The next morning, Lara suppressed a smile as Connor stepped off the elevator with Hunter’s hand in his. She had dressed her son in his favorite outfit, a Miami Dolphins T-shirt and jeans, caring more for his comfort than about what Sloane and his cronies might consider proper attire. Six-year-olds, she and Connor had decided, did not belong in court, so Hunter could wear anything he wanted.
Once they were out of the elevator, Lara took Hunter’s other hand, and together the threesome turned a corner and walked through a wide corridor. The mere thought of her son facing Devin Sloane gave Lara a cold chill, but Connor had spent half the night assuring her they had nothing to fear. “The night Hunter was born, you told me you had to believe God knew what he was doing,” he reminded her. “If he knew then, he certainly knows now. God loves Hunter, too, even more than you and I do. We have to trust him.”
She could believe everything would be okay—if God would send her a letter of confirmation.
They turned another corner and Lara’s heart congealed into a lump when she recognized Sloane’s angular form at the end of the corridor. He stood with his lawyer outside the judge’s door, his head turned toward them, his dark eyes focused on Hunter with predatory intensity.
Lara steeled herself against the impulse to snatch her son and run. In an act of blind faith, she had left her collection of credit cards and birth certificates on the bed, where Connor would be sure to see them. She had promised him that she wouldn’t run, and she had made a bargain with God. She would stay put and stand strong if the Almighty would consign Sloane to some faraway pit—Alcatraz, maybe, or San Quentin.
She slowed her step, pulling Hunter back, and Connor stopped too. He turned and knelt in front of Hunter, effectively blocking Sloane’s view. “Now, Son”—Connor pressed his hand to Hunter’s round belly— “remember what your mother and I told you. This is going to be easy, a piece of cake. We’re going to go in and talk to the judge; then we’ll take you out to lunch. Anywhere you want to go, buddy, you name the place.”
Hunter’s face brightened. “Pizza Town?”
Connor caught Lara’s eye and grinned. “Pizza Town it is. And you can order whatever you want.”
Lara looked away, wishing the judge would step out and get things started. She heard the rapid click of footsteps; then Franklin flew around the corner, flushed and breathless.
“Sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” He glanced toward the end of the hall where Sloane and his lawyer waited. “Everything okay?”
Lara managed a small, tight smile. “Everything’s fine, but we’re glad you made it.”
“So am I.” Franklin transferred his heavy leather bag from one hand to the other, then bent to gently poke Hunter’s tummy. “Hey, little buddy, how are you? Are you excited?”
“I’m going to talk to the judge,” Hunter said, his tone strangely matter-of-fact. “I’m going to tell him I lost my tooth.”
“You lost a tooth?” Lara pulled his lower lip down. “My heavens, you did! Where is it?”
“I ate it.” Hunter grinned as if this were an accomplishment worthy of high praise.
“Why didn’t you tell Mom?”
“I told Daddy.”
Lara looked at Connor. “You told Daddy,” she whispered, her hand falling on Hunter’s head. A blush rose to Connor’s cheeks, and Lara felt a slow smile spread across her face. “That’s great, bud.”
“Congratulations.” Franklin paused as the door to the judge’s chambers opened and the bailiff nodded at them. “I think that means they’re ready for us, but I’ve something to tell you.”
Lara flinched at the tone of his voice. “Bad news?”
Franklin scratched his brow. “Interesting news. I can’t go into it now, but at some point during the morning I’ll need to bring it up. Just trust me, Lara.”
Again someone had asked for blind trust.
Still clutching Hunter’s hand, Lara walked forward on legs that suddenly seemed as insubstantial as air. Franklin led the way, guiding them through an outer office where a secretary watched beneath a silver mound of sternly coifed hair.
The judge’s expansive chambers were richly paneled in dark wood and dominated by a carved wooden desk beneath a wide window. Someone had placed two groups of chairs before the desk, one to the left side and one to the right, while two single chairs sat in an intimate grouping at the center of the room. Without being told Lara knew that those chairs were for Hunter and the judge.
