Authors: L. Alison Heller
He holds the folder just out of my reach. “This is your only copy,” he says in a monotone-rehearsed voice reminiscent of a bored cop reading Miranda rights to a petty criminal. “It can’t leave your possession or your office. No faxing, scanning, copying, sending through the mail or taking it home with you. If you want to share it with the client, she can read it at your office and take notes. Okay?”
“Got it.” I nod, knowing that Mike and I could have a circular “Who’s on First?”–esque conversation for days about the fact that the office of Molly Grant, PC, is my home. “I’m going to hang around here and review it first, okay?”
“Fine,” Mike says, gesturing to the empty benches in the courtroom. “Take your pick.”
I feel a shot of nervous adrenaline as I open the report.
It’s been four weeks since the horrible scene at the hospital.
Right after Robert Walker stormed out with the kids, I led Fern to a taxi. She was silent and passive, slumping closed-eyed against the door after I leaned across her in the backseat to shut it. I nervously considered buckling her seat belt, but instead gripped her arm the whole way to her apartment, as if that could protect her. Her sister, Lolly, who had rushed back from Pennsylvania to Fern’s apartment, later reported to me that Fern spent the next two days in the clothes from the hospital, curled on top of her bedspread.
It had been almost as bad as before, Lolly had said on the phone, before lowering her voice and whispering exactly what I had been thinking:
What the fuck’s gonna happen if we lose?
I had realized something then: I see only the tip of the iceberg for my clients, a mere marker for the whole submerged mountain of pain that lurks beneath them. I let Lolly’s question hang in the air, stopping myself from some sort of glib, cheerleader’s “go team!” answer. Because the truth is, I do not know what the fuck’s gonna happen if we lose.
That Monday, there had been a flurry of letters between all the lawyers and experts, causing me to run back and forth between my two offices five times, mad dashes across the pavement that I would feel in my splintered shins over the next four days. That was followed by a conference call with the court—I had ducked into an empty conference room ten floors down for that one, murmuring into the phone as though Strand was my illicit lover. Everyone played their parts—Risa and I were nattering macaws, each trying to outdo the other’s accusations. Roland, the calm voice of reason, was annoyingly neutral and noncommittal. Justice Strand was perplexed and disappointed that things were not going smoothly: yes, Fern should have visitation, but it was troubling that Connor had gotten hurt. Perhaps Fern could do something a little safer next time.
I bit my tongue before asking him whether having them stay
indoors and watching television for twelve hours would be safer than the playground, and as usual when I shut my mouth, things went okay, with Fern’s visitation schedule resumed that evening. She, having somehow accessed the strength of hope, pulled herself together before the visit. The kids had been shaky, refusing to talk about the scene at the hospital, but in the weeks since, they had all been getting back into the new normal.
But frankly, I am worried that at this late point Strand still thinks there’s any merit in Risa’s accusations that Fern is dangerous. And I’m very anxious about what’s in the report. I flip through the initial few pages, outlining the history of the case and noting that over the past several months, Newkirk met with all of the Walkers multiple times. He’s also met with Claire, the kids’ teachers, their sitters—Hannah and someone named Bobbi—their grandparents and their aunts and uncles.
I skim through the meetings with Fern: he calls her flexible, reasonable, self-sustaining, high-functioning. Good.
I read the Claire and Robert stuff more carefully. Apparently, they started dating about two years ago. She moved in after three months together and has lived with them since, stopping her work at Options to be a full-time caregiver about one month after that. According to Newkirk, Robert’s hours are intense, and both Claire and Robert maintain that Claire has been responsible for the day-to-day parenting: hiring the nannies, coordinating the activities and their daily schedule, going to parent-teacher conferences with Robert. And to use Robert’s words, as quoted by Newkirk, “Thank God those kids have her. She is a mother to them.”
Robert is an involved “hands-on” father. He possesses a fine command of their activities (ballet and karate for Anna, piano and the unsafe-sounding ice-skating for Connor), medical history (Anna’s history of ear infections, Connor’s allergy to soy), personalities, likes and dislikes and friends.
