“You brought the baby.” My voice echoed from the four walls of my office.
“Shhh.”
Casey Cort was pushing the stroller into my space with one hand, and patting at the baby in some kind of kangaroo-type thing strapped to her chest with the other.
“Yes, I brought the baby. Let me just get him situated and then we can talk. Okay?”
She took the tiny person out of the stroller and bounced him on her knee for a second. He looked annoyed. In a second, his face screwed up. I knew very little about babies, but even I could see that a shrieking cry was next on the horizon unless she did something to stop it. I had no idea what tools she’d pull out of her maternal bag of tricks. The diaper tote clipped to her stroller’s handles looked like it could hold an entire baby management arsenal.
“Damn.” She glanced at a watch on her left wrist. “I’m gonna have to nurse him. That alright?”
I didn’t really think she was asking my permission, so I treated the question as rhetorical and said nothing.
Without fanfare, Casey did something with her shirt. Lifted one part. Lowered another. Unhooked something, and then her breast was out. If I hadn’t seen it before, looking away probably would have been polite. I didn’t turn my head.
After all that, she tilted the baby, then he latched on to her nipple like he was in a desert and she was the only source of liquid. For a long second, baby and mom looked at each other, then his eyes fluttered closed as if he’d found manna from heaven. Casey smoothed back light brown wisps of hair. Then her eyes flicked to mine.
“What’s the case you wanted to talk to me about?”
“What’s his name again?” I needed to ask that to give me some distance from the feelings bubbling up inside of me. I’d studied her email announcement hundreds of times—looking for clues. The first line had read: Announcing the birth of our son. Though the email had come from Casey’s personal account, the use of the word “our” had caught me up short. The next line had been his name in a newspaper headline-sized font. Simon de Viera Pinheiro.
I’d paused at the mixture of an English name with Ron’s Portuguese heritage. Somehow I was partially insulted that the baby’s German, and more importantly his Polish roots, somehow felt like they’d been eliminated. Below that had been a huge picture of a newborn swaddled in a blanket and hat. Then in smaller type were the statistics I never understood why people shared. The date and time he was born. His length and weight. That mom and baby were doing well. It was signed by Casey and Ron. The whole thing had been a punch in the gut. I hadn’t been sure before, but I knew now that Simon was mine. But I’d forsaken any right to the baby or that conversation. Pretending ignorance seemed like the better approach.
Casey gave me a look, then answered.
“Simon.”
“His full name?”
“Simon de Viera Pinheiro.” I could see her work hard to keep her exasperation at bay. I was being an ass, not caring to use the manners my parents and Catholic school had drilled into me.
“Nice,” I answered.
It was the exact opposite of what I meant. If I’d chosen her, the baby in her arms would be Simon McPhee. He would have my middle name as his instead of Ron’s. Mentally I rolled the name Simon Patrick McPhee around in my head. Or maybe my mother’s maiden name, Symanski, instead. Would Casey have gone for that? Would her father have been proud to see his origins represented?
“What are you working on?” Casey asked, interrupting my thoughts. I knew I’d been quiet far too long. I was happy to answer with something other than what had been on my mind.
“Lorraine Pope is kicking my ass,” I offered.
“She’s working on a case? I haven’t been reading the papers, I guess.” Casey’s hunch was right, of course. The prosecuting attorney rarely made courtroom appearances unless the defendant was on the Plain Dealer’s front page.
“Not directly,” I clarified.
“What’s with the cryptic talk, Justin? Just fill me in. I’ve asked you for help enough times. If I can assist in any way, I’d love to do it.”
I could see that she was genuine. Meant what she said. Casey had always been like that. Earnest. Honest. It’s what made me trust her implicitly.
“Pope is throwing the book at my client. Or more like a whole law library.”
“What? Pope’s always been a straight shooter as far as I know,” Casey started. “Overzealous. Overcharges. But that’s par for the course for anyone in the job. Certainly was for Liam Brody before her. I mean, maybe sometimes her office is unwilling to plea where it’s warranted. But she did support diversion for low-level, nonviolent drug offenses. And even got behind those domestic violence and sex crimes initiatives, keeping those out of Common Pleas. What’s your best guess at her thought process on this particular case?”
