Michael Baden - Skeleton justice

"No." Seeing his distress, Mrs. Martinette's attitude softened a bit. "Look, I can give you the names of agencies that do handle foreign adoptions, but honestly, Argentina isn't a common source of infants. Guatemala, Colombia, Peru-those are the Central and South American countries that American couples most frequently turn to when they're looking to adopt." Her usually smiling mouth turned down in disapproval.

He'd been so focused on his own agenda that he hadn't been paying attention to the signals Mrs. Martinette was sending. He stopped trying to drag her where she didn't want to go and allowed her to give him the information she wanted to share. "Why don't you approve of international adoptions, Mrs. Martinette?"

She came out from behind her desk and sat next to Jake. "I don't disapprove in all cases. People want the experience of raising an infant from birth, I understand that. It can be difficult for some to adopt an infant in this country. But I resent all these celebrities traipsing off to Africa and India and Cambodia to 'rescue' children when there are thousands, tens of thousands, of children in America who need good adoptive homes. And the ramifications of culture shock for older children taken away from their countries of origin can be considerable."

Jake watched Mrs. Martinette as she spoke, noting the way she leaned forward, the way she looked into his eyes, the way her voice shook with intensity. In her he saw a kindred spirit, a woman who cared as deeply about her work as he cared about his own. She didn't happen to have the information that he had come here seeking, but he thought she could be useful to him anyway.

"Tell me, Mrs. Martinette," he said. "Is it ever justifiable to conceal a child's origins from him, to never tell him he's adopted because of the circumstances of his birth?"

"We often place children who are the products of rape, and we don't recommend telling the child that detail, but we never say that a child shouldn't know he's adopted."

"What about reuniting children with their birth parents? If an adult child comes here wanting to know the identity of his or her birth parents, do you tell that person?"

Mrs. Martinette brushed a strand of glistening white hair away from her face. "Magazines and TV are filled with heartwarming stories of birth parents and children being joyfully reunited, but the truth is more complicated than that. Both parties have to want the reunification. Many times, the birth parents don't want to be found; they've separated from the baby they gave up and they don't want to reopen that wound."

She spread her hands out on her lap. "And many children have no interest in meeting the parents who surrendered them. Their adoptive parents are the only parents they want in their lives. We have to respect that, although it's very distressing when one party wants the reunification and the other doesn't."

"So what do you do in those cases?" Jake asked.

"We have to honor the wishes of the party who wants privacy. We provide any information on health and well-being that would be reassuring, but we don't reveal the identity."

"And do people ever have… er… violent reactions to that decision?"

Mrs. Martinette cocked her head. "What an odd question. Sometimes there are tears and pleading. If I feel the person is having serious trouble adjusting to the idea that he'll never be reunited, I have a few therapists I can recommend."

"Hmm." Jake stared down at the pale blue carpet beneath his tattered loafers.

"Dr. Rosen? Is that all?"

"Huh?" Jake pushed himself out of his chair with a jolt. "Yes. Yes, I suppose it is. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Martinette." He shook her hand and walked toward the door.

With his hand on the knob, Jake paused and looked back. "Ma'am, aren't you at all curious about why Ms. Hogaarth left Family Builders all that money?"

The older woman fingered a strand of beads around her neck before she spoke. "I gave up looking for reasons years ago, Doctor. I used to want to know why a father would beat his crying infant so hard that the child would never be able to form words again. I used to want to know why a mother would drop her toddler in a scalding bath because she wet the bed. I don't ask why about those things anymore, so I sure don't ask why when something good comes my way."

Manny sat on a park bench a few blocks south of the Central Park Zoo, Mycroft curled at her side. A jaded New Yorker, Mycroft found little of interest in the passing tide. Squirrels and pigeons were beneath his contempt; joggers, bladers, and skateboarders didn't merit a second glance. A four-foot-tall Afghan hound provoked a low growl; a strolling incense vendor prompted a sneeze. Only a toddler with a tenuous grip on a hot dog got the poodle to sit up and tense for a spring into action.

Manny tugged his leash. "Don't even think about it. I've got something better." She glanced at her watch. "You don't have much longer to wait." Her other hand rested inside her purse, fingers already curled around a tin of bacon and liver strips. Mycroft wouldn't perform for just any treat. He scoffed at Milk Bones, ignored Snausages. While he wouldn't eat Fortune Snookies, he'd do just about anything for fusion cuisine from the China Grill, but it really wouldn't be practical to toss a handful of lobster pancakes onto the path when her prey came into sight. But like his mother, Mycroft could be a bundle of contradictions. He'd also kill for a dirty-water hot dog from any street vendor in New York.

So Manny watched for Paco, armed with organic bacon-and-liver-infused dog snacks ordered from Canine Gourmet and a hungry, bored pet. Although the sun was long past its peak, she wore large dark glasses and had stuffed her red hair under a bucket hat.

She knew the Ultimate Frisbee game Paco played with his friends every Sunday afternoon in the park must have ended by now. Paco lived farthest downtown, so the other friends would have peeled off for their homes by the time he reached this point on the path.

Manny watched the bend in the path to see who would come along next. Two black women pushing white babies in strollers-Haitian nannies taking their charges home; a middle-aged man talking on his cell phone; three old biddies clutching one another's arms for support.

Then she saw what she was waiting for. A long, casual stride, a familiar toss of dark hair. Paco Sandoval emerged from the shadows of some maple trees and headed toward her. When he was ten feet away, Manny opened the container in her purse. Mycroft sat up and sniffed.

When Paco was seven feet away, Manny tossed two gourmet strips across the trail. Mycroft shot after them, a blur of red trailing his bright green leash.

"Oh, my dog! He's loose! Get him!" Manny rose from the bench but made no effort to chase Mycroft. Paco glanced her way, questioning.

"I can't chase him. I sprained my ankle. Please grab his leash for me," Manny said, averting her face by looking down at her Ace bandage-wrapped ankle.

Dutifully, Paco sprinted after Mycroft, who wasn't terribly hard to catch. Having downed two bacon and liver strips, he was busy sniffing the grass on the off chance he might have missed a third.

Manny limped across the path, holding her hand out for the leash. When Paco extended it to her, Manny took it with her left hand and linked her right arm firmly through Paco's. "Thank you, Paco. You're very good with animals."

He looked down at her in surprise, still not recognizing her.

"Let's walk a bit, shall we? We have a little talking to do."

Her voice triggered Paco's memory and he tugged to release his arm.

"Don't run, Paco," Manny said, her voice quiet and firm. "If you do, I'll start screaming that you stole my wallet. You know I'll do it."

She felt his arm, which was still hard with tension as he continued trying to pull away. No time for an opening argument; just move straight to the cross-examination.