Grif Stockley: Illegal Motion

In silent rage I squeeze my arms, wanting to rail at her.

If she isn’t a criminal, she is criminally stupid. Still, I could easily have burned Sarah when she was a baby. The phone rings; someone knocks at the door; lapses of attention occur with even the best parent. Yet, somebody hasn’t believed her, and despite the incompetence of many of the caseworkers, the medical support the state agency receives from St. Thomas is first-rate.

“When you got her out of the tub, what’s the first thing you did?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, she says, “I called nine-one-one.”

About to nod, I check myself. This is the right answer.

If there is any evidence of delay, she won’t have a prayer.

My mind travels back seven years to my days as an investigator for the state and retrieves terms such as “stocking and glove burns” which are descriptive of the injury to the flesh at the water line. Too, if a child has been held down in scalding water, the buttocks will be less burned, because the porcelain won’t be as hot as the temperature of the water. A “doughnut burn” is the delightful phrase I recall.

“How old is Glenetta,” I ask, “and why didn’t she climb out of the tub when the water began to cook her?”

Her eyes blinking rapidly, Gina hugs herself as if she is cold and begins to rock slightly as she anticipates my reaction.

“Two and a half-maybe the water hurt her too bad to stand.”

It is this response that makes me think she is lying.

Any normal two and a half year old is fully capable of climbing over the edge of a tub. I stare at this sad example of motherhood, wondering how I can get her to admit that perhaps in a moment of the never-ending stress of raising a child by oneself she might have been trying to teach Glenetta a lesson.

“When a child touches a hot stove,” I say, “he pulls his hand away. I think the way a judge will look at this is that Glenetta would have reacted the same way.”

Unable to meet my gaze, she lowers her eyes.

“I don’t know why she didn’t get out.” There is defeat in her voice as if she knows what the outcome will be as well as I do.

“How old are you, Gina?” I ask, wondering if she has some relatives who can take the child if it lives. Unless she is willing to admit what she has done and gets into intensive therapy and parenting classes, she doesn’t stand a prayer of ever getting her child back. This is a tricky situation. If she confesses, the criminal justice system will be hanging on her every word. She still could be charged with attempted murder.

“Nineteen,” is her sullen reply. Clients of all ages expect their lawyers to believe them regardless of how improbable their story. One of my main tasks as an attorney is to administer a dose of reality without insulting the person sitting across from me assuming I want to keep the individual as a client. I would be more than happy if this girl flounced out of here in a huff; yet, she is Sarah’s age, and I can’t help feeling sorry for her.

I flip through my Rolodex, looking for Legal Aid’s number.

“Have you got a job? You might qualify for Le gal Services. If you do, they don’t charge anything.”

There is a certain dignity in the posture and voice of this girl as she replies stiffly, “They turned me down.

They say they don’t take every case even if you’re eligible financially.”

Super. Legal Aid won’t even take it. A tab marking the beginning of the “L’s” snaps off in my hand. Cheap crap, formerly county property. I took the Rolodex with me when I left the Public Defender’s Office, rationalizing my theft with the thought that few persons would want the telephone numbers of some of the women I dated right after Rosa’s death.

“Are you on AFDC?” I ask, picking up a confetti-size piece of plastic and dropping it in my wastepaper basket as if I want to impress this girl that I am some kind of neatness freak. Accident or not, the public will pay a fortune for the care of this child. Medicaid, I suppose. What did the state of Arkansas do before Lyndon Johnson was President?

“I get a little,” she admits, “but my caseworker said it’ll be stopped. And I’ve been waitressing off and on at D.Y.”s since I was sixteen.”

“The place on the interstate to Memphis?” I ask, surprised.

Could this plain, almost country-looking girl be a hooker? D.Y.”s makes it into the news from time to time for general rowdiness and an occasional drug bust. Clan told me just a couple of weeks ago he used to eat free at D.Y.”s for a period of time during which he represented some prostitutes who operated out of there. Maybe Gina has us confused. If so, I need some serious work. Clan is obese and his thinning hair in the last couple of years has gone squirrel gray.

“It’s not as wild as people think,” Gina says loyally.

“And the food’s great. You can ask Mr. Bailey.”

Shit! I should have known. I was going to dump her on Clan and he beat me to it. No wonder Julia set this up.

Now is the time I ought to run her off. Yet, I remember from my many years as a caseworker, few lawyers in Blackwell County know anything about juvenile court (Clan included) or have the desire to learn, since there is no money in it. I pull a legal pad from the right-hand desk drawer and realize to my dismay that Julia has gotten white tablets again. They’re cheaper, she says. Probably better for the environment, too, but after yellow, a white tablet is like trying to write on a neon sign.

“How many times have you been convicted of prostitution?” I ask bluntly, sore that Clan is punting this one without even asking me.

“Never!” she says emphatically.

“Mr. Bailey has got me off twice. He would have helped me, but he says you’re the real expert in this area.”

Child abuse defense attorney-a charming specialty, one I’m sure that will lead its practitioner to the upper echelons of Blackwell County’s legal elite. I begin to make some notes.

“He means I used to work for the Division of Children and Family Services. Actually,” I say, hoping this girl will take the hint, “I’ve never tried a case as a lawyer in juvenile court. ““That okay,” Gina assures me, crossing her long legs, her best feature.

“I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

Thanks for the vote of confidence, I think. Clan, you owe me one.

“How much money do you have?”

“Two hundred dollars in cash,” she says, and begins to reach into her purse, a scarred black piece of plastic junk that wouldn’t find a buyer at the lowliest garage sale.

Feeling the beginning of a dull headache, I massage my forehead. Will private practice always be this pathetic?

After two years I ought to be attracting a better clientele. Every time I think I’m about to break through to another level, I endure a dry spell or wallow around with cases like Gina Whitehall’s. Just say no, I think, but she looks so vulnerable and young I can’t bring myself to turn her down. Knowing I could get stuck out at juvenile court for most of a day, I say gruffly, “I’ll need at least a thousand.”

Knowing she’s hooked me, she reaches into her wallet and peels off four fifty-dollar bills and lays them on my desk. Her business is strictly cash and carry.

“I’ll pay the rest before trial.”

I grab up the bills and slip them into my wallet. Now at least I won’t have to stop at the bank before I leave for Fayetteville.

“I’m just signing on for the juvenile court case,” I say pointedly.

“If you get charged with anything in criminal court, you’re on your own.”

She nods, and as I watch her read through my standard retainer agreement, I realize I am being paid with the earnings she receives as a prostitute. I wonder who her customers are. Mostly truckers probably, but who knows? As innocent and natural as she looks, she might attract a diverse group of customers.