There were only three chairs on the left side of the room, so Lara pulled Hunter onto her lap and kept him within the circle of her arms. As Connor and Franklin seated themselves on her left and right, she let her gaze rove over the desk, the bookshelves, and the pattern in the oriental carpeting. The court reporter took her place in an out-of-the-way corner, so Lara watched her a few moments, wondering if the woman enjoyed hearing the details of other people’s lives.
Lara would not, could not, look at Devin Sloane. She felt the burning pressure of his eyes without glancing in his direction. He was feasting upon the image of her son, and she was powerless to stop him.
After a few moments of an almost palpable silence, the judge entered. Without his robe he seemed smaller and more vulnerable. Lara felt her spirits droop. Could this little man stand up to Sloane?
Judge Weaver walked to the center of the room and turned, his gaze falling upon Hunter. His thin lips spread into a narrow smile. “So this is the young man I’ve heard so much about.”
Hunter broke into a wide grin.
The judge clapped his hands on his legs and jerked his head toward the two empty chairs. “Would you like to sit in a chair of your own while we talk? Or would you rather stay with your mother?”
Lara’s arms tensed, but Hunter had already begun to slide from her lap. “It’s not my chair,” Hunter remarked as his sneakers hit the carpet. “It’s not yours, either.”
A smile ruffled the judge’s mouth. “Well—that’s absolutely right, young man. Can you tell me who the chair does belong to?”
Hunter walked to the chair and began to climb up, head and arms first. “No,” he said, turning around in the seat. He propped both arms on the right armrest. “But you can tell me.”
Judge Weaver sat in his own chair. “The chair belongs to the taxpayers. Nearly everything in this office does—except for my personal belongings, of course.”
“I don’t belong to the sax players.” Hunter dropped his arms and crossed them over his stomach.
“Who do you belong to, then?”
Hunter tilted his head and gazed at the judge through the thin veil of his bangs. “To God.”
“Ah. Let’s talk about that.” The judge crossed his legs and brought his hand to his chin. “Who is your mother?”
Hunter grinned and pointed to Lara.
“Of course. You’re a smart boy and that was an easy question. Can you tell me who your father is?”
With a concentrated effort, Hunter lifted one blue-jeaned leg until it crossed the other, then brought his hand to his chin in a perfect imitation of the judge’s posture. “That’s not an easy question.” He deepened his voice in a playful growl. “I have two daddies.”
Weaver’s eyes widened in pretend surprise. “Two?”
“One over there”—Hunter pointed to Connor—“and one in heaven.” He slapped his hands together and grinned at Franklin. “One plus one equals two. Miss Harriet taught me that.”
Lara cleared her throat, anxious to explain Hunter’s answer. “He’s not being sassy. I’ve always taught him that God is a father to the fatherless. For a long time, Hunter didn’t have a daddy.”
“I had one in heaven.” Hunter put both hands on one arm of the big chair and pulled himself up to peer at Lara. “I still do.”
“I know, buddy.” She smiled, hating the fact that Sloane was hearing this intimate exchange.
The judge rubbed his chin. “Hunter, do you know the difference between telling the truth and telling a lie?”
Hunter sank back into his seat and stopped squirming. “Yea-es,” he said slowly, drawing the word out into two syllables. “The truth is. A lie is not.”
“Amazing,” Sloane murmured, his voice carrying from the other side of the room. “Absolutely amazing.”
The judge lifted his hand in silent rebuke.
“That’s a good answer,” the judge continued, not taking his attention from Hunter. “Can you tell me something true?”
Hunter nodded, then reached out to grasp the toes of his sneakers. Grinning, his gaze rose toward the ceiling, then dropped back to the judge. “God loves me and God loves you. That is true.”
A beatific smile creased the judge’s lined face. “Yes, that is true. Now can you tell me something that is not true?”
Hunter tilted his head and rolled his eyes as if listening to an inward voice, but after a moment he shook his head. “I can’t find a lie in me.”
“In Hunter’s entire life,” Lara kept her voice low, “I can’t remember a single time when he told me a lie. He’s not perfect—he can be mischievous and disobedient—but he does not lie.”