Control freak.
Robert and Claire both bad-mouth Fern to Newkirk, which he puts in the report. They call her depressed, unhealthy and unhinged, and say that the children are scared of her. They report that before each and every visit with Fern, both kids, particularly Anna, have prolonged meltdowns for approximately one to two hours, trouble eating and sleeping. Connor has regressed from potty training.
There are several more pages about the kids and reports on the calls with Emily Freed. I flip past them and skip to his recommendation at the end.
Conclusion
Upon the various meetings and interviews conducted I conclude that while the Father is an involved parent, he has systematically and unrelentingly alienated the children from their Mother.
In layman’s terms, the Father has undermined the Mother at every turn, maligning the Mother in front of the children and doing his best to completely shut out the Mother from their lives.
Especially notable is that the Father, the Father’s girlfriend and the children spoke about the Mother’s irresponsibility, mental illness and desertion with the same exact terminology. In both of my meetings with the Father and his girlfriend, they independently said that the Mother was “mentally unstable and could not be trusted.”
In an independent interview, Anna, the six-year-old child, also said she was concerned that Fern was “unstable and not to be trusted,” repeating the Father’s concerns awkwardly and almost verbatim, with language highly unusual for a six-year-old. Additionally, Anna seemed preoccupied with whether I had talked to her Father and when I was going to tell him about what she said during the meetings and
whether Claire was going to sit in on our meeting. When I asked Connor, her three-year-old brother, about his Mother during their joint interview and he clapped and smiled, Anna looked nervous, squeezed his hand and told him to be quiet. There is no doubt that Anna is attempting to stay “on message” for her Father’s approval.
In contrast, the Mother, who expresses being haunted by the loss of a relationship with her children, acknowledges that their Father is important to them.
There is no alternative conclusion to draw but that the Father has been, in essence, training his children against their Mother.
Recommendation
My recommendation to the court: transfer of legal and physical custody to the Mother under the supervision of a treating team of therapists and subject to the Father’s reduced and supervised visitation.
Postscript
Post the date of completion of the formal report, I had an additional conversation with Emily Freed that requires mention. According to Ms. Freed, after a playground mishap during her weekend with him, the Mother took Connor to the emergency room and notified the Father of same. The Father arrived at the emergency room, interrupted the visitation and, in front of the children, questioned the Mother’s judgment, physically threatened her and left with the children. In my professional opinion, this exemplifies behavior that is harmful to the children and cannot continue without serious damage to their relationship with their Mother, and fundamental harm to them.
I put down the folder, my heart leaping. This is good. This is very good. It doesn’t seem overly optimistic to say that the trial is the only thing between Team Fern and a victory. I pick up the phone to call Fern, to share the best bit of news we’ve had in the case. But then I think that perhaps I should temper my excitement when I talk to her: getting through the trial successfully might not be the foregone conclusion she would expect, given that I’ve never actually done one before.
____
A
lthough Caleb’s office suite primarily seems a place to play video games, this has not stopped him from throwing one heck of a company holiday party, complete with a swarm of butlers passing puffed hors d’oeuvres and a string quartet playing Shostakovich. Sadly for me, my enthusiasm for the food has scared off the waiter responsible for the sushi tray. It’s out of this world, the sushi—thin little buttery, melt-in-your-mouth slices of salmon and yellowtail dotted with miniature salmon roe.
I scope the room, trying to find him among all the people in dark-toned skinny pants and draped tops, standing in clusters discussing things like Art Basel and social media iconography and the efficacy of property managers for third homes in tiny mountain towns. Duck, who would normally be my partner in assessing the culinary offerings, is gesturing to a white-haired man in mirrored sunglasses and a woman with a diamond-encrusted cuff extending from her wrist to her elbow.
Duck is networking, which is exactly what she should be doing. She finished her designing job just in time for tonight, and the place looks amazing. I watch her nod at something the man says as she pets the back of a gray chaise lounge.
