“I understand, Judge, but I need to work at my own pace—”
“And I understand that,” she said. “I’m not trying to tell you how to do your job, I’m merely explicating my own priorities: This case will move. Meaning I will not grant it a nanosecond more than it deserves. In that regard, objective psychological data will help me achieve my goal. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Sure you don’t want any chocolate? It helps the endorphins.”
I smiled.
“All right, then,” she said. “Sykes Versus Sykes. Or as I like to call it, the Harridan versus the Loser. Sykes One — the Harridan — is Constance. A doctor, plenty of money, lives in a seven-figure house in Westwood and can afford every upscale convenience and opportunity for a child. Unfortunately for her, she didn’t birth the child in question and would now like to take a shortcut. As in swiping said child from her younger sister.”
She rotated her chair to the left, ran a finger along a sculpted eyebrow. “Which brings us to Sykes Two. Cherie. Spotty employment history, a few misdemeanors in her past, lives on whatever she can ladle out of the federal alphabet soup tureen. She co-conceived the child under a Malibu sky but won’t name the father. Lives in a ratty apartment in East Hollywood and my guess is little Rambla won’t be going to Crossroads or Buckley or Harvard-Westlake.” She frowned. “When the kid grows up, she might find herself ladling from the tureen but that’s not my concern.”
“Cherie’s got issues but nothing in her background makes her unfit.”
“If only,” said Nancy Maestro. “I mean give me some serious anger management issues — better yet, violent acting out. Give me hard-core felonies, major-drug addiction, give me anything that puts this child in jeopardy and I’ve got something to work with and we can all go home feeling good.”
“You think the child would be better off with Connie.”
Her eyes flashed. “I didn’t say that. Once you meet Connie, you’ll understand why I didn’t say that. I’m just looking for a clear avenue to maximize this baby’s safety and security while staying within the boundaries of the law.”
“The Harridan,” I said. “Connie’s got a difficult personality.”
Instead of answering, she fooled with the candy bowl. “You have kids, Doctor?”
“No.”
“Me, neither. Married young, divorced, grew up. Love my life as it is. Connie Sykes, on the other hand, strikes me as someone who put off personal attachments for her career and now she’s stuck living by herself and wants to create an instant family.”
“At the expense of her sister.”
“Oh, yeah. There’s that. The sibling relationship. Or lack of. Which didn’t stop Cherie from dumping the kid on Connie while she went gallivanting with some rock band.”
“For how long?”
“Eighty-eight days,” she said. “Connie’s lawyer claimed three months, Cherie’s lawyer did a day-by-day count and disputed it. All that took pages of very tedious prose. See what I’m dealing with?”
I nodded. “Did Cherie have contact with Connie or the child during that time?”
“Connie claims she got a couple of phone calls, period. Cherie claims she tried to call Connie frequently, couldn’t get through. When Cherie came for the kid, Connie didn’t want to return her. There was a scene at Connie’s work.”
“Medical office.”
“More like a lab, Connie’s a pathologist. She claimed bringing the kid there was for optimal care: Rather than pawn Rambla off on some babysitter or day care, she had her staff help her ‘nurture the baby on a regular basis.’ In any event, the showdown was Cherie pushing her way past the staff and grabbing little Rambla.”
She grimaced. “The names people stick on their prodge. Imagine if the tryst had been on Busch Drive?”
I said, “Connie got attached, Cherie broke the attachment, they’re mortal enemies.”
“That sums it up, Doc — Alex okay?”
“Preferable.”
“You nailed it, Alex. I’m sure Dr. Connie’s going through some major separation anxiety but she’s wisely avoided citing that in her suit because the court cares nothing about non-parental adults’ emotional issues. Instead, she’s contending that Cherie dumping the kid is clear proof that A., Cherie is unfit, and B., Cherie intended for Connie to keep the baby, they had an oral contract stipulating to such and it was only ‘low impulse control’ that caused Cherie to renege. Connie’s also tossing in the usual allegations about Cherie: dope, destructive lifestyle, deleterious environment. The drug part comes from the fact that two of Cherie’s busts were for marijuana but those were fourteen and twelve years ago, respectively. Her other arrest was shoplifting when she was eighteen — nineteen years ago. Like I said, give me heroin, crack, crank, HIV-positive, dirty needles, whatever. Pot and sticky fingers is b.s.”
“Cherie’s alleged character issues amount to zero in the eyes of the law.”
“And to tell the truth, she comes across like a much better candidate for motherhood than Connie.”
“Warmer?”
“Warmer, friendlier, social. Also, I’ve seen her with the kid and the kid clearly feels comfortable with her. Haven’t seen the kid with Connie because we just began and I’m not sure I want to put a sixteen-month-old through another separation from her mommy. What do you think?”
“You’re right.”
“Good. I will rely upon your expertise the next time Connie’s lawyer hounds me to give her client a chance to demonstrate maternal skills.”
“Persistent lawyer?”
“Pain-in-the-ass lawyer,” she said. “A young one named Medea Wright, works for Stark and Stark, I’m sure you know what their approach is, talk about black-hearted litigators.”
“That could be a problem,” I said.
“Why?”
I told her about my experience with Sterling Stark.
“You’re kidding,” she said. “He was suborning perjury, the old goat. You report him?”
“No, I just shined him on.”
“Too bad, you could’ve created serious problems for the bastard.”
“Not my aim.”
“Sterling Stark,” she said. “Well guess what, Alex: Good news for us, he’s dead. Keeled over a couple of years ago while walking to the court parking lot. Big funeral in Hancock Park, every judge got invited. I hear a few even showed up. Anyway, there’s no conflict of interest and you are free to deal with Ms. Medea Wright.”
“Who’s Cherie’s lawyer?”
“An independent practitioner out in the Valley named Myron Ballister.” She frowned.
“Not a heavyweight.”
“Far from it,” she said. “I’m sure he’s not billing at Stark and Stark levels. Is the playing field uneven? Sure, but Cherie’s got the law on her side and Medea’s having the time of her life filing ridiculous motions and racking up billable hours.”
“Motions you can’t just toss in the circular file.”
She took another candy. Unwrapped slowly, ate quickly. “Can’t wait to get out of this dump, go after some serious criminals. Are you on board?”
“Sure.”
“Great,” she said. “No kids, huh? That help you retain your objectivity?”
“No,” I said. “It’s just the way things are.”
She studied me. “Married?”
“Almost.”
“Engaged?”
“Long-term relationship.”
“Take your time with commitments, huh? Why not, life’s too short for stupid mistakes. Okay, I’ll send you the files.”