Fat Girl (31 page)

“Yes, Your Honor. Relevant to the case is the contrast in income levels between the Torreses and the Franklins. The detective and his wife, a kindergarten teacher, have a combined income of $159,000. Mr. and Mrs. Franklin’s worth is in the millions. They own a horse breeding business and horse training school, which has been in the family for generations, a business to which Dwayde Franklin is an heir.

My esteemed clients can provide opportunities for their grandson well beyond anything the Torreses could even dream of,” Jackson continues. “I will demonstrate that Dwayde Franklin’s interests are best served by my clients having full custody of their only grandchild.”

“Your Honor,” Calista says, but the judge shakes her head. “This is not a trial, Ms. Sanchez, so save your rebuttals. Ms. Chase, would you care to add anything on Dwayde Franklin’s behalf at this time?”

“Yes, thank you, Your Honor, I would.” I remove a picture of Dwayde from my file and hold it up. It’s a school picture that shows his dimpled grin. He looks well nourished, well groomed, and well loved. As the judge hears my evidence, I want her to see Dwayde, not a case number.

“This is Dwayde,” I say and watch the judge’s eyes shift to the photo. “He is not a typical twelve-year-old, owing to a life on the streets even most adults wouldn’t have survived. Dwayde is a bright, strong willed boy who knows his mind. His expressed wishes are for his foster parents to retain full custody of him. He has a stable, happy life here in Chicago. Reports from Social Services, Dwayde’s psychologist, and his teachers will show this.

“Detective and Mrs. Torres have provided Dwayde with a loving and secure home for three years. He is surrounded by an extended family of grandparents, aunts, and cousins, and shares a close familial relationship with a wealthy family friend, who is like an uncle to him. With this abundance of care, Dwayde has never lacked for anything, emotionally or materially. Through his relationship with this uncle, Dwayde has been provided with a private school education and has been set up with a sizable trust fund for college and his future. Naturally, money is not the most important thing to a child’s well-being; however, because Mr. Franklin raised it as a differentiator, I was obligated to demonstrate that it is not.”

“Your Honor,” Jackson interrupts. “Ms. Chase is referencing former NBA star Micah Peters as the
uncle.
But what my learned colleague has failed to mention is that Mr. Peters recently punched a reporter in the face while in Dwayde Franklin’s presence and made the news. His violent behavior hardly qualifies him as a role model, no matter how wealthy he may be.”

I use the findings from Lena’s research to counter Jackson’s attack on Mick. “Your Honor, Mr. Peters used the means necessary to protect the children in his care from an aggressive tabloid reporter who had already knocked down one of the boys to get to Mr. Peters. For this reason, Mr. Peters was not charged with any crime.”

“The only reason Micah Peters wasn’t charged was due to Detective Torres pulling strings to save his friend.”

“Your Honor, Mr. Jackson is making unfounded accusations,” I object. “There is no evidence that Mr. Peters was going to be arrested or that Detective Torres intervened in any way. Mick…Micah Peters does not have a track record of violent behavior. He is a loyal and devoted uncle to Dwayde and volunteers as his basketball coach. He is also the founder of Papa’s Kids, a charity organization that supports homeless youth. Mr. Jackson has no basis for calling his character into question.”

“I believe
character
and
sports star
are what’s known as an oxymoron, Ms. Chase.”

“Mr. Jackson!” the judge admonishes, beating me to another objection. “I am not familiar with Mr. Peters other than to know he is a sports icon in this city. So unless you have evidence to show that his behavior is a detriment to Dwayde Franklin, I would suggest you keep your opinions to yourself.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Jackson replies, but he shoots me a threatening glare.

“Ms. Chase, please wrap this up.”

“Yes, Your Honor. In summary, I intend to convince the court that Dwayde Franklin would be irreparably harmed if he was uprooted from his foster family, his friends, and everything familiar to him and moved hundreds of miles away. I respect the court’s opinion that biological relatives are generally favored; however, I will cite
Crosswell vs. Simpson
and
Gore vs. Leitman
as precedents. In both cases, permanent custody was given to the foster families in the best interests of the child. The Torreses may not be Dwayde’s birth relatives, but they have given him, and continue to give him, the love, security, and guidance a young boy requires.”

When I finish, the judge consults her calendar. “I want this matter resolved quickly. Will you be ready to present your cases in five weeks?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” we agree in unison.

“November 24,” she confirms.

Out in the hall, Jackson looks down his condescending nose at us. “It’s been a slice, ladies. I’ll be in touch.”

“Jackass,” Calista remarks under her breath as he strolls away. “Can you believe that stunt he pulled with the document?”

“Tricks and fly balls,” I say. “Be aware: that’s his MO.”

“I will,” she says, slipping on her raincoat. “Nice touch with the picture. I noticed the way Whittamore kept glancing at it.”

“I’m Dwayde’s voice, but I wanted him to have a face.”

“Glad you caught this one, Dee. I always enjoy working with you.”

“Same here,” I say, hitching the leather strap of my tote bag over my shoulder. We’ve worked together a few times now, and I respect her honest, straightforward approach.

