woman were caused by the heartbreak my father put her through.
On June 7, Ralph calls me with news. “The Whatcom County Court judge ruled in your favor and ordered that Paul submit to a paternity DNA test.”
Not surprisingly, four days later Paul appeals.
The oral argument before the Whatcom County Superior Court judge is scheduled for August 3, 2001. At this point I cannot afford to fly out to Seattle for the hearing as I’m saving my funds for the starter co-op I’m about to purchase in Manhattan. I also need to set aside more money for additional litigation costs: Whoever loses this appeal will seek to get it overturned on a higher court level.
Ralph calls me after the hearing and tells me he’s not very optimistic that this judge will rule in our favor. “The judge implied that he doesn’t want to rule on whether a child is a minor or a child is a child at any age in cases of paternity,” Ralph says. “He understands that such a ruling would have substantial legal reverberations. He said this is something better decided by a higher court.” A few weeks later the judge dismisses my case.
I have two more options: an appeal to the Court of Appeals of the State of Washington; then, if we lose there, onto the Washington State Supreme Court. Ralph warns me about proceeding and the impact this will have on others . . . and of course on my bank account. “But, Regina, I’ve got to tell you, I have confidence in your facts. We still have a chance here, but it will take a year until the hearing is scheduled and the court issues a determination.”
“Good,” I tell him. “I want to appeal.” I just need to know.
I remember a verse I once spotted that Julia had highlighted in her Bible:
The truth will set you free.
I’ve never been able to forget those words. Even when it hurts, it’s more empowering to know the truth than to stay blind to it. Once I know the truth—and once Paul knows the truth—I’ll be finished. In my life I’ve found that you can’t let something go until it’s really over and it’s never really over until you learn the truth.
The morning of September 11, 2001, I’m serving as an election monitor in Queens for my old boss, who’s campaigning for mayor, when the poll workers alert me that a plane has crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center. A few minutes later, the second tower is hit.