“I can see no reason other than revenge.”
“You’re thinking retribution.” Her eyebrows shot up. “Why?”
“The vic.”
“Is who?”
“Was Pope’s sister.”
“Was?”
“Died of an overdose.”
“Wait, what’s the charge?” Casey shot forward, her attention on me. Baby Simon popped off the nipple. His protest was vocal. She got him resituated, then I gave her the details. In the middle of the telling, little Simon popped off Casey’s boob and fell back. No protest this time. His little face didn’t look that dissimilar from that of a drug addict taking a hit. I’d trailed off. Stopped speaking. Couldn’t look away.
“We call it Simon’s milk coma.” Her smile, when she was finally able to tear her eyes from the baby to meet mine, was positively beatific. Suddenly all the museums full of Madonna paintings made sense.
Casey put herself back together. Wiped the baby’s face with a big cloth that appeared out of nowhere. She did some folding thing, wrapped him in the same cloth, then stood and oh so carefully put him back in the stroller’s flat part. She put a hand on him, made shooshing noises for a few minutes. Then lifted her hand slowly.
“Can we talk?” I asked in a whisper.
“Oh, it’s fine,” Casey answered in her full voice. “He can sleep through anything. We walked past some jackhammers the other day and that didn’t wake him one bit. Neighbors’ dog neither. So he’ll be alright with a little law talk.”
The baby settled, Casey lifted herself from half stoop to her full height, adjusted her clothes again, then made herself comfortable on my black leather couch. I pushed the memory of the two of us tangled up on it from my mind. That hadn’t been the night this little one had been conceived.
“So you were saying that not only did Pope overcharge, she’s not willing to plea, and you have a client who if she isn’t quite innocent, isn’t really guilty, either. Did I get the gist of it?” Casey asked.
“That’s it in a nutshell, I guess.”
“So what’s the question?”
“How do I get Pope or Long or even Dodds to plea out? I don’t have any leverage that I can think of.”
“Dodds, as in Valerie Dodds?”
“You know her?”
“Went up against her in juvy on the Grant case. My first big client. I thought Dodds left. Moved to DC or something.”
“She’s back and in Major Crimes. With Nicole Long. Odd bedfellows. How do you think Long got there?”
“Payback for not outing Tom, I’d guess.”
“Outing Tom?” I had no idea what Casey was referring to about her former fiancé.
“I think I can’t say anything.” Something shuttered in her hazel eyes. She uncrossed then recrossed her legs the other way. “So between the three of them, they’re not willing to plea? At all?”
“I wouldn’t be as bothered by it, if they hadn’t charged another client of mine with exactly the same offenses, then pled her out to a misdemeanor.”
“What’s the same in both cases?”
“The circumstances…the hot shot.”
“Then the difference is relationship. I’m going to guess the first victim wasn’t anyone most people would care about. Maybe that was a test balloon. Now the second is her sister. Did you ask around? Is anyone else being charged like this?”
“I went down to the basement.” The county files weren’t quite electronic yet. When case folders weren’t in the clerk’s office or chambers, they were down in the basement on large rolling metal shelves. “Went through all the recent indictments. Couldn’t find any beyond these two.”
“What’s your objective?” Casey asked.
It was a fair question. The answer wasn’t always dismissal or acquittal. That was certainly preferred, but not always practical.
“My client is willing to plea to a misdemeanor. It’s what happened before.”
“Wait. Was that the time I saw you outside of Cox’s courtroom? That woman?”
I nodded. “I made the classic mistake of mentioning that outcome to this client. Mismanaged her expectations.”
Casey sucked in a breath, which told me she’d made the same misstep herself. Probably more than once and wasn’t judging me for it.
“So now what?”
“I go to trial and hope for a nullification? She doesn’t exactly have a defense. She did it in plain sight of a witness.” It was the best I’d been able to come up with.
“Or?”
“That’s what I want to ask you. I need a plan B or even a much better plan A.”
“Obviously, you’ll go for reasonable doubt with your cross examination. Don’t give up on that one so quickly,” she advised. “When the prosecution thinks they can win the case, they mostly don’t try hard. Sloppy forensics, if at all. A few ill-informed or badly prepped witnesses. Use that laziness against them.”
