“Not at all,” Daphne answered.
He summoned a “Miss Lucy” over the phone. Announcing that she would join them shortly, he added, “The fact of the matter is that private adoption is something we all must contend with-that is, adoptions not arranged through a state organization. Private adoption is less regulated than state-arranged, although it still requires court appearances and proper paperwork. It is far more susceptible to human greed and abuse. What I think you will find here in New Orleans,”-Naarlans-“and I say this only because I’ve heard the stories myself, is that what you might call the lower end of the economic strata is far more familiar with this kind of practice than others.”
“Paperwork?” Daphne asked.
“More than just paperwork,” Montevette explained. “In the surrender of a child, the biological mother is required to make a court appearance in front of a sitting judge. She is advised by the judge that she is surrendering the child in perpetuity, and in a court of law, and that she is also surrendering her right to any legal recourse in the future. This is a fairly recent law, and one that has proved to simplify and qualify the process-a great improvement, I might add. At the time of adoption, a birth certificate is required, along with the document attesting to this court appearance and the surrender of the child. If the mother’s medical costs are to be reimbursed, a copy of the medical bills are submitted. Ah! Miss Lucy! Come in, please. Won’t you join us?” Montevette jumped to his feet and pulled back a chair for the young black woman. Miss Lucy Penneford wore a soft yellow dress and too much violet eye shadow. Her skin wrinkled when she smiled widely.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said to them.
Montevette caught her up to date. “… how an illegal adoption might be carried out … And I was recalling that shake-up we had down to City Hall last year and how you-”
“Oh, yes. I think I can explain that,” she said. She had an even thicker accent than Montevette. Her voice played musically in the room. The fan worked dark shadows across her face. The air smelled faintly of lavender. She had brought it with her.
She said, “It had evidently been going on for years. They worked down to the city office … what is that called?”
“The Bureau of Vital Statistics,” Montevette supplied.
Daphne had the feeling Montevette knew more of the story, more of the answers, than he was willing to admit. She wondered why.
Miss Lucy continued, “And you know all those girls work for minimum wage down there, and it’s just plain tough on minimum wage. Some man comes along and offers you a hundred dollars to process a birth certificate, and there’s not a lot of thought that needs to be done on the subject.”
“Which is just what was happening,” Montevette contributed.
“Been going on for years, come to find out. Decades maybe. You need a birth certificate for a child, you simply come up with the hundred dollars.”
“No adoption at all,” Daphne said, amazed at the simplicity of the scam.
“No need,” replied Montevette. “You obtain a fraudulent birth certificate for the child in your name, and he or she is legally a member of your family. Who’s to question it?”
“It allows the mother to be paid for more than just hospital costs,” Miss Lucy explained.
Boldt said, “It creates a viable black market.”
Montevette agreed. “But it was closed down.”
“I knew some of them girls,” Miss Lucy told them. “Some of them is still doing time for that. And believe you me, that was the last of it. Don’t even ask, Miss Matthews, because I can see you’re about to, aren’t you? That was the last of it. Honestly. They cracked down hard on those girls.”
“But there are other ways,” Boldt said, fishing for a back door through which he might locate the Pied Piper or his accomplice.
“Oh there are!” Miss Lucy said cheerily. “Another one I’ve heard about is this missing father thing.” She explained to blank looks, “A single mother has a child and does not list a father on the birth certificate. Happens all the time. Either she wants no part of the man that put her in that condition, or she don’t know who done it to her anyway. Maybe she’s a drug addict, or in some other way where she don’t exactly want the child no more. The way they do it, she sells a man-a complete stranger-the chance to put his name onto the birth certificate as the lawful father. Now this is the legal birth certificate we’re talking about. This stranger is now the legal father of that child and has custody rights to that child, custody rights that she is willing to surrender for a price. It’s a common means of adoption in the minority communities, believe me. Middle-class Cajun or blacks buy a blood right to a child. Cheap and easy.”
“But not only with blacks,” Daphne said.
“No, you’re right. White trash, too. Maybe some suburban teenage kids. Thing is, it’s legal of course,” she smiled, “as long as you ain’t found out by no DNA test.”
“Do the attorneys need special training, licenses, anything like that?” Boldt asked.
Montevette answered. “As far as I know, in Louisiana there are court fees to be paid, paperwork that must be filed. It’s a specialty field, but by choice, not requirement.”
“And if an attorney desired to bypass certain elements in the process?” Boldt asked.
“I see what you’re driving at. Sure do. But he couldn’t arrange a legal adoption without a judge on his side because of the requirement of a court appearance. Flat out, could not do it.”
“But with a judge in his pocket?” Daphne asked.
Montevette and Miss Lucy exchanged looks. Miss Lucy said, “Miss Matthews, Louisiana ain’t exactly like other places. An expression like that-it’s offensive.”
Montevette explained, “Let me tell you how we operate in New Orleans, Ms. Matthews. I have a little family farm not far from here. Not even an hour’s drive. I own a farm vehicle, an old 1960 Ford half-ton. Use it on the farm to haul fallen limbs, move fence, that sort of thing. Run it into town on the odd day for groceries. The law requires I get that truck inspected once a year. Everything on it must function correctly in order for me to obtain my permit to operate the vehicle. It has been a long, long time indeed since everything on that truck has functioned properly, Ms. Matthews.
“Now there’s a man named George,” he continued, “whose job it is, for the price of a twenty-dollar permit fee, to inspect vehicles in our parish. I have known George for many, many years. Nearly as many as I have been driving that old Ford. I see him exactly once a year. For an extra twenty dollars George issues me my permit. Always has, always will. And that’s just the way it’s done around here. Guys like George, like me, we’re everywhere. No one is hurting nobody. It is just the way business,”-bidness-“is done.”
“Which might include business between attorneys and judges,” Boldt suggested.
“Which on some level definitely includes attorneys and judges. On some level. Most definitely. And police, no doubt. And doctors and window washers and tree trimmers. Part of the culture, you might say. I am not condoning such behavior, but it is as inescapable as are so many elements of our fine culture. Southern culture.”
Miss Lucy said, “If you are willing to pay for it, if you are willing to wait long enough to find the right person to help you, there is little you cannot do. Which is not to say it’s a criminal place. I’m not implying that. It is not! We have crime and we have cops and we have courts, same as any other city.”
“But as a people, we emphasize relationships over the letter of the law,” Montevette said. “Black or white or Cajun, doesn’t matter. We make relationships. The man who mows your lawn eats his breakfast alongside your children. Relationships,” he repeated.
“An attorney could buy off a judge,” Boldt said. “Forge documents of a mother surrendering a child, and the rest would all be perfectly legal. Even the adopting parents might never know the adoption was-”