“I’m not familiar with the particulars of that case, no.”
“Hmm. Okay.” I grab another file from the table. “How about Michael Tillings, age fourteen? Are you familiar with his case?”
Smeed shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, I am.”
“Good. Please tell the court, Mr. Smeed, what happened to Michael Tillings.”
“He passed away.”
He’s hedging, digging his heels into the dirt as he’s propelled closer to a cliff he doesn’t want anywhere near. And I’m just the guy to push him over.
“Passed away? That’s a very delicate way of putting it. He was murdered, isn’t that correct? While in a group home, run by CFSA—he was beaten by several other boys at the facility?”
Begrudgingly, he answers. “Yes, we suspect it was gang related.”
“Gang related or not—the boy died. While in your agency’s custody.”
Smeed nods, his eyes flat. “That’s correct.”
I pick up a third file. “Matilda Weiss, age four.”
The opposing attorney pops up like a rodent in Whac-a-Mole. “What does this have to do with Chelsea McQuaid’s competency as a guardian?”
“I’m getting there, Your Honor.”
“Get there quickly, Mr. Becker,” she replies.
“Tell me about the Weiss case, Mr. Smeed—your signature is on her file.”
He rubs his hands on his pants, sniffs, and then answers. “There was an allegation of child abuse against the Weiss family.”
“And you investigated? Visited the home, conducted interviews?”
“Yes.”
“What were your findings?”
He pauses, like he really doesn’t want to answer. But he really doesn’t have a choice.
“I determined there was not sufficient evidence of abuse to warrant action.”
My fingers tingle with unspent energy. “So you closed the case file?”
“Yes.”
“And two months later, what happened?”
“A neighbor found Matilda . . . digging through the garbage. Looking for food.”
“Because her parents were starving her,” I state, my stomach churning.
“Yes.”
“Abusing her—even though you had determined that no such abuse was taking place?”
For the first time he looks me in the eyes, his expression not just strained but guilty. Haunted by the ghosts of lost children and faceless names. “What exactly is your point, Mr. Becker?”
I walk closer. “You said it’s your job to be critical—to determine who is a fit guardian and who is not. So, my point, Dexter, is sometimes you and your agency just flat out get it wrong.”
I let the words hang.
Walking back to the table, I add, “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“No, I would not.”
“Oh, no?” I lift a box from the floor and place it on the table. “I have a box full of tragic examples that say otherwise. We can do this all day long.”
He stutters. “Every . . . each case is different. Just because . . . circumstances may have been overlooked in one instance doesn’t mean there will be errors in the next one.” He takes a breath, composing himself. “You speak of those children, Mr. Becker, rattle off their names and ages—because they’re just names to you. To me . . . they matter.”
He couldn’t be more fucking wrong. They’re not just names—they’re faces. Riley’s, Rory’s, Rosaleen’s—I saw them all, in every page of those god-awful reports.
“I will do everything in my power not to fail another child under our care.” Smeed taps his finger on the ledge of the witness box. “Which is precisely why the McQuaid children should remain in our custody. The red flags—”
I slap my hand on the table. “Red flags—I’m so glad you brought that up. Let’s talk about them.” My movements are swift and sure as I stalk back and forth in front of him. “You said in your report it was the combination of events that pushed you to remove the McQuaid children from Chelsea’s care?”
“That’s right.”
“One of those events was Riley McQuaid being detained at a party where alcohol was present.”
“Yes.” He answers and starts to lecture, “Underage drinking is a sign of lack of parental supervision.”
I lift my eyebrows. “Are you aware that fifty-one percent of teenagers experiment with alcohol before their fifteenth birthday?”
“I can’t say if that’s true or not, I don’t know the exact statistic.”
Again I’m moving forward, closer to him. “But if it was true—fifty-one percent, that would be . . . average, wouldn’t it?”
“That doesn’t make it permissible—”
“No, Dexter, it doesn’t. It just makes it normal.”
I flip the page of the file with a snap and trail my finger down the center. “Your next issue? Rory breaking his arm?”
“That’s right. Grave injuries, fractures, are always cause for concern.”
“Even though over seven million people broke a bone in the US last year?” I inform him. “Even though the average adult will have sustained two bone fractures within their lifetime? Rory is a healthy, active nine-year-old, so again, by these statistics it’d be more surprising if he hadn’t broken his arm at some point.”
He sighs. And rubs his eyes. Because I’m wearing him down. Stressing him out.
Good.
“What else caught your attention on the red-flag parade?” I ask.
“Rory McQuaid’s arrest, as well as the physical altercation between one of the other minors and a classmate at school.”
“The other minor’s name is Raymond. And again, a schoolyard quarrel really isn’t atypical for a boy his age.”
“No”—Smeed adjusts his glasses—“but when you add it to the other issues, it compounds—”
“You are aware these children lost both their parents—violently? Unexpectedly?”
“Yes, but—”
“Did it occur to you that they were acting out? Struggling to deal with the emotional trauma they had to endure?”
“However—”
I take a step closer, my voice rising with my anger. Because he didn’t take the time, didn’t bother to see any of them. All because he thought he knew better. “Did it for one second occur to you that the reason the flags were so numerous is because there are so many kids? Perfectly normal children experiencing everyday milestones—they’re just doing it all at the same time!”
“No. You don’t know—”
“I’ll tell you what I do know, Dexter,” I spit. “I know that you wrenched these kids away from the only family they have left. You took them from the only home they know—where they were wanted, and loved, and most of all, they were safe!”
“They weren’t safe!” he shouts back, pointing in Chelsea’s direction. “She’s not capable—”
“You wouldn’t know capable if it came along and bit you on—”
The judge’s gavel bangs and she calls for order.
I take a deep breath and reel it in.
I hold up a supplicating hand to the judge. “Just one or two more questions, Your Honor.”
She doesn’t look happy. “Proceed.”
My voice is even as I ask, “If Robert and Rachel McQuaid had survived, and if all the ‘red flags’ had unfolded the same way—would you have sought to terminate parental custody?”
This is the big one. More important than the stats I’ve cited or the counterarguments I’ve given.
“I deal in facts, Mr. Becker. Truths. I’m not going to entertain your hypotheticals,” he sneers.
Until the judge speaks up. “Actually, that’s an answer I’d like to hear as well, Mr. Smeed. If the children had been in the custody of the biological parents, would the situation have been dire enough—given the information you have—to warrant their removal from the home?”
He blinks and swallows. Stares and shifts. But he’s not dumb enough to lie to a judge. “To the
extent that I can predict such a thing, Your Honor, if it had been a two-parent household, with the biological parents present . . . no, it is more than likely we would not have sought custody of the children.”
“Would they have even been on CFSA’s radar?” I ask. “A broken arm, a fight on the playground, a busted-up keg party—would you have ever even heard of the McQuaids?”
He looks down, fidgets again, and then says, “Most likely . . . no.”
Swish. Nothing but net.
“I’m done with him, Your Honor.”
• • •