“Surely you’re not serious.” The judge shot her a twisted smile. “I’ll admit that the boy seems a bit precocious for his years, but I’ve never heard of a child who doesn’t fib on occasion. Just last week, my two-year-old granddaughter climbed up in a chair and knocked over a plate of cookies. When we asked her who did it, she pointed to the dog!” He shook his head. “Children are barely verbal at that age, but they have a firm grasp on the art of prevarication.”
“Not this child.” Devin Sloane’s voice grated on Lara’s nerves, and for the first time she looked over at him. His narrow face was set in lines of concentration, his dark eyes trained on Hunter like gun barrels. “Your Honor, I have not been entirely truthful with you myself. I did provide genetic material for this child, but it did not originate with me . . . biologically.” His voice, so flat an instant before, filled with vibrant wonder. “Helmut Braun and I set out to produce a better, less-degenerated example of human life, and now I see that we succeeded far beyond our expectations.”
“You what?” Disbelief echoed in the judge’s voice.
Conscious of Hunter’s listening ears, Lara’s heart rose to her throat. “That’s enough!”
Sloane ignored her strangled cry. “We provided an improved DNA strand,” he continued, ignoring Lara’s distress. “We weren’t sure what the results of our germline therapy would be, but the chromosomes we injected had to be far superior to any contemporary human’s.”
Lara stood, ready to carry Hunter from the room, but Connor’s iron grip closed around her arm. “You admit performing an experiment upon Lara without her knowledge?” he asked.
The judge’s eyes went thin. “Is this true, Mr. Sloane?”
Sloane’s lawyer rose to his feet, his face purpling in affronted rage. “Your Honor, this is irrelevant. Lara Godfrey signed every document in the possession of this court! She freely gave permission for Dr. Braun to alter the genetic strand. She has testified that she wanted her husband’s baby, but she most assuredly did not want his flaws and weaknesses. She instructed Braun to alter the DNA, to eradicate a gene that might have led to cancer.”
“We took her request one step further,” Sloane added as his lawyer took his seat. “We gave the fertilized egg a completely refined DNA strand. In short, we financed the experiment and she agreed to surrender the child. In fact, I had the distinct impression that Dr. Braun offered to perform another embryo transfer after this boy’s birth. If she wanted a baby, we were willing to give her one—but not this child.”
Choking on Sloane’s half-truths, Lara caught her breath, then remembered her son. During Sloane’s speech Hunter had squirmed in the huge chair; now he stared at the enemy from behind the armrest like a soldier peering out from behind a bunker. How much had he understood?
Sloane laughed softly. “Your Honor, I am known throughout the world for my philanthropy. I care about children. Through my work at the Ethan Jefferson Pediatric Hospital, I am working to improve the lot of children who would otherwise be a burden on their families and society in general.”
Lara reached toward her son. “Buddy, come sit in Mom’s lap.” She’d clap her hands over Hunter’s ears if the judge let this continue.
“Really, Your Honor,” Franklin interrupted, “this interview was supposed to center upon the child. The discussion has veered into areas that are likely to alarm him.”
“Mr. Judge?” Hunter’s voice cut through the confusion like a thrown knife. He still crouched inside the chair, his eyes fixed upon Sloane. He lifted one stubby finger and pointed at the man who had haunted Lara’s days and nights for six years. “That man is lying.”
Sloane’s eyes had been abstracted, but they cleared and sharpened as Hunter’s verdict echoed in the room. His brows lifted. “I beg your pardon?”
“You told lies.” Hunter straightened in his chair. With the righteous indignation of an old-time preacher, he thrust out his chin and wagged an accusing finger. “You shouldn’t tell lies.”
Connor leaned forward. “What lies, Hunter? Can you tell us?”
Hunter looked at Connor, then nodded. “Uh-huh. He said ‘she agreed to sur-sur—’”
“Surrender?”
“Yes.” Hunter inclined his head in an assertive nod. “That part was a lie. And he doesn’t care about children.” He crinkled his nose. “That was a big lie.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Jarvis began, but he was drowned out in a rising chorus of voices—Lara’s, Franklin’s, and Sloane’s.
