Fat Girl (30 page)

“I haven’t lied to you about anything. I did hire Dee because I believe she’s the best lawyer for Dwayde, and I went to her place on Saturday because I wanted to talk to her about the case. Whatever else happened between us is separate from Dwayde.”

Crossing his arms across his chest, he gives me a hard ebony stare. “Whatever’s happening sounds like the same old story, with Dee running and you chasing. Haven’t you figured out by now that Dee doesn’t want to get caught?”

Words that hit this close to home power my defenses. “Let it go, Victor. I’m not going to discuss Dee with you.”

“No, you never would. She was your little secret, and we see how well that turned out.”

“Jesus!” I pace away. “You just can’t stop throwing it in my face that Dee left me. I don’t need your reminders or your judgment when you’re not handling your own shit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Dee is your son’s attorney and the foster sister you once cared about. How long are you going to pretend she doesn’t exist?”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

I stop to look over at Victor. His expression now appears more plagued than angry. “You didn’t go to the meeting with Isabelle. You haven’t made any attempt to contact Dee about the case. You’re as much in avoidance as she is.”

The tension line between his eyebrows pulses before he admits, “I think if I see her, I’ll wring her neck for what she put you and our family through.”

How can I not understand that? It’s exactly where I was only days ago. “What Dee did was wrong, Victor. I’ve spent fifteen years trying to hate her for it. But just like Dwayde is hiding something from his past, so is she. I told her about Papa T’s death and it crushed her. She misses Mama T. She wants to call but she’s afraid. Dee’s not heartless. As much as I wanted to believe that…needed to believe it…she’s not.”

“You’re deluding yourself. You want to find something redeeming in her to justify your feelings. But the bottom line is, she bailed. Just took off and left you busted up. How can you forgive that?”

Until I saw Dee nearly fall to pieces, I wouldn’t have thought it was possible either. “In the past couple of days, I’ve done some soul searching. Dee screwed up but so did I. Something was weighing heavily on her the night I confronted her outside the library. She wasn’t acting the way she normally did with me. She was withdrawn and jumpy. And instead of me trying to understand what was really going on when she said she needed time to figure stuff out, I got pissed off and walked away. I just left her there in the rain, adding another rejection to a long line of them. I can spend the next fifteen years being angry, or I can try to find out what made her run in the first place.”

“And then what?” he scoffs. “Live happily ever after?”

His question is both snide and rhetorical. And yet Victor deserves an honest response. For the months that I kept Dee a secret from him and made him an accomplice in my lies, I need to step up to the truth this time. “Yeah, as crazy as that sounds to you, that’s what I’m banking on. I’m in love with her, Victor. I always have been. And I think beneath whatever’s going on with Dee, she still has feelings for me, too.”

Victor lowers his gaze, worrying the fringe of the area rug with the toe of his sock. The burden of the past surrounds us. “It was rough, man,” he says, his voice thick. “I don’t ever want to see you hurt like that again.”

Helplessness is a feeling I know well, and I’m a dumbass for not realizing what it must have been like for him to watch me drink myself sick. Rough, I’m sure is an understatement. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

He shrugs awkwardly. “I don’t say it often, ’cause we’re men and shit, but I love you. Sorry for what I said about you not putting Dwayde first. You’re always there for him. For all of us.”

I cough to clear the knot in my throat. “I love you, too, man.”

“Brothers?” he asks, sticking out his hand, and I remember when we’d sealed our brotherly bond with a spit handshake at the age of six.

I grasp it firmly and slap his shoulder. “Bros before bras.”

“What?” He laughs.

“Repeating something your son told me earlier.”

“Where did he hear that?”

“I’d guess from another twelve-year-old. But I can relate to the sentiment. You’re a constant, Victor. You’ve always been in my life, and nothing can ever change that. But if I have anything to say about it, Dee’s going to be in my life, too. I don’t want my feelings for her to keep coming between us.”

He nods. “I can’t promise to welcome her with open arms, but I’ll deal with it.”

“Thanks.”

“So tell me, bro,” he says as we exit the dining room, “exactly how are you going to accomplish this future you want with Dee?”

My fingers rake through my hair, and I take a deep breath. “Hell if I know.”

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON AT FOUR O’CLOCK sharp, the judge who will decide Dwayde’s fate sweeps into chambers, and I, along with the two opposing attorneys, spring to my feet. Rose Whittamore, revered for operating her court with military precision, waves us down and takes a seat behind her stately redwood desk.

“Good afternoon, counselors.”

“Good afternoon, Your Honor,” we chorus like schoolchildren.

Even absent the robe, wearing a dove-gray suit, she’s no less formidable. Mouth set in a grim line, salt-and-pepper hair pulled back from her severe face, she directs laser-blue eyes at Thomas Jackson and Calista Sanchez. “Have both parties attempted to reach a mutual solution that wouldn’t involve the court’s time or putting the boy through a trial?”