I’ve lost sight of Caleb, who is presumably busy networking as well. And then I spot him: the flash of a white jacket, the warmth of golden bamboo. Is he trying to take the long way around the room to avoid me? Not so fast. I plant myself in his path.
“Oooh, uni,” I say. “Yes, please.” I select two and meet the gaze of the waiter, whose name tag says
ERIC
. “Are you getting anything new after this or will there be more yellowtail?”
His eyes dart around the room. “I don’t know, miss. Please, I just carry the tray.”
“Okay, Eric.” He winces when I use his name. “Well, if you do, come find me. You know what? Never you mind, Eric. I’ll find you.”
He skitters away.
“Great night for you, huh?” I say to Duck as she walks over to me.
She nods, her eyes shining. “Do you know who just asked me to make an appointment with their people?”
“Someone really rich with a lot of properties in need of decoration?”
“Way to boil things down nice and crude.” She grabs my second uni off my napkin and pops it in her mouth.
“You deserve it. This place looks unreal.”
She smiles. “You can keep telling me that. I won’t pretend it’s not awesome to hear.”
I look at my watch. “If you’re supposed to be in Midtown in twenty minutes, you should probably head out.”
“I should—but let’s focus on you for just a second.”
“What about me?”
“You seem to be doing an awfully good job of staying on the periphery of this event.”
I hold up my napkin. “I’m captivated by the appetizers. Plus, all these people remind me of my clients. The thought of making small talk is painful.”
She nods at Caleb, who’s deep in conversation with a very large bearded man in a tuxedo. “Is he introducing you around?”
“He’s too busy hosting.”
“But he invited you here as his date, right?”
“His date?” I don an exaggerated drawl. “I can’t believe your lil’ antiquated Southern self decorated this modern monstrosity. You know what we need here? Some tea cozies. Maybe right there, on top of that resin sculpture.”
She shakes her head, smiling. “I’m not crazy.”
“I know you’re being protective. But you don’t need to worry. Things are good, totally different from college. We even have a little routine down.”
“Right, booty calls and late-night dinners like clockwork.”
“It’s not like that. We’re in tandem, I promise you.”
“All I’m saying is he should be showing you off. You look amazing. I’m still in shock from the amount of grooming you endured. Unprecedented.”
“Well, thank you. Beauty is a marathon, not a sprint.”
“Is that an actual expression?”
“I don’t know. It’s a direct quote from Christy, the makeup lady at the Bobbi Brown counter at Saks. She did my face.”
Duck peers at me. “She seems to know what she’s talking about. You are poreless.” She pats my shoulder. “I’m off. Later.”
“Okay.” I look back at Caleb. He and the bearded man are now talking to two women. I’m impressed by Caleb’s hosting skills; he’s smiling and laughing and going out of his way to make his guests feel welcome. It’s endearing to see him all excited, his inner seven-year-old muzzling his usual veneer of cool.
Despite Duck’s concern, I do not want to play the part of Caleb’s cohost tonight. What I want is exactly what I’m getting: to sit back and watch him, enjoying the anticipation of what will happen later this evening. I recognize this feeling—patiently holding my breath for him to free up so we’ll be able to focus on each other—and I should, because, really, it’s exactly the same as it was in college. The only difference is that this time I get our arrangement. And it’s all I want too.
Caleb is pointing at one of the centerpieces of the room, a huge wall-sized painting with interlocking fluorescent circles, and the bearded man and the two women turn to look at it. For a split second, before she turns back, I recognize one of the women he’s talking to. It’s freaking Claire Dennis. She looks different tonight. Her Upper East Side wardrobe must have been unsuitable for this downtown address, so she’s put on sky-high heels, tight black pants with zippers all over them and a sparkly top that hangs off one shoulder.
I stare, immobilized.
I’m snapped out of it when I notice a shift in the group: the bearded man and the other woman are drifting off to the bar, while Caleb and Claire stay in the same spot, deep in conversation. Caleb is no longer laughing; he’s nodding seriously. Claire looks upset, as if she’s sharing something really upsetting, as if they’re talking about—