After a moment of confusion, the judge stood and held up his hands for silence. “It’s obvious to me that none of you have been completely honest with this court,” he said with a look that suggested his mind was now working hard at an entirely new set of problems. “I’m going to step behind my desk and go through the evidence, piece by piece, and then I’m going to address the issues before us.” He took a deep breath, then glanced at his watch. “I’ve asked Karyn Gower to join us in the courtroom at one o’clock, since she is the child’s guardian ad litem. And you might find it interesting to know that this morning before you arrived, I received another motion on behalf of this child.”
Jarvis flicked a basilisk glance at Lara’s lawyer. “Who else has an interest in this case?”
The judge crossed his arms. “The petitioner seeks visitation rights with this boy. The motion was filed this morning by a lawyer representing Mrs. Eva Godfrey.”
Lara gasped. “My mother-in-law?”
Light glittered in the rims of the judge’s eyeglasses as he turned to her. “The woman has made an interesting point. If, as you say, the child was not conceived in order to fulfill a surrogate agreement with Devin Sloane, then he must be your late husband’s son and Mrs. Godfrey’s grandchild. She says you have forbidden her to see him since you returned to Charlottesville. So she is suing for the right to spend time with the boy.”
Lara stared wordlessly, her heart pounding. Had she been caught in a web of her own weaving? To protect Hunter, she had wanted the court to believe Hunter was not Sloane’s son. But Hunter had nothing in common with Eva, nothing at all. Eva had no reason for wanting to visit the boy unless this was some ill-considered attempt to punish Lara for trying to have Michael’s child in the first place.
“Your Honor,” Franklin said, “may we address one issue at a time? And may we send the boy out of the room while we continue? I can call my wife; she’d be happy to watch him.”
“There’s no need,” the judge said, moving toward the door to the outer office. “My secretary has four grandchildren and knows how to occupy little ones. She’d be happy to keep an eye on Hunter.”
Weaver opened the door and gestured to Lara. She stood and took Hunter’s hand. “You’re going to talk to that nice lady in there,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “Maybe she will have some crayons. You can draw some pictures; then we’ll go for pizza.”
She released Hunter’s hand at the doorway, then froze. Eva stood in the outer office, her blue eyes widening. Before Lara or the judge could move, Eva dropped to one knee and flung out her arms. “Hunter, baby! I’m your grandma!”
Never in a thousand years could Lara have predicted how Hunter would handle this obvious untruth. She expected him to either laugh or rebuke Eva, but he tilted his head, hesitated for an instant, then ran toward her with his limping gait and threw himself into her arms.
“Oh, Hunter.” Eva’s voice broke with huskiness as she smoothed his silky hair. “Oh, darling, I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry.”
Momentarily speechless, Lara stood in the doorway until she felt a hand on her shoulder. “Come back to your seat, Lara,” Franklin whispered, a note of pleading in his voice. “I’ve something to tell you— something I couldn’t mention in front of the boy.”
Lara moved stiffly back to her chair, then watched as Franklin removed a small cassette tape and two sets of documents from his briefcase. “Your Honor,” he said, handing the tape and documents across the judge’s desk, “yesterday Eva Godfrey gave me new information I’d like to introduce into evidence. The information is contained on this tape, so I’ve taken the liberty of having the contents transcribed and several copies made. The evidence is a confession, the final declaration of Helmut Braun, recorded in the hour before his death. I believe this tape holds most of the answers we seek today.” His eyes softened as his gaze moved to meet Lara’s. “Attached to the transcript is an affidavit from one of Dr. Braun’s lab assistants, attesting to the fact that the voice is Dr. Braun’s.”
The judge pushed his reading glasses up the bridge of his nose and studied the first page of the transcript. After a moment, he looked at Devin Sloane, then handed the second copy to Madison Jarvis. Lara saw that Sloane’s face had gone dead-white, sheened with a sweat that shone in the soft lamplight.
The judge dropped the pages to his desk, then folded his hands. “We’re going to take a three-hour recess so the plaintiff and his counsel can familiarize themselves with this tape’s contents. I’ll read it as well. We’ll reconvene in the courtroom at one o’clock. Anyone not present will be held in contempt of court.” Weaver shifted his gaze to Franklin. “Mr. Blythe, has your client been informed as to the contents of this tape?”
“Not all of it, Your Honor.”
“Then I suggest you enlighten her as well.”