“No, Your Honor,” Calista answers. “There is no possible mutual solution. The parties reside in different states, almost four hundred miles apart. Shared custody is not an option, and any agreed-upon visitation would amount to holidays and summers—insufficient for my clients.”

“And for mine,” Jackson chimes in.

Frowning, Judge Whittamore laces her slender fingers together. “Very well, then. In the absence of a mother or father, a child’s biological relatives are generally considered to be the best people to care for that child. Though biological preference isn’t strictly considered under Illinois law, it does carry weight with most judges, including me. It will take a preponderance of evidence to convince me otherwise.”

I can feel Jackson’s arrogant smile beside me.

“Ms. Sanchez, are you prepared to present such evidence?”

On my right, the Torres’s attorney wets her unpainted lips and pushes strands of her frosted brown hair behind one ear. “Yes, Your Honor, I am.”

“Today’s purpose is to summarize your legal positions. Ms. Sanchez, we’ll start with you.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” She straightens in her seat. “After enduring years of physical abuse and emotional neglect at the hands of his drug-addicted mother, Dwayde Franklin ran away at the age of nine. For ten months, he fended for himself on the streets of Chicago. Detective Torres found him, filthy and on the verge of starvation, tagging an old, empty warehouse, where he was seeking shelter.
Tagging
, Your Honor, is an urban term used for graffiti.”

“I’m aware of that, Ms. Sanchez,” the judge remarks.

“Of course, Your Honor.” Calista licks her lips again and continues. “The Torreses refused to see Dwayde go into the system. As ideal candidates, they were awarded temporary custody. Fast forward three years. The once-battered, once-neglected little boy is a consistent B student with well-cemented friendships and strong ties to the community. Dwayde has no recollection of Charles or Joan Franklin. The Torreses are the only family he has ever known. There is no father listed on his birth certificate, and Joyce Franklin, Dwayde’s mother, of unknown whereabouts, has not attempted to locate her son in all this time. By virtue of Ms. Franklin’s abandonment, she has relinquished her parental rights.

“There is every reason to believe that if not for Charles and Joan Franklin’s misguided petition, adoption would have been granted to my clients. I will show that the Torreses are dedicated, attentive parents and that Dwayde’s welfare continues to be best served by remaining with them.”

Jackson blusters, “Those are not the complete facts, Your Honor.”

“One side rarely is, Mr. Jackson,” she says indulgently. “Go ahead.”

With his perfectly coiffed silver pompadour, monogrammed cuffs, and designer suit, Jackson wears his role of family lawyer to the rich and powerful with ease. “Your Honor, the Franklins are extremely grateful to Detective and Mrs. Torres for all they have done. But foster parenthood by its very nature is temporary. I will show evidence that Joyce Franklin had intended for my clients to have permanent custody of their grandson. Papers to that effect were drawn up and signed by her.”

I watch the pop of Calista’s eyes, mirroring my internal shock. “I know nothing about any papers, Your Honor,” she states and begins rummaging through her files as if she might have missed something.

“Nor do I,” I say.

“Mr. Jackson,” the judge warns, “I will not tolerate games.”

“No games, Your Honor, I assure you. I received said document on Friday evening, when my clients arrived in Chicago to see their grandson.” Scarcely containing a grin, he brandishes three copies and distributes them. “As you can see, the legal document bears Ms. Franklin’s signature on the back page, assigning her parents as guardians.”

“This is outrageous, Your Honor,” Calista objects. “Why would a woman assign her parents guardianship and then disappear with her son?”

“Good question, Ms. Sanchez,” Jackson says in a patronizing tone and then turns back to the judge. “Your Honor, on the day that the papers were to be notarized, Ms. Franklin asked her parents for $100,000 in exchange for custody. The amount wasn’t a deterrent; they could well afford it,” he brags. “However, my clients were unwilling to abet their daughter’s drug habit. They offered her food, shelter, clothing, and rehabilitation but refused to give her money. In retaliation, Ms. Franklin took Dwayde and disappeared.”

Jackson was making his clients out to be the perfect parents and Joyce Franklin the conniving druggie who snatched away their grandson out of spite, anger, and greed. It’s possible. But the facts as stated don’t quite mesh.

“Your Honor,” Calista argues, “assuming the document was actually signed by Joyce Franklin, the wishes of an addict and failed extortionist are hardly credible.”

“Ms. Franklin had custody of Dwayde at the time,” Jackson defends. “She had every right to assign guardianship to her parents.”

“It speaks to her state of mind, Mr. Jackson,” Calista counters. “And clearly she’s not reliable.”

“All right,” the judge says cutting them off. “Enough. I will expect the proper due diligence on this document before I rule on its admissibility. Anything else, Mr. Jackson?”