“Anything else?”
“Nicole Long is a toss-up. When she’s sober, she’s a force. When she’s not…well…she’s beatable.”
“What else?” I was no longer worried she’d think less of me for all my questions. My client’s well-being trumped my pride and ego.
“The big play? Try the case in the court of public opinion,” she answered without a moment of deliberation or hesitation. “You know Lori Pope is up for reelection? I mean, she sailed through the primary unchallenged, but now Ted Strohmeyer is making noises about November. His family name is on a stadium, he’s a strong contender.”
I could feel my eyes growing wide at the name. Casey’s lifted brows were the only acknowledgement. That was another conversation for another time. Priorities.
“How would you frame it? Overcharging? Revenge? Neither? Both?” I got back to the matter right in front of me.
“I think you’d have to work that out with your client. But before you talk to her, I’d put out some feelers to the American Civil Liberties Union. They’ve criticized Lori Pope’s stance on the death penalty, so this may be up their alley.
“Also I’d dangle some bait in front of Nellie Gregory at the Plain Dealer. She’s a shark, so you’ll need to know what would make her salivate. And also Emery Wilkerson. But…do it all without the specific charges or your client’s name. I mean, it’s public record, so obviously they could go digging. But I know them all to be busy enough not to. Then circle back with your client and make a decision. Let her know it’s irreversible, though. Sunshine may be the best disinfectant, but once something is exposed, you can’t hide it again.”
It was risky.
It was brilliant.
“Thanks, I’ll consider it.” And I would, very seriously.
Casey stood and looked at Simon. Satisfied with what she saw, she started checking to make sure she hadn’t left anything behind.
“He sleeps in ninety-minute increments. If I leave now, he’ll be waking up when I get home and I can change him, nurse him, and hand him over to Ron.” She lifted the neckline of her shirt, sniffed herself. “I need a shower. I smell like milk and sweat.” Her face when she looked at me was full of embarrassment and contrition. “Sorry, that was probably TMI.”
I shook my head. It wasn’t too much. It was actually too little. We’d shared nearly every intimacy a man and woman could. I pushed my office chair back slowly, quietly, and stood. Walked over to little Simon. The few hairs he had were light brown. A couple of unruly curls poked up. I wondered if he were going to have a mop of untamable hair like Casey’s.
“What color are his eyes?” I asked.
Casey’s hazel eyes flicked to mine, then flicked away almost as quickly
“Brown,” she said sotto voce, then blurted out, “but they can change. Happens all the time.”
My mind did a quick spin through ninth grade Mendelian genetics, and it was then I knew for sure.
“Are you going to send him to Catholic school?” I asked instead of any of the questions I really wanted an answer to.
“Justin, he’s two months old. I think I have a few years to figure it out.”
“Don’t do it,” I whispered. “It’s not a good place for a boy.”
“What?” She stopped folding, tucking, zipping, and packing for a second. Gave me a strange look. “We’re both products of a good Catholic education. They’re way more liberal nowadays. You didn’t even know about the nuns, they were so stealthily dressed. Ron said that the diocese has even allowed the schools to teach sex ed. I know women can’t be priests, but sex ed? C’mon! That’s progress.”
“Pope Benedict has walked back a lot, though,” I argued, though he was not my problem with the church. “He’s a bit of a fundamentalist.”
“He was in Hitler Youth. I think his biggest problem is not his papacy, but his belief system. He hasn’t been there long enough to really affect things. I’d be surprised if he isn’t asked to resign,” Casey said. Her hands were fully on the stroller handles. She looked down and flicked at a foot brake with her high-top canvas sneakered foot.
“Thanks a lot for coming downtown.”
“No worries. It was a good excuse to check in with Letty and go through my mail. Gotta get going, though. Time is moving.”
I opened the door, and she maneuvered the buggy then herself out. I followed her through reception. Pressed the elevator call button for her. The ding sounded and the metal doors separated with a hiss. Casey did the backwards thing again and got situated in the car.
Before the doors closed, I caught her eyes with mine.
“Casey?”
“Yeah, Justin?”
I tamped down the buoyant feeling her use of my given name brought up.
“Don’t marry him.”
With another hiss, the doors closed, cutting off whatever response she would have made.