“The Torreses filled me in on the visit from Dwayde’s perspective. Too bad we can’t use any of it. Especially that he ran.”

“I’m not sure Whittamore would have been swayed by that absent any evidence against the Franklins.”

She types something into her phone. “Just making a couple of notes from the meeting to follow up on. Isabelle mentioned that you think Dwayde remembers things about Kentucky that he’s not saying. What’s that about?” she asks, looking up.

“Intuition. And the fact that there’s no curiosity or interest on Dwayde’s part, just flat out resistance. It’s not consistent with them being total strangers. I think he remembers them or else Joyce Franklin filled his head with enough to make him hate them. Either way, I want to know what it is. In the meantime, we’re working to get Dwayde to open up, and I’ve got my assistant researching the Franklins and Joyce to see what I might find out. So far, the Franklins look squeaky clean.”

“That’s what I’ve found too. Makes you wonder,” Calista says as we head down the corridor to the front doors of the family courthouse, our heels clicking against the polished mahogany hardwood. “We should meet up in the next couple of weeks to compare notes and go over our witness lists since we’ll be calling on some of the same people.”

“Sounds good.”

“Can’t say I’ll mind interviewing Micah Peters.”

That nearly trips me up, but I recover my composure and keep one foot steadily moving in front of the other.

“I met him once.” Her voice rises with excitement. “It was during a conference with Victor and Isabelle. He inquired about hiring a lawyer for Dwayde. I recommended you, of course. Though I’m surprised I could remember my own name, let alone yours. I found it hard not to be starstruck in his presence. But he was actually quite down to earth and charming. I suppose his friendship with the Torreses keeps him grounded. But even so, he’s way out of my league. Men who look like Micah Peters don’t date ordinary women. They date models and actresses. And usually more than one at a time.”

I swallow hard while Calista continues, oblivious to my inner commotion. “Interviewing him will be fun, though. Fodder for my fantasies. A girl can dream, right?” She waggles her eyebrows.

We push through the heavy double doors, and a gust of wind hits us. The temperature has dipped significantly in the past hour. At the bottom of the stairs, Calista puts her thumb near her ear and her pinkie near her mouth. “Gotta run, but I’ll call you,” she says before hurrying off to her train. Within seconds, she’s swallowed up in the crowd of rush hour pedestrians spilling out of the surrounding buildings.

My office is several blocks away. With public parking a rare and expensive commodity in downtown Chicago, I left my car behind and took a cab. Unfortunately, my office isn’t located on the subway loop. The rent on those properties was too high when I started out. And now that I can afford more, I love my loft too much to leave. Even so, I don’t relish competing for a taxi. But a six-block walk in three-inch heels is a daunting prospect.

Shivering, I look up at the dark, fluttering sky and wish I’d had the foresight to wear a trench coat. With luck, the anticipated storm will hold off as promised until later tonight. When I reach the edge of the sidewalk, I step out between two parked cars. The door to a sleek graphite steel Porsche opens. Curious, I glance over at the emerging driver.

MICK STANDS FOUR FEET AWAY. Neither of us moves. The damp air grows thicker while a tempest riots inside me.

“What are you doing here, Mick?”

Before he can answer, there’s a shout. “Micah Peters!” A man comes barreling straight toward us. It happens in a split second. Mick yanks me behind him, slamming me against his back. My tote bag falls to the pavement, and my hands go to his waist to steady myself. I can feel the tension pumping off him, feel him poised for battle.

But it seems the man has friendly intentions. “Micah Peters! I’m a big fan,” he declares. “Followed you since college, man. Steve Butler.”

“Appreciate it,” Mick says pleasantly, but I hear the tightness in his voice.

“Sorry if I scared your lady friend. But you’re Micah Peters.”

My pulse is still clicking a million beats. I’m not the damsel-in-distress type. But Mick’s command of the situation and his willingness to sacrifice himself for me? I’m melting.

Steve whips out his phone. “Could I get a picture with you?”

Mick hesitates: “Would you mind making it quick? I’d rather not draw any more attention.”

“Yeah. No problem.” Steve, who’s as wide as a receiver but several inches shorter than Mick, comes to stand beside him. Steve’s face is red with excitement. He tilts his phone upward and snaps a few selfies. “Thanks, man!” he says, vigorously shaking Mick’s hand. “I can’t believe it. Micah Peters,” he repeats as if the moment were surreal. “My poker buddies will get a kick out of these. We went into mourning when you retired, man. You were a class act.” He leaves, all smiles.

“You okay?” Mick asks.

I regulate my voice. “I’m fine now. Does that happen often?”

He reaches into his car and pulls on his cap and shades. “Often enough that I know better than to be out here on a main street without trying to disguise my appearance. But when I saw you, I wasn’t thinking about anything except getting to you.”

His words bypass my brain. Mick’s nearness prevents rational thought. But I focus and somehow manage to scrounge up a fraction of logic. I know what this is about. He witnessed me at my most vulnerable on Sunday and assumed that I left Springvale because he walked away that night so many years ago. Now the fixer in him wants to make it all better. Make
me
all better. But he can’t. And the sooner I ease his conscience, the sooner I can get a safe distance from him.